The Torment of St Anthony. Demons plague a priest, who’s face remains serene. Michelangelo’s first painting was a copy of an earlier engraving, only done better.  Looking at something touched by such a beautiful, imaginative man, so very long ago, filled me with awe, and yet didn’t. His name, written everywhere on large, boastful panels, caught my eye. Michelangelo. Michael Angel. Suddenly, the name itself resonated to the frequency of the Archangel Michael, filling me with longing.

I remembered all the Michaels I have been attracted to, or rather, the Michaels I have attracted to me, particularly in early adolescence. It occurred to me these crushes were my way of grasping onto the protection and strength offered by the archangel.  Or was it his way of showing his presence?

The summer before my 19th birthday, I suddenly had an all-encompassing need to acquire a statue of the Archangel Michael. The following year, I first consciously experienced his presence. In the interactions I had with this angel, I clung desperately to the pervading sense of safety and masculine love he embodies. I wanted so badly to be protected and sheltered. The moments I most strongly felt his presence were filled with fear and a longing for masculine strength; I prayed desperately to be sheltered by the Masculine, for strength used to hold and cherish rather than to destroy. I think that is why yaoi fascinates me: image after image of strong men loving. Even the sexual tones fit my need. I must admit a little sheepishly, there is a part of me that developed a school girl crush on this genderless angel; I want so to be protected.

It is possible right? There are men who hold and cherish? Use their strength to shelter not abuse? There exists such a man?

“This is the police,” the voice boomed, matching the firm knock. A lifetime passed in the few minutes since I called 911. Opening my sister’s front door, I could only stare. For a heartbeat, I almost threw myself into their arms. Their bulk, politely waiting to be invited in, reassured me. I wanted the stranger in front of me to scoop me up and cradle me against his huge chest. I wanted him to rub my head, shush my tears, let me be a small girl again. That’s not what they’re here for, I chided myself, slamming the door on that need.  Instead they came in, carefully not touching me or making any sudden movements.

A few days later, Halloween arrived, the veil shimmered thin; I demanded Archangel Michael. Up and up I journeyed. A floor of clouds. Stairs of clouds. A bridge of clouds. An open expanse of nothing but clouds. Suddenly, a naked manchest filled my entire field of vision. I sensed rather than saw open wings behind him. I knew who stood before me, but I remained silent, dumbfounded, too much aware of my physical self: breathing, surrounded by priestesses in a basement. Some horrible, hurtful bit of me whispered, This isn’t real. Just imagination. I crushed that voice, refusing to care.

Now that I had his audience, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know why I wanted him. Silently, he scooped me up and cradled me against his chest. I wanted to cry, but no tears would come, real or imaginary. I wished his arms were real. I wished, wished, wished it was a physical manchest I laid my head against. I wished I were small and he could be my father; what a perfect daddy an archangel would make. What a perfect lover he would be. I loved his fire, his light, his strength. Even as I told myself I hated the sword my statue wielded, I loved it. Let it stand between me and all the world. Let his sword burn bright, take away all evil, all who would harm.

I want to see your face. But to see an archangel’s face, even in my own mind, was too much. I gave up that thought and allowed myself to be held and healed. An eternity passed in the briefest of moments. Still, too soon he set me on imaginary feet, too soon I tore myself away from his presence.

To desire protection is to admit there is something to be protected from.

I pretend to believe in the innate goodness of man. I hate violent movies. I want to pretend soldiers don’t exist any more. I pretend I have not been hurt. “You know, witnessing abuse is abuse,” a male friend said to me recently. I was abused too. How scarred am I by what I saw? The males in my life modeled abuse. There is only one man in my childhood I can honestly say never once frightened me. Only one. By the time he came, I was already 10; I had already seen and repressed so much.

And yet I have held in my arms abusers. Sobbing. Crying for what they had done, for what they became. One, the slightest acquaintance. The other a trusted brother-in-law, whom I had just seen kneeling over my sister, trying desperately to wake her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he begged. What could I do? Stand there stupidly. Hold my screaming niece, just two months shy of two years old, keep her from going near her father. My priority to protect the baby at all costs.

Later, my sister woke, only to faint in my arms again.

“Did he hit you?”

She nods.

“Where?”

She points to the back of her head. Intuition flashes the image of a closed fist.

“How many times?”

She shrugs; too many to count. I think she has a concussion. I’m not supposed to let her sleep, right?

“Whatever”, she says, “it’s not like it’s the first concussion I’ve ever had.”

Rage flashes through me. She has been hurt many times through playing sports, but I know she is referencing the several abusers she’s survived. Grandfather. Father. Boyfriends. Baby’s daddy. I knew how numb she must be right now.  I understand suddenly whatever just happened was much worse than she was letting even herself know.

The cops discovered bruises on her neck. She fainted the first time from lack of oxygen. Not from a concussion. Strangulation.

And yet–

I held him in my arms as he wept uncontrollably. The man who I considered brother. Ex-marine. Cripplingly emotionally repressed, absolutely stoic. Sobbing in my arms. “I don’t hit women,” he said over and over, denying what he had just done. Tears and snot and blood. This man almost killed my sister, is the thought furthest from my mind, as I cradle him. Crooning soft assurances, wiping his face like a skinned knee.

The entire world ceased to exist. No right, no wrong. No sin. Nothing. Just a crying little boy. A boy calling for his mother.  SHE came, filling me.  I became greater than I am. Other. She held her son through my arms. He begged forgiveness in his heart and it was there. Nothing to forgive. I saw quite clearly, understood without a doubt. This man is just a scared little boy, wanting love. Who am I to deny him love?

I now understand. It was this moment the sparked the special love I feel for little boys. I have always known I would have a son. But after holding these abusers, after becoming the Goddess, the Mother, a deep seated need to nurture rose within me.

Loving these boys, these man-children, I heal the part of me the was wounded by men. By loving abusers, seeing the child in them, I can forgive the men who hurt me. I can at least move closer to forgiveness. By loving the little boys who come into my life, hold them with longing for my own son yet to come, I am loving the abusers of the world, of my own experience.

Just as I am a little girl crying out to be held, loved, and protected by the strength of men, these men, abuser or otherwise, are simply little boys crying for their mother, wanting to be loved and cherished, forgiven.

When I see my now ex-brother-in-law, my heart hurts and I feel like crying. I still love him dearly. I know I have not fully forgiven him and the men who have hurt me and my family. In my heart of hearts, All Is Well. There is No Thing to forgive. We are One. But in my day to day reality, I have to forgive over and over. Every time the rage wells up, I must allow myself to feel and express and forgive.

In theory.

So far, I have reached the point of expression. I’m writing this. I sincerely hope that all layers of me can forgive these men, not just that part of me which is Divine. The human part of me desires to forgive as well.

So I continue to open my arms and my heart, in an effort to love and forgive, understanding that I am holding and loving myself.