E.H.E. AUTOBIOGRAPHY

A key experience that helped shape my perceptions occurred when I was between the ages of three and four. I had really begun to listen to the radio by this time, and I was already playing records by myself. I went to plug in my record player and accidentally touched my fingers to the prongs of the plug as I was doing so and, of course, got a shock. The sensation went through my whole body, down to my little bare feet on the tile floor, and I remember feeling more "aware" or "here"--more awake. I do not remember being afraid, or feeling like I had been in any danger, I was curious, more than anything, to find out what this was. I immediately ran to my mother to tell her "Momma, I got shot." (not knowing the word "shock" yet) The end result was a scolding, spanking, and the realization that I could never tell my mother if there was anything wrong, or if there was something I'd found that was interesting, and I wanted to know more. I couldn't go to her with all these wonderments and questions--she would not be able to understand. This realization rocked my little world. It went very deep.
 

I became an actor at that moment, I began to see everything from an isolated, observer's perch. I would assess what I saw, and would only respond in a way I could be sure that I was safe, thus always hiding my own truth from everyone, especially my family. I think I can trace my isolated, observer's "stance" to this particular incident. Whether it was the result of the electrical shock, or my mother's reaction, or the combination of the two, I've never been able to determine. Perhaps it was the fundamental breaking of my trust and faith that was the ultimate outcome of this experience.

The growing nightmare of having to hide my true self from my family was only amplified by my very early realization that I was, at the very least, bisexual, or possibly even (eek!) homosexual. My first realization of having to hide my sexuality completely came at the age of five, when I was looking in the family medical book, and saw that they had a picture of a naked lady, complete with breasts and pubic triangle, but the man had underwear on. This seemed odd to me. I got a pencil and drew a penis on the man's underwear, because I thought he should have one. I was promptly beaten, told that everything "down there" was dirty, and I better not ever do anything like that again. My family was rabidly homophobic; I remember my father saying at dinner one night "All queers need to be taken out behind a barn, shot and killed." I knew then that I was dead if I WAS MYSELF. Quite an uneasy thing to realize at the age of five.

Sometimes I wish that others could experience the feeling of being in constant danger (in your supposed place of safety) simply because you exist. Especially where a child's consciousness is involved: when even the happiest feelings are tinged with terror; when an overwhelming anxiety throbs beneath the slightest joy or happiness, making that happiness seem even tinier, and more distant and inaccessible in comparison.

Perhaps I wax bitter, and just wish that everyone else could be as miserable as I was, if only for an instant. That's my dark side, but my light side wishes that others could experience it only so they could better understand me and where I come from, and thus better understand why my "truth" is what it is.

I must here relate something else that occurred when I was five, that truly helped to cement my total isolation of true self from my family. I was a precocious reader at the age of five, reading things like the original British novels of Dr. Doolitle and Mary Poppins, which were aimed at much older children; I was even diving into Dickens' "A Christmas Carol". It is this book, which provides the backdrop for this particular experience. I had gotten to the point in the book where the Ghost of Christmas Past was showing Scrooge himself as a young boy, all alone, while all the other children go home for Christmas. That image alone, brought forth from me wails and sobs of anguish, as I realized that I, too, felt incredibly, totally alone.

At the tender age of five, I had somehow connected with a source of loneliness inside of myself which had been aching for expression (seemingly) since I was born. I remember also feeling a strange sense of being "ancient", feeling so incredibly, so primordially old, that it was unimaginable. So here I am, totally disoriented--it was the first time I had ever felt anything like this--I'm blubbering over this book, screaming in agony, when my parents rush in and ask me what's wrong. I point to the book, and show them the part I was reading, and say, "It's so sad." They immediately took the book away from me. No explanation, no attempt at helping me understand this huge emptiness I felt. I was given the message, instead, that feeling of any sort was bad. This only further served to add to my secretive way of life, and to widen the abyss that was growing between me and everything and everyone else in the world.

Perhaps my isolation from other kids made me think that THEY were all really like me, and that everyone was smart. I was wrong there. A key experience I remembered from first grade was later confirmed and elaborated upon by my first grade teacher when I went back to visit her when I was twenty-one.

Being the "bright" boy, I answered quickly when called on to spell my word during spelling lessons. The boy behind me, named Clarence, could not spell a simple three letter word, like "dog" or "cat". I remember thinking "What's wrong with him? Doesn't everyone know this stuff?" I promptly turned around and bonked him on the head with my spelling book, saying "Why can't you get it?" I didn't think I was doing anything wrong--I just wanted this kid to spell his word so we could get on with things.

The teacher immediately scolded me, and told me that wasn't nice. But I felt something energetically from the teacher at the moment she scolded me, and my consciousness picked it up immediately. I knew instinctively that she agreed with me, and that she was only scolding me because she had to. From that point on, I began to notice this energetic interaction with others, and how lots of times peoples' energy said one thing to my heart and feelings, while their mouths said something different to my ears.

When I went back to visit this teacher when I was twenty-one and in college, I asked her if she remembered "the Clarence incident". She immediately laughed and said, "I was trying so hard not to laugh when you hit him with your spelling book, because, truthfully, I wanted to bonk him with it. I hated having to scold you!" This affirmed to me, at the very symbolic age of twenty-one, what I had known inside myself since first grade, but never really trusted.

Thus, the "Clarence incident", at the age of six, was a turning point in my perceptions, also, the result of which was the realization that I could feel other peoples' feelings and energies, and sometimes hear their thoughts. I knew that if I divulged this to anyone in my family, I would be in danger. I knew that if I tried to talk to anyone else (outside the family), I would be in danger. A confusion over whether what I was feeling was really mine, or someone else's, began to grow.

This was especially distressing, since my mother by this time had begun to lurch around in a kind of evil black funk due to her paranoia that my father was seeing someone else. I learned to "tap-dance on eggshells" (and be graceful at it, too), all the while feeling a huge hole of despair in my guts.

My confusion over what were my feelings and what were someone else's lasted well into my thirties. (I still have trouble separating my feelings from those of others, especially when others are in pain or troubled. I'll be depressed for you, so you don't have to!) I was around twelve when I saw something on TV that just made me more uneasy.

It was an episode of Star Trek (the original) where they encounter a woman who is an "empath"--able to feel others' emotions. I felt a sick sort of identification with the female character. It didn't make me feel any better, just more wary. All this sensitivity (this un-acknowledged, un-supported sensitivity) was really more of a burden than anything else, especially to a small, frightened boy who wanted nothing more than just to be "normal" whatever the hell that was. Just imagine how much more frightened he was when he finally realized that whatever "normal" was, he was never, ever going to get to be it.