In the Shadowed Forest

When I had journeyed half our life's way,

I found myself within a shadowed forest,

for I had lost the path that does not stray.

Ah, it is hard to speak of what it was,

that savage forest, dense and difficult,

which even in recall renews my fear:

so bitter--death is hardly more severe!

But to retell the good discovered there,

I'll also tell the other things I saw.

I cannot clearly say how I had entered

the wood; I was so full of sleep just at

the point where I abandoned the true path.

But when I'd reached the bottom of a hill--

it rose along the boundary of a valley

that had harassed my heart with so much fear--

that I looked on high and saw its shoulders clothed

already by the rays of that same planet

which serves to lead men straight along all roads.

Opening lines to Inferno, Dante Alighieri

I didn't know why I was drawn to visit the local bookstore and pick up a copy of the Divine Comedy. But as soon as I read the first stanza of "Inferno" it became clear Dante's story has some very real parallels with where I find myself in this moment of my life.

Recently I read about a court case that struck a chord. Twenty five years ago the plaintiff, then a Boy Scout, had been sexually abused by a man who was an assistant Scoutmaster and convicted pedophile. The man who had been abused, with whom the jury sided, is a few years younger than I am. As I looked at his face in the photo I saw a look that seemed familiar to what I sometimes feel in my own soul.

He looked absolutely crushed. He had a look of anguish, of having carried pain and shame over decades, and internalizing over and over the damage that was done.

Based on my own experience I can imagine he might have been working with wide-ranging damage which lies outside of one's conscious control and which re-integrates itself into the evolving self at every developmental step. I recognize the look of unceasingly carrying a burden on your back that you have to make appear as if it's not there. Or that you try to make go away. Addictions, compulsions, thoughts that are not worthy of one's higher nature. All of these come and ask you to get into their car. In order to carry on, you have to pretend away the fact that your whole being is constricted into a space much smaller than you would inhabit were it not for the trauma. And you can't talk about it because of the powerful stigma surrounding being a victim of sexual assault.

I couldn't help but think that he must also feel tremendously empowered by stepping forward into the public realm and standing in the pain and suffering he had gone through. To bring a secret out of hiding is to lessen its power over you.

Another thing that struck me me about this newspaper article was how the Oregon legislature passed a law in 2009 changing the statute of limitations for victims of sexual abuse. The law previously stated that victims could sue for damages up until age 24, or 3 years after they realized the abuse has damaged them. Now, the age is 40 or within 5 years of realizing the abuse has damaged them.

I was near age 40 myself when I began to realize the extent of the damage to my life, both of the sexual abuse when I was age six and of growing up with a mentally ill parent. In both cases the experiences happened in a very formative time of my life. The abuse happened over a period of 3-4 months whereas the imprint of mental illness was deeply woven into the fabric of my mental environment over a long period of time. My basic behavior, how I relate to others, my own thoughts and feelings are all deeply colored by those events.

The new Oregon law seems to acknowledge that some of us may not realize the scope of damage until we start approaching middle age, and begin to see how it's playing out in our lives.

Whether we are trying to transform sexual abuse or the legacy of having grown up with a mentally ill parent, it is tremendously helpful to know we are not alone. Part of me feels a strong urge to isolate, to nurse my wounds by myself. I don't want to be seen by others as a "victim" and yet how do I share who I am and what some of my most basic experiences have been?

As I read the two books listed in this blog's sidebar, I feel a tremendous sense of solace that my painful and confusing experiences are not unique. There are others, in fact many others, who may be able to relate to what I've gone through and where I find myself today.

In "My Parent's Keeper", Eva Marian Brown quotes an ACMI:

"I always wanted to leave my past behind, not think about it and just move on with my life. But I found that so much of me was trapped in the past, in the pain and patterns of my childhood, that I came to realize that I couldn't really move forward until I understood my history and came to terms with it."

For most of my life I have rigorously concealed the experiences which are now weighing so heavily on my soul. With my friends I have pretended to be the bubbly, good-natured me, and have been likable and valued by many. But there was a huge cost to my concealing some of the most basic facts of my background. Because I was hiding so much of what lay just below the surface, it became more and more challenging to deepen and evolve friendships. Many of my valued friendships have passed into an "inactive" state through neglect.

I see my experience mirrored in another ACMI:

"Until recently, I had never discussed how growing up with a mentally ill parent had affected me. For years I wasn't even aware of the effects. After two decades, I am finally discussing it. Not only with my siblings, but with others who grew up in homes similar to ours. We compare memories, express feelings, and admit fears. It crumbles the wall of isolation, it demystifies the illness, and most important of all, it validates who we are and why."
Quoted from "Troubled Journey" by Diane Marsh and Rex Dickens

According to the history books, Dante was about the same age as both me and the man in the newspaper article, when he wrote about being in the "shadowed forest". He describes how he descends from there into hell, with the spirit of the poet, Virgil as his guide. Clearly Dante saw that to enter into the depths of pain and suffering, one needs a beacon of light to lead the way. Virgil was, to Dante, the epitome of human nobility. He was a person who had knowledge of the path through hell and wisdom from having traveled it.

My "Virgil" comes to me in a few people. My counselor is someone who can go with me into the suffering and help me affirm myself in a basic way during moments when all I feel is despair. And my wife has been a guide and support to me in ways I could not begin to name or quantify.

Dante further notes that when we arrive in the shadowed forest and our hearts are filled with fear, we can see the rays of the "planet which serves to lead men straight along all roads". We need a guide higher than any human conception, whose very nature is healing.

My spiritual path, which I have pursued for over fifteen years, continually reminds me of my true identity. My connection with Spirit is at the foundation of my drive to evolve myself and overcome my lower nature.

So is my process connected somehow to a "mid-life crisis" that I am having? Was Dante in a "mid-life crisis" when he wrote La Divina Commedia? I think it depends on what you mean by that term. The way I see it, a mid-life crisis is about coming to, and passing through a major life threshold. We all go through the threshold whether we like it or not, but we do have some say as to how we go through it.

On one side of the threshold, that part which lies behind me, is the part of life when youthful energy and drive can accomplish a great deal. But when the fires of youth begin to die down to some degree, we must have a structure in place that will carry us through our next level of growth.

My youthful energy and drive will not be the primary vehicle for my next stage life. I must work to transform my suffering into wisdom. In order to move forward I must steadily create a structure that I did not receive as a child. I can also choose to forgo this work. The cost, however, would be an even harsher toll taken on my life by all of the untransformed pain that lies inside me.

That's what happened to my dad. He suffered a great deal as a child as well, though in very different ways. He had tremendous promise but his unresolved pain ate away at him until he saw no recourse but to end his own life. My dad was a Marine. The attitude of toughness that he learned there likely made it very difficult for him to ask for help or admit weakness. And so he drank.

I admire the man in the newspaper article. He had the courage to speak up about his pain and show the depth of his suffering. His speaking out reminds me that a basic step in healing is to find a way to say what it is that has hurt us so deeply.

I am willing to admit weakness. I am willing to acknowledge my pain. I am willing to ask for help.


Your comments are welcome.

Warmly,

Ben