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His mom had set out a pile of items unpacked from his school days to make a memory quilt.
When Trav declined, his father asked why, and Trav told the truth.
I held his hand as his night terrors, hyper-vigilance and claustrophobia began to make sense.
When Trav’s enlistment was up, we moved back home to Maine.“But you’re eight years in,” people accused. ”We were told we were stupid and short-sighted, throwing away good careers.
Frustrated, we located a private practice, and with a small dose of anti-depressants, information began to slip out.
“I can’t remember all the details, but I have this feeling,” he said.
It doesn’t matter anymore, he says, so I suck in my breath and nod. I listen, and I do not laugh when my husband needs to secure the perimeter of our home each night. “I’m just another kid who got molested.” This breaks my heart to hear, but he’s not wrong about his story not being unique: The generally accepted estimate is that one in six men are sexually abused as children.
My coat was still buttoned.“Now I know I spent nearly three years of my childhood at a boarding school not just with random pedophiles, but in a culture that allowed it.”As his wife, how do I respond? Search for Americana singers in our state, and Trav’s name usually tops the list. He defuses bar fights with humor and loads heavy gear with confidence in and out of dim back alley doors.
I said, “let’s go home” because I didn’t know what else to do.