I tried fo talk about mind control in a previous post and it came out as being too technical and detached because it’s emotionally trying to explain the inner workings of what makes us humans tick.
What makes us who we are isn’t pinpointed to a gene or to our brain. We are a collective experience of beings interacting with each other and our environment.
I used to sit next this boy in 8th grade who was an altar boy. We went to Nativity of our Blessed Virgin Mary Elementary School in Chicago, graduated in 1989. It was a Lutheran School in a predominately Catholic neighborhood. There was a priest who used to molest boys but no one ever talked about it.
You could tell who the boys were that were molested by how they were removed from the rest of us. They got special privileges and carried a somber quietness about them. Austere, well behaved, top students described them. The other kids didn’t trust them because they were like extensions of the Priest.
The Priest is the highest ranking person under God.
I hated the priest that used to molest Andrew most of all at the time. Andrew was a good looking little blond boy that seemed like he was seven years old. He was sweet, good natured and innocent. We never talked though because I was a bad kid. He was always very nice to me though.
Last night, I had a dream about him. We were just sitting next to each other in silence, not talking as usual, but good vibes still. There was the same girl sitting next to him, supportive as always. They could have been brother and sister with their platinum blond hair and crystal blue eyes. So eager to please and be good.
Andrew stormed into class during his Mass rehearsal one day. He came into the room and went to his desk and put his head down and cried. The priest had followed him but stayed outside in the hallway, looking through the door window with an angered red face. I knew right then what had happened.
Our teacher ignored the incident and pretended like nothing happened while she went on talking to a classroom of kids trying to ignore the Priest and Andrew. Nobody dared to question the Priest about anything he didn’t want them to know. Andrew wept in his criss crossed arms on the table trying to bury his head in his desk. All I could do was stare at her. I glared at her but she looked away. She knew, and I knew, but I couldn't ’t say anything and neither did she.
Silence around the Priest feels like a safety bubble.
I think about all the “good” altar boys that grew up to be men. Where are they now? How much privilege they must have had for going along. How many couldn't ’t bury their head forever. How much trouble you could get into for speaking up. Why am I still afraid to talk about this?
Stockholm Syndrome is never medicated. It's never acknowledged in these situations. You are crazy or a liar for speaking up about how they abuse their power. The entire world turns upside down when you speak of it.
Integrity and courage are loose ends to authority that abuse power.
Being abused doesn’t make us who we are. How we survive determines our true nature. Those who become their abusers identify with them. They aren’t evil, just very disturbed and sadistic scared little boys.
I like to think that Andrew wasn’t one of them. I bet they couldn't ’t break him that much, despite how little and slight he was. His heart was too good.
Speak!
Trying to speak, what do you call that?
There are no words for bullied silence. But, it be. It was real. It happened but if you don’t talk about it, it’s like it’s not true.