Chronicle of a Silence Endured

By Guido Verona

"Chronicle of a Silence Endured" is a highly intriguing and deeply woven fictional piece. It chronicles the psychological and spiritual trials that befall the 'hero' as he moves through life bound by the stigma of his childhood abuse. The result is a self-imposed and family-reinforced sentence of intolerable silence across 35 years of his life. The complex events that unfold are further explained applying highly-detailed psychological and spiritual research and theory. The work offers new knowledge, entertainment, and inspiration. The events and topics that arise here are becoming increasingly universal, and that is what makes the piece so important and so relevant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456621735

Book preview

book.

Preface

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Additionally, in this book I am not endorsing any particular religion, nor am I forcing my opinions on anyone. I am telling a story, and I am telling it as best I can.

This book arrives to the world as the knee-jerk reflex of my own personal challenges dealing with the Vatican and church sex scandals that have plagued the world for far too long. Today, they continue to wreak havoc on the lives of its members and survivors. I consider it a blessing, an honor, but above all a duty to be Catholic. Yet, this is not a sole Catholic issue. It is not a sole Vatican issue. It is an issue of evildoing in the world. According to the latest UN claims, the numbers of cases from the Catholic churches alone reach numbers in the tens of thousands.

This is the spirit in which this book was written, and the spirit in which the story unfolds.

Let us not also forget that all families have secrets too. That’s a given. However, when the secrets that are being kept are directly linked to childhood sexual abuse, abandonment, neglect, and rejection – all across a single life – the cost to the victim’s livelihood, their mental, physical, emotional and spiritual health comes at a very high price and with very powerful and potentially destructive consequences. This book has also been written as a warning to all families, irrespective of their background, history or demographic, as well as a source of courage and inspiration to those who are still living under the sentence of silence that comes with the shame and guilt of their abuse.

The events described in this book are becoming increasingly universal, and they cannot be allowed to perpetuate within any family group under any circumstances, and that is what makes the topic so important and so relevant.

Recovering from multiple layers of childhood abuse and the ensuing post traumatic stress is not something someone ‘just gets over’. The act of avoiding and withdrawing from family and the pressures of life in general only exacerbate the problem. Often, the family also holds the key to the healing, which makes the family’s courage and their ability to confront the truth just as important as it is for the victim.

This book is a tough read emotionally. The ‘hero’ is very lean and flat. I did this on purpose. When you are consistently the victim of abuse, the lens through which life is seen and experienced filters out much of the joy of living. Fortunately, there are seasons of joy and happiness in even the saddest of lives, but it was critical to have both the storyline and our hero as stripped down as possible in order for the drama to develop with deep focus and intensity.

The reader will find that critical to the development of the story is its spiritual aspect. I believe that no psychological problem should be addressed without serious considerations taken for the condition of the soul. Psychological problems make an easy target for the devil, and spirituality and psychology integration is an emerging, evolving branch of research that requires more attention today than ever. Investigation in this arena is, in my opinion, the best of both possible worlds. My curiosity about the phenomena is genuine.

Finally, true healing takes place in the field that is called a state of grace with one’s personal God. It is achieved through unity with nature, ourselves, God and the universe. I believe that by integrating psychology and spirituality the sick and the suffering ultimately acquire the power to heal, to love genuinely, and to persevere.

Let us pray and hope together, as it is my sincere hope that you enjoy and grow from this piece.

Your friend always,

-Guido Verona

1

Flashbulb

But Jesus said to him Judas, are you betraying the Son of Man with a kiss?

-Luke 22:48 NIV

I just can’t believe with the religious foundation that you were raised with that you are living your life this way!

As the blood slowly crawled up to our hero’s head, he turned his gaze towards her and gently answered,

It’s true, isn’t it. I am living in conflict and God cannot be happy about that.

No He can’t, she continued, and you must remember that we were all put on earth for a purpose, each of us, all of us have a reason why we are here and marriage is the major building block for God’s blessings. She was tense in her tone, working herself up. Her blood too, it seems, was moving within her small frame the same way it was for our hero.

