pic date: 9-2-2010
Why is there an anonymous picture posted of the shin section of a left leg, with its salient wounds grabbing the attention of the onlooker?
And why is there a picture of a bed situated directly next to a set of closet doors?
The owner of this fine looking shin bone had moved into a different room and the configuration did not allow for his previous sleeping arrangement. That is why the bed sits next to the closet, which looks rather frustrating to deal with, but there was nothing that could be done for him. The doors themselves are so old and decrepit that they don’t hardly move anyways, but what is significant, is how the edge of the doors coincide precisely with the dueling wounds when the subject lies down.
The story surrounding these unintentional yet self-inflicted wounds began in in the late 1960s.
A couple had a child, and after trying to conceive a second time, they realized that someone between the two of them had become sterile. The need to feel complete as a family drove deep into the mind of the woman of this couple, and soon an adoption took place to fill this familial gap. Upon securing a baby child, everything seemed like a happy tale to unfold from that moment forward. If a moral once existed that said, “If your gut tells you not to proceed, then don’t,” then it is a moral that, if obeyed rigorously, would make the world a better place. Nevertheless, between the young couple, soon the man began to have his doubts about the woman of whom he married. He should have followed his gut instinct and simply either left, or dealt with the issue at hand through counseling. Either option is difficult when considering the notion of having to stay with a person someone doesn’t like, but knowing this doesn’t make the story any more hospitable.
He was a gargantuan man, very tall with huge, brick-like hands and beady eyes that sank deep into his obstinate head. He had a military personality that drove the bulk of his behavior, and he eventually realized the incompatibility existing within his marriage. Very little time passed before he understood that he did not enjoy doing the things she did, and blindly, she reciprocated the nature of this behavior by forming the ideation that her husband, therefore, went off and did things that men did, things she felt she had no business partaking of. Much of this disparity arose from physical aspects, the woman being very un-physically capable and clumsy by nature; a homebody built for cutting celery and making tuna-fish in a bowl during her weekends away from her 6am to 6pm day job. At some point, frustrations began to develop on his behalf, and the frustrations manifested themselves in acts of aggression. [Addendum: this growing frustration stemming from the relationship was a catalyst to a very difficult behavioral trait to deal with in certain people, and that is the sheer need for control. The inability to control situations/people, coupled with marital frustrations, can be a toxic, highly explosive mixture.]
The adoption, that of a little blue boy, offered some relief to these frustrations. Their first child had been a girl, thus the womanly bond had been forming easily on this side of the family. They were of the same blood, they looked alike, and they loved each other deeply. On the male side, a bond attempted to form, yet one factor played on the pending father-to-son relationship: the monstrosity of the dark-skinned, practically hairless man looked utterly nothing like the tiny, white-skinned boy they had adopted. The difference was uncanny and obtuse. In family pictures, three faces would look near to identical, with a fourth face interpolated, and quite evidently out of place. In addition to this seeming misplacement, the grotesque size difference between father and son invited a formulation of domination so obliterating and oppressive that to look upon the two together would be to wonder if the grown man had abducted his neighbor’s child.
As time moved forward, the woman in her habitual domesticity grew used to seeing “the boys” off to go do whatever it was they were going to do. With the family continually operating on this principle of division, a division that seemed to extend from their failing relationship, the man’s frustrations formed and pressurized until the need for release grew to a great extent. Outright bludgeoning acts of hostility poured forth onto the boy, the little adopted one who looked nothing like him, the tiny helpless thing with no strength and no control, with no help and no one to turn to during the most terrorizing moments.
The mother never caught on, turning eyes waywardly with avid and persistent indifference. When the boy later grew up to become angry himself, she began to think her adopted son was a mutation, something of a behavioral anomaly of which, she now began to suspect and surmise why the boy had been given up in the first place. Maybe he was the offspring of some degenerate couple involved in one of those illegimate births so prevalent during the sixties. She began to share in the man’s hostility towards the boy, feeling that the man that was her husband, her loyal counterpart and devout partner in life, had every right in scolding the boy until matters were set straight. Little did the woman understand of what was truly occurring, until the man, ultimately fed up with her as well, left her. The woman was devastated, the boy ran away, and the man ventured onwardly to find the kind of woman more suited to his needs.
The boy left into the world with little or no guidance, staying with the parents of friends from school and befriending people he met on the streets. Eventually, after a period of time passed and the smoke settled from all the hostility, a phenomenon began to occur. The grown young man began to have nightmares of being attacked by the father, a frenzied ogre monster chasing him throughout the labyrinth of his subconscious.
The first of these specific nightmares had the young man waking with his legs kicking, violently kicking against this frightening monster that had him cornered. Following through a succession of years, the nightmares continued until one morning, the young boy, now a grown man, awoke to find the wall next to his bed caved in with blood, and his sock filled with blood: the entire toenail had been blasted, peeled-back by the impact of kicking the wall during the dream. Such events recurred on and off until the most recent of times when, as the photo above reveals–the first of photographic evidence–the subject awoke to find he’d plowed his shin bone into the closet door in defense, struggling, fighting, screaming, kicking with great fear to repel the fiend trying to grapple him, attacking him in his dream.
The nature of unresolved conflict for abused children is a very real thing, as the evidence proves. Nested within the subconscious of the victim, fear and conflict can lie dormant for years until materializing at the most unexpected of times, possibly recurring as a result of triggering, newly acquired conflicts. The best way to avoid such problems is to avoid the promotion of abuse, which sounds something of a redundant and obvious statement, but statistics show that child abuse is taking an escalating turn. To see a graph that rises with such ominous implications is truly sad, yet as the world population increases, with the myriad of human imperfection pervading the landscape, the only thing we can do, if we have not already reported first hand of a known case of child abuse, is to continue to inform the world of the problem, to inform the world just how sick people can be.