Exorcising Demons

Exorcising Demons

Much has changed since I last visited Atlanta some twenty years ago, a city I once called home for over a decade. I left shortly after I had returned home to find a note next to my two dogs, dead, left by a man who had poisoned them. After three months of feeling like a hostage in my own home, I decided this would be the last time I would endure that feeling. I was the cause of his pain (he insisted) and he wanted me to know how much he was hurting by hurting me, by killing the two things I cherished above all else at that time.

Prior to the day I found my slain pets, which were like family, lifeless in my home, what would be sanctuary for most but not for me, this man had chosen to force his will upon me by breaking into my apartment. Another time I found him sitting on my couch drinking a beer that he helped himself to and watching my TV, waiting for me to get home. I will never forget the words that came out of his mouth: "You made me do this, (breaking into my place) you never returned or answered any of my calls." I understood then and there how dangerous people with a victim mentality can be. They are capable of doing things others would not conceive of doing to another person. Self-proclaimed victims feel justified in their behavior because they are unwilling to see how they could have played any part in the situation. There was nothing I could say to this man sitting on my couch, someone who had taken such liberties in a place I called home. Anything I said he would have dismissed and lay all blame at my feet.
I have been single since that day.

I wish I could say that dog-killing stalker was the worst thing I have ever been forced to endure. I hold no malice for this person. Hate and resentment of him had long ago been exorcised--or so I had told myself. I have since walked in Piedmont Park daily, the same path where I had walked my dogs.  I have visited clubs where I am reminded of this man's relentless pursuit. To deny that I am still not effected by the trauma is akin to putting my head in the sand.

Aloof I would be described as if our paths have crossed in this city. It would be one of the kinder words a few here have written to me. I do, however, understand why they would come to that opinion. My history, the reason for my departure  from Atlanta so many years ago, is known by few; my road to recovery known by even fewer.  Leaving this city I returned to Austin, Texas,  the place of my birth, to lick my wounds. The pain was so great, I became willing to seek outside help in the form of a male therapist.  As a survivor of incest in my childhood and recently traumatized in Atlanta, I was at an all time low spiritually.

Then, on week three of seeing my therapist, he pulls my pants down and goes down on me while jacking off onto my shoes. Then he zips up his pants and simply tells me "same time next week."

Shortly after, I attempt at suicide, and thankfully I failed. I was then fortunate to meet my spiritual guide, Myra. She worked for a gay counseling service in Austin. I am eternally grateful for the patience and support she provided me. There was nothing I was unwilling to look at, even my core beliefs. My decision to kill myself was based on them. Willing had I become to find a solution that worked best for me.

The gift I learned from suffering at the hands of a few starting at the early age of six was a compassion for others who were still suffering at the hands of another. A love for myself above all others came out of the pain. How can we begin to love another in a healthy way if we do not first learn to love ourselves?

I walk in this city never looking directly at a person out of fear and it hurts my soul to admit it. I keep going out to the places where harm was done to me, seeking the ability to know when it is appropriate to be vulnerable and when I should be on guard. To recognize the trap in advance is the only way one can learn to avoid being caught in its grip. I see the trap I have placed in my path today. The gift is having the strength to work through the pain and fear to return to a place based in love and serenity. 

This is my life and I thank you for allowing me the opportunity to live as I so chose to do.

 

 

Andrew Adam Caldwell took the pictures...