He replied, Oh, I understand perfectly what you are saying to me. And you’re right. I see it the same way you do.

She shook her head in stern agreement, conviction.

Then, after a long pause he said, But tell me, what you do about your feet being cut off as a child?

In a jerk reflex, her eyes darted back at him and her mouth fell open. No response, just shock….the unmistakable trace of embarrassment clinging to her countenance.

Our hero started feverishly,

"What do you do when your hands and feet have been cut off at the age of 8, taken from you? Do you have any idea how hard assimilation is for me? You see, Andrea, we all can’t walk the same way you do anymore than we can’t all hold on to the things that we love most the same way you do. It’s easy for people who have not gone through this to point the finger and say we are simply defiant, rebellious or that we should get over it. Did you know that research has shown that the brain functions of post-trauma survivors are different than those without? The trauma-exposed brain simply cannot choose and self-regulate with the same ease and accuracy as one that has not been, or at least not to the same degree. Those of us who have to endure the rest of our lives with the weight of this cross…with what feet do we walk towards our dreams in this world? With what hands do we hold on to those people and things we love most, including your God Himself? The best we can do is work towards forgiveness, and still the world, not knowing any better, expects us to just get over this like it’s nothing, when in fact it’s everything. And so we mask our suffering and incompetence with the hopes that everything will work itself out, that our weaknesses, our amputated souls won’t fail us or scare off the people in our lives. And that’s a hell of a lot to deal with. Living like this consumes tremendous amounts of energy. Moving moment to moment of a life lived with this is exhausting, especially when you didn’t do a damn thing to deserve it. That’s the real killer, knowing you didn’t do a damn thing. The devil himself did it, but it is you who carries the guilt. My question has always been, does God make exceptions for people like us?"

Our hero had lost track of himself, speaking about this to his older cousin’s wife, while doing his best to maintain an even tone - and all with a significant degree of futility. He noted her small frame now recoiled, shrank from the inside; her shoulders also sank beneath her moist skin, her gaze was pulled slowly down to the ground, and then it slept temporarily at the far right corner of the room. She smiled back to herself, her eyes squinting. She shifted on her seat in discomfort and let out a tiny, involuntary gasp of laughter. "Oh yeah, that." She thought to herself.

Look, I’m sorry, I… Her voice grew grim.

Don’t apologize, our hero interrupted respectfully, stroking her back gently, smiling over to her. Her thin, silk blouse was blotted dark with her sweat, forcing our hero to remove his hand quickly. "Do you know what you have given me? You are the onliest family I’ve got left. Outside of you guys I have nothing, so if we are going to fight let’s fight, but there are no walk-outs allowed, no rejections allowed. Fighting or not fighting we are going to have to deal with each other. Besides, I read recently that even hopeless cases can be saved through the right relationship, and that’s exactly what I’m trying to do for the first time in 35 years."

Hopeless case. Hope.

The distance between those two.

Our hero’s eyes searched the open space of his mind in order to give his thoughts some room, then his eyes accidentally met with Joshua’s, his older cousin, and he could see they had filled with tears. Joshua had been quietly listening the whole time. He’d heard the whole thing in spite of the music and laughter and playing and noise going on all around. Not an appropriate topic to discuss at his youngest son’s 10th birthday party.

Yet, it was Joshua who had weeks prior had told our hero in a private moment, I understand that there are three altars in life: The altar of the church, where we celebrate mass as a community. The altar of the family table in the home, where we give thanks for the family and the fruit of our labor, and the altar of the marital bed, where love between a man and a woman is made holy in private by Almighty God.

The bed…where love is made holy.

It was the winter of 1972….

No, wait.

To tell this right we need to go back further. So let’s make it 1964, the year our hero was born.

Mom and dad had just left Colombia for the US in search of a better life, and readily through intense work established their first home in the Bronx, New York. They had 2 daughters, Virginia, the oldest, and Rosalinda. Dad wanted a son to carry on his name, but months and months of attempts towards pregnancy had yielded no fruit. And then, right at the point where the couple had collectively given up, mom became pregnant with our hero.

