Jimmy

Jimmy disappeared when he was ten and I never saw him again. Over the years, he armored up with muscles and gangs, and escaped into drugs. When I returned to our mother’s house for holidays, he avoided me. Wrapped up in my own sorrows – a battering boyfriend, two abortions in a row – I didn’t track him down and say, “What the hell is going on, baby brother?”

We had been close. I walked him to school, and took him to the library and dentist afterwards. When he skinned elbows or scraped knees, he ran to me for comfort and patching up. Our mother had no patience for injured children. John’s transition had cured her of that.

A few years ago, in the depths of post-mother’s-death-madness, Jimmy accused me of sexually molesting him. I do not doubt he was molested. We both were. And… he may not want to remember that it was probably by our mother, twisted as she was at the time. I didn’t want to remember until I was fifty years old and dying. She was probably molested, too, by other twisted relatives. I say this with love, “twisted.” They could not help it. She went off the rails while I was growing up. It was a confusing time. (See “Free Love Ain’t”.)

As far as I know, Jimmy is still embodied. There is hope for healing. There is always hope for healing, but not everyone has the … ability to face the enchaining demons. They’re pretty ugly. But when you find the courage to do so, after you’ve bounced on the bottom long enough, those terrible, terrifying, terrorizing demons evaporate into thin air, and the chains break and fall away. 

It is hard work, and takes time; it is taking me decades. There’s a lot of them, and they seem to multiply, like malevolent creatures in The Lord of the Rings. Perseverance is absolutely necessary, as is self-love. Do you love yourself enough to break those reeking, heavy, shaming chains? Only you can do it. I cannot do it for you, much as I may wish to. But I will sing Hallelujah! when you are free.