One of the people I follow on Facebook suggested that those of us who have been abused in the past try to build a “mountain” of positive memories.
To start with, positive memories of M-E-N.
This is a lot harder than it seems. When I think about those closest to me, the memories get swamped by feelings that I would rather avoid.
The point is to remember interactions untainted by commerce, with people you know personally, not favorite authors, philosophers or statesmen.
My neighbor John is the first one I can think of. He’s always come to my aid when I needed help and never expected anything in return. In spite of some serious health problems, he’s always uncomplaining with me and he’s never patronizing about the fact that he knows so much more than I do.
My friend Steve Garrity from college is another. I haven’t seen or heard or thought about Steve for years, but he was always kind to me. A Vietnam War vet (in fact, a Marine), Steve was real stand-up guy, bright and with a great sense of humor. I remember a couple of field trips we took with our ecology prof. One time, it was raining so hard, we had to sleep in the prof’s car. We laughed and laughed, and it makes me happy to think of it.
I knew some really nice fellows in Seattle: Mike, who took Peter and I camping once, and the late Gordon Cowan, husband of my friend Chris Cowan. Gordon was a real gentleman’s gentleman, calling his wife “lovey” even in the course of an argument. Gordon was the one who broke the news about my adoptive father’s passing away.
I have good memories of my cousins Paul and Rick, associated with our summer visits to their parents’ house in Plymouth. Paul has a brilliant, acerbic wit. Rick is a retired public school science teacher who is extremely handy and an excellent father, husband and son. It makes me happy to remember morning walks to the donut shop or trips to the ice cream stand, which amazingly is still there.
Not a bad start.