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17 1991 KEY WEST'S WHITE STREET PIER STRETCHES SOUTHWARD INTO the shallow waters of the Atlantic, giving the impression of a roadway once destined for the forbidden island of Cuba. Tranquil and barren, it attracts maybe two or tree fishermen at a time and even fewer tourists. I rode my bike there often. Today, in the noon sun, I had driven to the end and stopped. Sweat streamed down my wrists onto wet handlebars. I fixed my eyes on the horizon. The breath of the world came to a pant, ruffling little waves here and there. Flecks of silver scattered across the sea. I watched the water around me. The natural flow of the tidal currents found an unnatural barrier here. The pier was built as a solid concrete bulwark running a quarter mile into the Atlantic. As a result, the water to the east of me was blocked, often stagnant, tepid with the decomposition of foul-smelling seaweed. I thought of the Cubans just over the horizon. I felt ashamed that I was spending so much time preoccupied with my mental health. Whole cultures anguished, famine was decimating African nations, and right here my own brothers were slowly dying of AIDS. I knew dozens of them. Each month more arrived from whatever hell they'd come from. What moral right had I to dwell on myself? Not long after I'd moved to Key West, I'd met a gay minister named Steve Torrence. Part rascal, part sage, he'd virtually created the local Metropolitan Community Church. We talked often. One day he suggested that I could help others who had been abused as children. Perhaps, he said, this was the very element I was missing in my life. So I offered to develop a support group for the church. But I lost interest or, rather, could not connect with my interest. I returned to Steve week after week in a state of gloom. Copyrighted Material 113 One day he sat back in his chair and asked, "Walt, do you think that you have honestly dealt with your anger toward your father?" "Yes," I said, "I'm certain that I've forgiven him. I know I have." "I don't think so," he said. I began to believe that Steve was right. But how could I release it? A "supervised tantrum," at least with Steve, would be too embarrassing. So I found Luke. He was a beautiful long-maned therapist of the New Age. From his old bougainvillea-shrouded house near the cemetery in the middle of the island, he offered his guidance, a repertoire of inner child techniques, a full range of movements and meditations. With his wild blue eyes he instructed me in the art of venting. One day he gave me a pillow. "Pretend it's your father. Tell him how you feel. If you have to, beat him up." I knelt on his floor and descended into a half hour of rage. I beat the pillow until my hands were swollen. I ripped it open, spilling foam rubber all over the room. I looked up at Luke to say I was sorry. "I've got plenty of pillows," he said, tossing another on the floor. "Keep going." Afterward, Luke told me that the police had come. I'd screamed so horrifically that a neighbor had called them. I hadn't noticed. Sometimes Luke sat across from me and gently woke my inner child. We had tender conversations with the boy. As he had in my sessions with Nathan, the boy seemed real to me. "Does this mean I have multiple personality disorder?" I asked. "We all have multiple personalities," he said. The summer with Luke became fresh and clear. We sat in his garden for hours. His glowing face guided me back to the horrible scenes of my childhood. "Re-create them, Walt. Give the stories new, happy endings." I had no trouble sprinkling magic through the woods. One unhurried afternoon Luke held a mirror to me so that I could see my personas: The analyst. The businessman. The diplomat. The terrified boy. I'd suspected those. But in a violent and beautiful insight I saw the person behind these masks: The Victim. It was my core identity. The victim explained everything. I'd entered every event in my life unconsciously expecting to be victimized, by enemies, superiors, and saviors. Usually, perhaps even invariably, I had had a hand in my fate by attracting...
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