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Vancouver-based author Peter Gajdics recounts memories surrounding universal themes of childhood trauma, oppression and intergenerational pain in his debut memoir The Inheritance of Shame. The memoir revolves around the six years the Canadian-Hungarian writer spent in a strange form of conversion therapy in British Columbia in an effort to 鈥渃ure鈥� his homosexuality. Gajdics details his interactions in the cult-like home where patients were controlled by a dominating, rogue psychiatrist who created an exploitative sense of family. Told over the span of a decade, the memoir aims to remind readers of the importance of resilience, compassion and the courage to speak the truth.
My decision to leave Vancouver, to remove myself physically from my immediate environment as soon as possible, appeared inside of me with panicked urgency the morning after the night with the man who paid me money for sex for the first time.
I called the University of Victoria on 麻豆传媒映画Island, a two-hour ferry from my hometown of Vancouver, and asked for all the paperwork for undergraduate studies.
I told my parents I was moving to Victoria to start my bachelor鈥檚 degree in creative writing; then, to assuage their visible concern, added, 鈥渕aybe journalism.鈥�
Before my first day of classes, I made an appointment to see a new near-retired general practitioner, referred by my general practitioner back home. When I saw him the next week, I told him that I needed to see a psychiatrist.
鈥淐an you please itemize for me what you鈥檙e looking for?鈥� he asked.
鈥淪ome sort of therapy where I can do more than talk, although . . . I guess I also need to talk. I need . . .鈥� I pushed my fist into the pit of my stomach, near my belly button, like I was trying to reach my own umbilical cord. 鈥淪omething . . . deeper. I know I need to cry.
But I don鈥檛 want to take medication.鈥�
鈥淭here is one doctor, a Spanish man, who鈥檚 just moved to the city from back east. Quebec, I think. He鈥檚 also the only psychiatrist practicing psychotherapy that鈥檚 accepting new patients. I鈥檒l see what I can do . . .鈥�
鈥� 鈥� 鈥�
I was sitting on the only metal chair in a yet-to-be finished waiting room when I smelled his pungent cologne, like the scent of an animal that had laid claim to its territory. Moments later, his office door swung open with a gust of wind.
鈥淎re you Peter?鈥� he said in a pronounced Spanish accent. 鈥淚鈥檓 Dr. Alfonzo.鈥�
The smell was his.
I stood up and smiled, shook his hand, and followed him back through two adjoining doors that opened up inside a large, empty room, a windowless chamber, still being constructed.
鈥淢y furniture鈥檚 being delivered next week. Until then, we can sit here,鈥� he said, pointing to two rickety stools.
We sat, and he started writing notes before I鈥檇 said a word. Olive skinned and around 50 years old, he was dressed in black, head to toe, with short, graying hair, wild, bushy eyebrows that hung over his long, dark lashes and a closely cropped goatee. No doubt he鈥檇 once been handsome. Now he looked more menacing and slightly disheveled.
鈥淗ow do you pronounce your last name?鈥� he asked.
鈥淕uy-ditch,鈥� I said. 鈥淎s in a 鈥榞uy-in-a-ditch.鈥欌�� I cracked a smile.
He was not amused. 鈥淲hen I was a kid we actually pronounced it 鈥楪ay-dicks.鈥欌��
He looked up from his yellow, legal-sized notepad. 鈥淲hy would you do that?鈥�
鈥淢y father Anglicized his name after the war. I guess he wanted to make it easier on North Americans.鈥�
鈥淲hich war?鈥�
鈥淲orld War II. He didn鈥檛 really know what he was doing, changing the pronunciation to 鈥榞ay.鈥� He鈥檚 Hungarian; he couldn鈥檛 speak English. Growing up was a cruel joke.鈥�
鈥淲丑测?鈥�
He waited for me to explain what I thought had been obvious. 鈥淲ell, growing up with the name 鈥楪ay-dicks,鈥� and turning out gay.鈥�
鈥淵ou鈥檙e gay?鈥� He raised an eyebrow, scanned me up and down.
