Upfront this story discusses sexual assault, be warned. 

So nursiepoo has a confession to make. No, I was not the second gunman on the grassy knoll, nor am I some superhero by night in a quest to right the wrongs in the world. You’ve seen things of late, none of us have time to breathe, and with states rapidly dropping mask mandates, we are soon going to be playing catch up again.

When I was first in nursing school, I had a slew of competent and empathetic instructors. They were brilliant as hell too. Shout out to the Montana Tech Nursing Dept. I honestly would never have become a nurse had they not had a little faith in me.

One instructor, who was super organized and brought the idea of informatics to the nursing program, before it was a thing, sat me down one day and told me, “you are too co-dependent on a patient’s positive feedback.” Of course, being the wonderfully receptive person I was to any kind of critical input at the time (you already know I am full of crap, so scrape it off your screen). I became defensive, and she noticed it. While she didn’t back down, she quickly realized that I was stunned by her remark. She said, nursiepoo, it is ok to connect, but if the patient doesn’t connect back, do the best you can and move on, realizing there will be other patients. If you rely on a patient’s response to feel adequate, you will not last long as a nurse.

I want to say that I quickly took this advice to heart and adjusted my trajectory to make my interactions more effective. Once again, more crap. I’ll wait while you clean the monitor again. 

I struggled with this thought going through my mind. I struggle with this almost every shift. I will be doing something and think, “shit, I am not connecting,” and then Dannette’s voice will ring through my head as clear as big ben (or my tinnitus).

I can move away from it more and more as a professional, and then I have brought it fully into play in my personal life. It has been something that I have wrestled with a lot since therapy. My self-esteem has tanked as well. Of course, since the pandemic, my clothes have all shrunk, and my motivation beyond work and sleep is shot. Still, I plod on hoping that people will find me desirable. Why the fuck do, I need that feedback. Yeah, sorry, this is an existential trip into the dark recesses that are my life. I know a favorite trip for all of you, sorry no upgrades to first-class, and we only have booze (hey, this is, after all, a trip managed by a nurse).

Well, therapy says it is the sexual assaults I have survived. I am not sure why they use the term survivor to describe sexual assault victims. Paul over at Hope after MST says that not only was I killed in that shower room that night, I had to clean up after my own murder. Like Paul, I realized that a portion of me was destroyed in each of my assaults. I am pretty sure every person that survived, fuck that endures the lasting effects. Maybe a made-up word like “Endurer” (hey fuck Sarah Palin did it, and it ended up in the dictionary). For those keeping scores, there were three assaults in my life.

The first was when I was 13/14 and overly trusted a man I met on the train who introduced me to the motorman, who in turn let me hang out close to the driver’s compartment and then showed me the room when the train was waiting to turn around. The man stayed with me on the return trip and took me to his apartment because he needed to get something before he helped me get home because it was Philadelphia, and I was a simple Kansas boy. Meaning I was like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz (yeah, we gays always use her as a reference) and had no idea of the man’s ill intentions. Well, the something he “got” was handsy and more. I had no clue that people were that way. He was the last person I wanted to be with. I knew I liked other guys at the time but denied it (hey, it was the late 70s). I wanted to be noticed by guys my age that I found attractive, but that never happened (don’t worry, that part got better).

My second hit was as a boy scout. Beyond all the fucking hazing (honestly, it was worse than the army), I had an encounter with a chaplain at Philmont (Boy Scout adventure base) many, many years ago. I had been injured in a fall and was at the main camp. I had a tent with another boy my age, who I was highly attracted to. I woke to being groped thinking it was him and was very excited. Nope, once again, it was this pervy chaplain who wouldn’t leave us alone. Thankfully my tent mate woke about the same time and chased this guy away. He knew what had happened and, to his credit, reported it. Of course, the boy scouts did nothing, and in the end, he was an excellent friend the rest of the time that we were in that base camp together. He also strangely comforted me, “protecting” me from really anyone bothering me and spending time with me. To this day, it is one of the sweetest gestures I have ever had a non-intimate partner do for me, except for a friend putting his hand on my shoulder and comforting me when he took me to the ER in college.

Last was the military sexual trauma. I have talked about this at length in blogs and on the podcast. This was probably the most damaging of all as it not only robbed a large part of my happy nature; it ended my career.

All the time, my self-esteem took hit after hit and did about anything to be “liked” by others. I wanted to be the person that people wanted to be around, not just a plaything for some pervy old dude or someone I didn’t want to be intimate with. When I have found someone that shows friendly interest in me, I am often over the top and devastated when that interest isn’t sustained. Super fucking healthy, huh? I become convinced that I am the one who did something wrong when all they are doing is just living their lives. 

Please make no mistake I am self-centered, not narcissistic. I know friends and others have lives beyond me, and honestly, I expect them to live their lives without me living rent-free in their heads. I don’t need that level of worship (well, except my flying monkeys…more on them in a minute). Man, sometimes that feeling of somewhat rejection puts me in a dark fucking place.

Before you send me to the psych ward, I can hear Dannette’s voice through the back of my melon say, “you don’t have to connect with everyone all the time.” I can work past it, making me a better person (well, ya, know, passable).

As for the flying monkeys (yeah, another Dorothy reference), they have been sitting around lately, and they have started smoking; what the hell? Guess they need to be sent on more missions.

Thanks for reading this far. The takeaway here is not that I am a broken, crazy person. The lesson here is that shit goes wrong in your life. When it does, you endure the best way you can. The person I was when I was 14, 15, and 23 died. I would love to paint the rosy picture that I could transform into something better, but it was the death of a part of me. I like to think I have cobbled something better out of it, and sometimes hearing Dannette’s voice in my head has helped. That line of wisdom has made enduring my experience a little easier than it could be.

Sorry for the gut wrench. I have been involved on panels with other “survivors” recently, and it has been a struggle to work through all things rapey. As a provider, I am keenly aware of the role I play in helping others in their efforts. It is also important to recognize my struggles internally to help them overcome them. It would help if you remembered your struggles as you help others. Help others.

Be the kind of person your dog and your mother hope you are.