The night he was born, dad was working late at the factory and mom had no way of reaching him. She called her friend, a priest by the name of Father Francis, to meet her at the hospital. She had been made unconscious during the c-section, and the child had to be placed in the rigid, box-like enclosure of an incubator for 3 days, due to his low birth weight and unstable heart. It was the end of the third day before he was finally placed in his mother’s arms for the first time.

Right after the birth it was tough to distinguish what it was for mom. Perhaps she felt robbed of her baby’s first cry. She herself had cried and cried for months now, finding it difficult to be gentle with herself. Did she know then that she should be grateful and happy for her child, but still was riddled with sadness and guilt about losing that life-changing experience of birth? That mysterious pressure, that critical hormonal bonding that takes place between mother and child during and immediately following the hellish experience of labor- had it been surrendered to fear disguised in the form of unconsciousness? What had mom grown so scared of that she had refused the obstetrician's advice for a natural birth?

As with most things in this realm of existence, the passing of time led mom to eventually push herself past the sense of shame, to finally accept what happened, and to be appreciative of the good that came out of it. What else could she do? Still however, there were times she wondered if perhaps her son responded better to his father than to her. There seemed to be this uncomfortable, invisible distance between her and her son right from the very start of his fragile life, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, which only exacerbated things in her creeping attitude of ambivalence towards her marriage. The violent shivers of her body and the mental confusion endured when waking up from the birth procedure still haunted her.

Dad on the other hand was a simple man in every way. He was uneducated, unskilled, and equally hard-working. He was unmistakably proud to have his long-anticipated son. Our hero does not remember much about his dad even today. Only that he gave him his first taste of beer when he was seven, and spanking him for letting the soap dry on the car in the sun when he was helping to wash it, but on the same day let him drive it on the highway while sitting on his lap.

But that’s already getting ahead of things.

The first time mom and dad lost our hero he was 2 years old. Mom suddenly turned to dad in the New York shopping center and wondered out loud, Where’s my son?! After a brief and frantic search, a store clerk found him in the toy section, sitting on the floor with soiled diapers, ripping boxes open and blissfully playing with the toys.

The second time our hero became lost he was six years old. The family had gone to Bogota on vacation to spend time with the rest of the family. They were all staying in mom’s sister’s house, which was seated across the street from a train track, and led almost directly to the town’s grammar school and main food mart about 2 miles away. The house maid was ordered to make a dinner run for that evening’s supper, and our hero had begged her to let him join. She reluctantly agreed, and then purposefully left him behind on the tracks on the walk back. When the phone rang back at the house it was the police department claiming they had a boy fitting the description mom had given them.

He kept crying, My mother doesn’t love me, my mother doesn’t love me.

Hush child! What are you saying? Pay no mind now, mom’s here and all’s fine.

1972:

The Year of the Fox

(The Third Time Our Hero Gets Lost)

Never have I seen a greater, or more beautiful, or a calmer or more noble thing than you, brother. Come on and kill me. I do not care who kills who.

-Ernest Hemingway

The Old Man and the Sea

I was wondering…. asked Fox, after a long silence that seemed to add more darkness to the already existing blackness of the room. He and our hero both laid there wrapped tightly in their individual blankets, next to each other, facing the cracked ceiling as the snow storm gathered strength outside. It was a thick, blanketing snow that obscured the town in a welcome reversal of feathery, glimmering white.

Wondering what?

Well, it’s kinda embarrassing. But you know I don’t consider you just my little cousin. I mean, you mean more than that to me. Fox's voice was now turning into a cautious and suspect whisper.

I don’t understand.

Well I know you must have your heart broken over the fact that your dad has decided to return to Colombia to be with that other woman, while you are all alone here in New York with your mom, and sisters and your aunts, uncles and cousins you have never known. You’re the man of the house now. You must feel so alone, so scared. Aren’t you?

Umm…yes, I suppose…

"You know you sound almost embarrassed to say that, and I understand. I would be just as scared. That’s why I want to be more than just your cousin. I want to be your brother.