Château de Gato: Forgotten

In the late '90's, I often received brochures and newsletters from Amnesty International, a group I respect. Once in awhile, they would include these small cards, with the words, "Do not be discouraged. You are not forgotten," written inside in a number of different languages. There was a space inside that card for supporters to sign, and send back, so those cards might be delivered by Amnesty International to persons being unlawfully detained, harmed, tortured, or experiencing other inhumane treatment. Each time I signed one of those cards, I would hold it close to my heart, and say a silent prayer that it might reach someone in an awful place, and maybe bring some comfort.

Once, during 3 years with yet another unethical therapist who left me much worse off when they were done with me, I got one of these cards to sign. In therapy I had been trying to let myself feel some sort of kindness toward the child I had once been. I carried a lot of hatred and disgust for that child. I felt like that child was a sick, weak, piece of shit. I felt that child must have been born bad, and deserved every bad thing she went through. A father wouldn't hurt a good daughter. A principal wouldn't fuck a good student. A church wouldn't blame a good teenager. Nobody would abandon a good person. I hated pictures of me as a child. I hated everything about that child I had been. So, as I opened the newsletter from Amnesty International, and that little card I could sign fell out, it shocked me when I suddenly realized, I needed to sign that card for the child I once was. She needed to know she was not forgotten. She had quietly suffered, for years, all alone.

I signed the card, rolled it up, placed it in a small medicine bag along with a set of tiny homemade rune stones I found and painted, and some little momentos of things that the child I once was had liked. Beads with insects painted on them, feathers from birds, cat fur, a guitar pin, all things I enjoyed when I was little, during those long years of pain and terror.

At 57, I no longer despise the child I once was. I grew up fucked up, but it wasn't her fault. She did her best. I was unable to get things right, though, and my failures mean I am still easy prey, still leavable, and those closest to me still have no problem walking the fuck away. They never tell me why. Obviously I fucked up everything my whole damn life, no matter how much I tried, and don't deserve the decency afforded to others who try to learn and grow. But none of this was that child's fault. She was not to blame.

In trying to communicate with girls like I was, back when I was in my teens and 20's and 30's, girls who went thru hell as children, and are now being re-exploited by Marc Maron, I don't know what to say. There is nothing I can think of to say to them now, to explain all of this to them. I try to conjure words I could have taken in when I was their age, concepts that me back then might have been capable of understanding. Not one goddam thing comes to mind. I have tried to come up with anything I can think of that might have helped me back then. Maybe if I could've warned my 25 yr-old self that her newborn was one day going to cut me out completely if she didn't figure out how to do better quicker. Maybe I could have avoided some of the worst pain I carry now, if I could have reached me 32 years ago. Then I realize I already knew I was shit, back then. I was already under daily pressure trying so fucking hard to figure out wtf I was supposed to do, trying so hard to get everything right. The only attention I got back then came from men like Maron. Everyone else saw me as shit. But the men like Maron? They saw me as shit they could fuck. Yeah, there is nothing I could have told myself back then. When sexualized children end up tossed into that cycle of re-exploitation by Maron and predators like him, it isn't the girls who are capable of fixing that mess. Those damaged girls are not at fault. The much older, and very aware, predators have to be stopped, to stop this awful cycle. It isn't the girls who can stop any of it.

I sat down on my couch, today, while realizing the futility of trying to come up with words to reach damaged girls like I was at 16, or 21, or 28, or 33. My eyes happened to land on the wooden cross above my door, and there was the medicine bag, holding the Amnesty International note that I once signed for the child I had been. I took the bag down, untied leather strands closed back in '99, took out the small scrolled note, opened it, and touched the signature from over 2 decades ago. That 33 yr-old who signed that note for the child we once were, does not deserve my anger or hatred or disgust, any more than that child did. I was fucking trying. And I was being devoured by wolves, by predators like Marc Maron, while society looked on and blamed me.

What can I say, to girls Maron and those like him are destroying right now? Not much. I can leave these words, in this blog, and hope these girls and others like them run across these words, so they can maybe take some of that blame and self-hatred they carry and place it where it belongs. And maybe others in this society, in this world, can see the truth about what happens to sexualized children as they grow up. Maybe this group I belong to can one day be seen as worthy of respect, as deserving of protection from society's wolves.

These pictures below are for every girl who has been victimized by Marc Maron. You are not forgotten.

And maybe it's time for me to look at that note, and tell 33 yr-old me she is not forgotten, either.