鈥淵es . . .鈥濃��
鈥淵ou told your parents?鈥濃��
鈥淟ast year.鈥�
鈥淲hat did they say?鈥�
鈥淭hat they鈥檇 never accept it, that it was immoral and I should never talk about it again.鈥�
He looked back to his notes and scribbled away. 鈥淪o. . . why do you want to see a psychiatrist?鈥濃��
鈥淲hy? I guess . . . I want to feel more control in my life.鈥濃��
鈥淵ou feel out of control?鈥濃��
鈥淚 feel like I鈥檝e lost everything that matters to me: my parents, their love. I was trying to be honest, telling who I am. And now . . .鈥�
鈥渊别蝉?鈥�
鈥淗ow do I come to terms with who I am when who I am causes so much pain and suffering to everyone I love?鈥� I started crying.
鈥淲e won鈥檛 have any of that.鈥� He motioned with a flick of his pen for me to cease all tears and to get on track. 鈥淣o crying. Not now. Not yet.鈥� His thick accent shook me from my pain. He looked back to his notes as I closed the door to my tears, something I鈥檇 become an expert at since childhood.
鈥淎re you depressed?鈥濃��
I blushed. The truth was I had lived in the country of depression for so long it felt like my home. 鈥淚 suppose.鈥�
鈥淒o you have a boyfriend?鈥�
鈥淣辞.鈥浓赌�
鈥淒o you want one?鈥濃��
鈥淚 don鈥檛 trust men.鈥�
He glanced up again, but this time his eyes seemed to be photographing my every inch for future recollection: my swarthy complexion, my long black hair tied back in a ponytail, my closely cropped beard and mustache.
鈥淎nd women?鈥�
鈥淚鈥檝e always had women friends, a girlfriend, even, but . . . sexually, that鈥檚 never really worked.鈥�
鈥淵ou can鈥檛 maintain an erection?鈥�
鈥淣o. I mean, that鈥檚 not it, it鈥檚 just . . . I always end up thinking about men when I鈥檓 with women. But when I鈥檓 with men, I . . .鈥�
鈥渊别蝉?鈥濃��
鈥淚 feel like a crippled heterosexual.鈥濃��
The words hung between us like an onerous confession. He turned back to his notepad and scribbled some notes. I tried to fix my eyes on the upside-down writing, but all I could decipher were arrows and tables and what looked like some kind of shorthand.
鈥淭here was also an incident,鈥� I added, almost as an afterthought. 鈥淲hen I was six.鈥�
鈥泪苍肠颈诲别苍迟?鈥浓赌�
鈥淪exual abuse.鈥濃��
鈥淵ou were abused?鈥� His interest piqued. 鈥淲ho abused you - a family member?鈥濃��
鈥淎 stranger. During a church bazaar in my elementary-school bathroom.鈥濃��
鈥淲here were your parents?鈥�
鈥淪omewhere in the crowd, I don鈥檛 know.鈥�
鈥淗ow did it end?鈥濃��
鈥淚 don鈥檛 remember it ending.鈥濃��
鈥淒id you tell anyone?鈥濃��
鈥淣辞.鈥浓赌�
鈥淵ou never discussed it with anyone?鈥�
鈥淣ot really.鈥�
鈥淲hat do you mean, 鈥榥ot really?鈥欌��
鈥淲hen I was 13, my mother sat me down in the kitchen after school one day and she told me that there were dirty old men who kidnapped little boys and made them do really bad things that turned them into perverts for life. Then she just stared at me.鈥�
鈥淲hat did she mean by that?鈥�
鈥淚 don鈥檛 know. I was too afraid to ask. 鈥楤eware who you鈥檝e become,鈥� I guess.鈥�
鈥淢别补苍颈苍驳?鈥�
鈥淟ike I said, I didn鈥檛 ask her, and she never explained. I was too scared.鈥�
鈥淚鈥檓 thinking of setting up a group solely for gay men,鈥� he said. 鈥淚 think you鈥檇 be a perfect fit. But we need to take care of what鈥檚 really bothering you. It would be a mistake to focus on your homosexuality. Your sexuality will take care of itself.鈥�
鈥� 鈥� 鈥�
Peter Gajdics is a Vancouver-based writer with international by-lines in publications including The Advocate,听The Q Review,听New York Tyrant,听The Gay and Lesbian Review/Worldwide,听Gay Times,听The Printed Blog and听Opium, where he won the 2009 500-word memoir contest. For more on Gajdics and his debut memoir, visit .
