Weinstein The Monster




I saw Frontline last night on PBS.  Weinstein the abuser, Weinstein the rapist, Weinstein the terrorist, Weinstein the monster.

And I wondered, what made him a monster? Was he born that way, evil I mean, or was he made that way?

What made Weinstein the monster is what made Trump the monster, is the shame and helplessness that swamps us when we are held down and humiliated, ridiculed, invalidated, not taken seriously. abused, touched and violated, in places of deep silence behind closed doors and then charged with holding forever dark evil secrets by those with great power to murder our souls.

So Weinstein the monster made me rise out of bed at 3 am, filled with panic, anxiety and rage. What secrets do I still hold? What shame do I still protect?

How is it that I am I still so terrified of dead men that I may accidentally reveal what happened, that I will break my own non-disclosure agreement and call down the wrath of the God that we make of the Abuser.

Is not my panic and anxiety nothing but the terror that I might no longer be able to contain what happened and what continues to happen? That I will spill the beans, and like a whistleblower, be exiled to Russia?

Why are children killing children in schools with weapons found in wars? Why? Don’t tell me it’s just a lone gunman again, who happened to be mentally ill. How did he become “mentally ill?” How did he acquire the rage necessary to actually buy a weapon and plan the murders of the child he once was? Who murdered him first?

Who is responsible for creating the monster? God? The Devil? Birth trauma? The NRA? Or child abuse. Who fills the ranks of the NRA if not terrified, disempowered, shamed and humiliated people who want nothing more than to turn the tables and do payback on the ones that stuck a barrel in their mouths when they were too young to fight back.

What kind of high and saintly  gurus are those who make eunichs of the men and concubines of the women all in the name of God or Jesus?

My first guru was my father who was his father who was his father who was Joseph Smith the “latter day saint,” who was his father until you get to some core insult, some horrifying torture that gets passed along the generations like the baton in a relay race.

How long can I stay silent in the face of what no one wants to say? How did Harvey Weinstein become a monster? Everyone knew, right? Everyone knew. No one spoke out because no one was believed.

I panic that I won’t say it right or that I’ll say it at all or that it will be messy and inarticulate or stupid or that I won’t have semen stains or DNA, or witnesses to prove what they will say are “false allegations.”

Or worse, that I will betray the father and reveal my mother who sat quivering on the sidelines while her children were being tortured.

So I shake in fear and panic, in indecision, a deer in the headlights a rabbit howling. But my guts are roiling I cannot sleep night after night because I don’t speak about the abuse of the Harvy Weinsteins and the Donald Trumps and the Mitch McConnells and the Paul Ryans and the Koch Brothers and the Wall Street Bankers and the Barack Obamas and the Hillary and Bill Clintons and my father Wright Welker and the Mormon Church and my guru Christopher Hills and the whole fucking institutional machine that keeps abusing and shaming and raping and blaming and murdering and imprisoning and torturing and forcing everyone into the code of Omertà to get the kiss of death and solitary lockdown in Rikers electrodes on our genitals, Abu Graib in America if we dare speak out.

So we take sleep pills and Klonopin and Zanex and Vallium Medical Marijuana and Jack Daniels and cigarettes to keep us from feeling the truth. But the truth is like magma building in a mountain. It wants out. The truth wants a witness.

It wants me.