Full Circle

When l was eight and living in Brussels, a man that had known and worked with my parents for about fifteen years, Jim Oberg, molested me. It wasn’t anything major in comparison to some, l suppose…he’d give us piggy back rides and slip his hands under our skirts into our underwear. There was more disturbing detail to this that l discovered later in the gradual uncovering of my psyche, but it happened to all of the girls there, and eventually, one of the other girls living in the house and l gathered up our courage and told our parents. They believed us, fortunately, and Jim and his wife Sue (who had been with the organization for more than twenty five years) were kicked out of the building and the Institute of Cultural Affairs. It may not have been so severe, but l apparently was traumatized enough to block it out until l was thirteen and developing an interest in boys.
It was a big issue for me for a while. But before too long, between talking to my parents and doing some good thinking of my own, I came to the conclusion that all men were most definitely NOT like him, and that it was okay to trust some of them here and there. I got over it and got on with my life, though on some level, I never quite forgave him, not for doing that to me, but for doing it to any child. Shortly after moving to Seattle, I happened to catch up with an old boyfriend whose parents were also in ICA and long time friends with my parents. We decided to attend an ICA reunion, though it was pretty much being held for the generation before us, so we were on the younger end of the scale. On the second night, we were all sitting around, discussing our experiences growing up in the lnstitute, the good, bad and ugly, and whaddya know, Jim Oberg’s name comes up. It turns out that in his entire time in the Institute, he’d been molesting young girls. There were three women at the reunion who were in their mid to late thirties who’d lived with him in ICA houses and had the same experience. None of us knew the others had experienced this, so it came as quite a shock, and after everyone broke up into groups and went their separate ways, the four of us got together and talked.

I think we were all so outraged at not being the only ones (and I already knew there’d been at least one other) that we decided to take him to court. We knew where he lived (Oregon, in some seniors community), and we all had plenty of evidence. As time went by, however, we realized that, aside from the fact that the statute of limitations was long gone, we’d all been in foreign countries when it had happened. And personally, for me, I sort of gave up because I simply decided it had been too long and l just didn’t want to give him any more of my energy. Part of me was like, eh, he’s in an old folks’ home too (though l’ll be honest, part of me really wanted to stick it to him just because he was an old fuck and was probably gloating over having ‘gotten away with it’), so I just gave the whole thing up and made peace with the matter. Haven’t thought about it since.

Until today.

Today, I was a whirlwind of cleaning power. My place has gathered SO much junk over the last four years that l decided it was high fucking time l get started on my spring cleaning early and clear out some closet space. Since I’m a hopeless packrat, throwing stuff out is always a torturous and sweetly nostalgic experience. It also takes forfuckingever because I get sidetracked reminiscing. Among the boxes I went through, I have several that are full of a bunch of my mom’s stuff I’m holding for her, along with baby clothes, books, and various other throwbacks to my childhood. It was SO fun going through that stuff, and I was super grateful that my mom kept certain things. In one of the boxes, I ran across some really great artwork. My whole apartment is FULL of artwork, I mean to the point of almost being too much, but I was like, fuck that, I’m finding room for this shit. So I rearranged some stuff, took a couple of things down, changed out some frames, and put it up. One of the last pieces I couldn’t quite find a place for, but I *really* liked it. It’s this sort of abstract landscape of what *could* be a funky futuristic city, but really is a bunch of funky looking rocks (my guess anyway). Anyway, it had this great little red matte on it, and I just had to find a place for it. I finally decided I’d put it on my door. When I flipped it over to put double sided tape on it, there was writing on the back. I read the first couple of lines, skipped down to who had written it, and…you guessed it. Jim and Sue. It was a wedding gift to my parents from them, which was surreal enough in itself. The whole thing was sort of surreal, honestly. (If you listen to me talk enough, you’ll realize that ICA people, and the kids that grew up in the organization, never really fall out of touch – even if we’re no longer affiliated with it, we manage to run across each other everywhere, at the oddest times, in the oddest circumstances. After I moved to Seattle, I ended up renting a room to the girl in Brussels who went with me to tell our parents. ICA is full of coincidental moments that aren’t really all that coincidental at all. But I digress.)

So then I read the whole thing. It said:

“Darkness seems to be multiplying. Nevertheless, the light still shines in the darkness, and the darkness has never put it out.
We send you into married life to be the light in the multiplying darkness of man, remembering that what is meant by happiness is to live every unhappiness and to be the light is to gaze with undimmed eyes on all darkness.”

I don’t think I have to point out the irony here. But here’s the weird thing. It’s TRUE. It’s true for me in every single fucking regard to Jim Oberg. I could have let that man ruin my life. And you know, I’m not sure anyone would have blamed me. I know I wouldn’t blame *any* victim of pedophilia of being severely fucked up as a result. I blocked him out for almost five years. I don’t know why I chose to not let that experience dominate my every relationship from there on out. Though I do admit that it stunted my emotional development for a while once it all came back, I can’t honestly tell you why I chose to not let it run my life. I cannot tell you why, once I found out where he lived, I didn’t catch a train down there, knock on his door, and give him a good kick upside the head. And trust me, I wanted to. In the end, I realized that to give him any more of my time or energy was, simply, giving up MY power, MY strength, MY Self. None of which he has, really. And you know, when it came down to that realization, I just felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for this old man in his retirement community, playing backgammon and bridge and holding this secret, and knowing, on some level, that his life was truly and utterly pathetic. I can’t honestly say that if I ran across the man on the street, I wouldn’t knock him flat for the number of lives and years of therapy he’s put so many through. But at this point, I’m just sorry that he’s got nothing to show for his life; a wife who knew he was ill, and did nothing about it – in fact, stayed with him and who knows if she ever took him to task for it? – an endless craving for young girls that he may or may not understand, but on *some* level, must know it’s wrong, a livelihood lost as a result, and a death that, when it mercifully comes, will hold more regrets than any human being should have to die with.

I have very few regrets in my life. I have incredible parents. I have been around the world and seen more than most Americans my age ever have or will. I have been blessed, for whatever reason, with a determination to make the best of the very worst circumstances, and to see light when all anyone else saw was endless dark. Some call me idealistic. Some call me foolish. But you know, it all comes full circle. And here I sit, contemplating this piece of art I like so much and the words on the back, and I think to myself that I *have* conquered the darkness this man brought to my life, and I did it all on my own. I don’t know how, I don’t know why…all I know was that the darkness was not where I was meant to be. I’m deeply grateful for that.

I hang the picture on my bedroom door.

I light some sage, cleanse the picture, then my room.

Bring forth light, all ye who enter here, I say. And I smile.