We Need To Talk About Alex A.
Publically naming my abuser for healing…did it work?
TW: This story features details of domestic abuse, child abuse and neglect, sexual assault and violence.
Resignation? Is that an emotion? It’s not in the DBT handbook so I’m sure the answer is ‘no’.
I’m sure it’s just a state of being. I’m sure it’s my state of being with PTSD. I’m not entirely sure now. I’m not sure of anything now. But I’m sure that resignation is a sure thing. Well, I’m pretty sure there never was a time when I was sure. The word “sure” has now even less meaning.
I’m hoping that I’ve used the word “sure” enough to make sure that you grasp what comes next. The sensation you might be feeling right now has a name. Semantic satiation; a psychological phenomenon where a word is repeted orally or visually to the extent that the reader/listener receives it as a meaningless sound. Semantic satiation (or what might roughly translate to you as “please don’t use that word “s-u-r-e” again) is a term coined by Leon Jakobovits James, a psychology professor at the University of Hawaii.
In his 1962 doctoral thesis, he determined that the more times you repeat a word, the more energy it takes to process it. First time, you understand. The second time; it takes a little longer. The third; longer. And so on and so forth. This Leon guy also suggested that this usually happens with words which we have a “stronger association” with; Words like “I’ll try”, “I love you”, “You’re hurting me”, “Please, stop”.
Is this why he didn’t understand? Was my vocabulary too narrow?
Perhaps semantic satiation is something one can liken to trauma; if it repeats itself enough, it loses all meaning and the lack of meaning becomes the reality.
This reminds me of a movie; “Never Been Kissed”. That movie resonated so much with me as a teenager. I was fat, spotty, spectacled and grossly unpopular due to my affiliation with all things nerdy, introverted…and it might have had something to do with me spending the majority of the time in the library (and not wearing deoderant). Anyway there is a scene where Josie, the main character, partakes in a pot-brownie and ends up stoned out her mind. Aside from wondering who ate her entire pie due to the munchies, she giggles, astonished at a fork, and says “You know what’s a weird word? Fork.” You know what’s a weird thing; my brain!
I genuinely don’t believe I had my first real kiss, the mind-blowing, the seeing-stars kiss, until it was with the brother of a FwB who became a boyfriend and then an ex-boyfriend to a boyfriend to a permanent ex. Yes, he was an absolute arsehole but I also used to be the a-typical heartless bitch that makes up the cluster-f*ck of an unmanaged BPD diagnosis; unstable relationships, rage, promiscuity, risky behaviours, alcohol abuse, regular intentional self-harm, suicide attempts.
I had kissed guys before. I’d kissed girls before. But, at the tender age of 15,he younger than me, we played hide and seek in the woods. We hid in the same place. The thunder clapped, the clouds opened and, as it began to pour down with rain, We kissed. Myself and the brother of my Friends with Benefits. Badly.
His teeth mashing into my cheek, his tongue almost found my mouth once…I think he forgot what his lips where but I nearly lost mine due to the experience. But it’s still the most romantic kiss I have ever received. Terrible, betraying, literally painful…but romantic. It was an affair that continued, despite me dating his brother, into my 20’s. And it never became a relationship.
This is a long segue for a short comparrisson. This was the same man that, 12 years later post-coitally advised me that I was more attractive now that I had my shit together unlike when I was “younger”. And I guess he was sort of right…and then desperately wrong. At the time, my shit was together. I had finished my degree, was started on a career, had beaten back trauma after trauma, set-back after set-back, survived the breakup of my first serious relationship that almost became marriage (until we both came to our senses). Yeah…I guess you could say that my shit, for lack of a better way of putting it, was together. But, guess what, it -still- never became a relationship! I had all my manure stacked up neatly, and -still- this wasn’t enough.
And then “He” happened. We’re still not really ready to conclude what “He” did. My fingers genuinely paused just there. See, Alex Agathocleous was my third great love.
Chris was my obsession, Matthew was my rock. And Alex…Alex touched and tormented me in a way that I still cannot fathom, still cannot release, still cannot get over. It has been over a year and when I think of the good times and his smile and his touch, my heart aches with a longing that I almost cannot bare. It replaces the fear of him hitting me, throwing me around, shouting at me, debasing on me at every opportunity, threatening to cheat or leave if I misbehaved. I think of one of our last moments together sitting on the sofa after a good meal, watching Man In The High Castle, stroking his hair. I looked at him and sighed and declared myself unremittingly happy just to be there, at peace, in his prescence; for once in the whole relationship, we were at peace. I wonder if that was the moment then he decided he despised me to my core (or despised himself to his core. The jury is perpetually still out on that one. And considering the level of pride he has, I feel that court is adjourned indefinately.)
I still find myself waiting for his call. And yet I dread it. It terrifies me because I’m still not ready. I’m still not ready to let go. I’m still not ready to hear another meaningless apology. I ache for him and yet despise him. Not all day, sometimes not every day. But I do ache. For him and for that illusive apology that will turn my world backwards in time to when I recognised and loved myself as a beautiful, creative, confident and sexy woman who “had her shit together”. But am I even that? Was I even that?
That’s the problem with loves like Alex. With people like Alex. They mangle your mind until it has no meaning. Like “sure”. Remember the word “sure”
What does “sure” mean? I’m not entirely sure now. I’m not entirely sure of anything now. And I’m pretty sure there never was a time when I was sure.
And what does “love” mean? What does “good” mean? Or “safe”? Or “secure”? Or “pain”? Or “Alex Agathocleous”? What do those words mean?
Trauma.
All those words, right now, just mean trauma. The woman who finally had her shit together, shit she had strewn in the wake of her learning to manage a stigmatised disorder, tackle a sexual assault, beat an eating disorder, hone a sense of self after emotional neglect, strive for courage after physical abuse, gain confidence after bullying, nailed a career. Who built an identity while suffering with a mental health condition that renders identity as fragile and changeable; that woman ended up unconditionally loving someone who’s soul purpose in her life seemed to be to tear her apart, chew her up and excrete her in his wake; just another mound of waste to add to his self-professed ubiquitous failures. Another piece of shit for her to scrape together into that ready waiting pile.
Only this time it is taking forever. So I determine that semantic satiation persists in trauma, having been through so many, it’s now taking five times as long to process what happened, countless flashbacks and days of numbness.
A brutal description. Then I do remember I was always very good with words. In fact, it was my eloquence that was one of my most prized attributes in the beginnings of meeting Alex.
And soon, very soon, along with my kindness, my goodwill, my empathy, my patience; my words became the very thing he hated most. Now I strive to make sure that my words never lose their meaning and, perhaps, by saying his name over and over, his name might lose it’s.
