The story. The one I never tell. The one that some friends know separate bits and pieces of, divulged in drunken and drug induced moments of honesty. Where to begin? I suppose the natural place is the beginning. Early one spring morning, I came screaming into this world, the bastard of a 20 year old and a drunkard I’ve never met. My earliest memories are around age three or so, and they are happy enough. I loved my mom and, though I was sad that I didn’t have a dad and knew that was different, it wasn’t so bad. We lived with my mom’s family, and I had very doting aunts, who at this point were teens, and my grandparents were affectionate enough. At age four, we moved. My grandparents and aunts moved to florida and we left for another part of the state. It was a shock, but by no means traumatic. I was a wild kid and adhd to the core, but I got along well enough and was reading in preschool with a bright enough academic future. Kindergarten came and I was as advanced as high-maintenance, but still, pretty routine 5 y/o boy stuff. Around this time, my mother met a man who she eventually moved in with. He was very well to do, the progeny of millionaires and we lived in a large, nice home with his three children. The boy, aged four, and I got along fantastically. The girls, 8 and 10, well, they were girls. We had our moments but we all got along well. Alll in all, there were no problems and I was accepted enough. My only complaint is that the guy’s method of “discipline” was to hold you at the shoulders and punch you in the chest. Pretty bad bruising and pain during inspiration was the only effect, but I’d never been hit like that before. However, besides that, our interactions were positive and he treated me like one of his own kids. It was nice. One day, the eight year old called me into her room whilst we were playing some pretend came and said that we were going to have sex. I had no idea what was going on and was immediately terrified, as a catholic boy at age 5, all you know of sex is that it is evil. She helped me take my pants off, disrobed her own, and had me get on top of her, while instructing me on what to do. I was five, flaccid, and terrified (to say nothing of confused), so penetration did not occur. Eventually, she let me stop and put my pants back on and I teleported out of there. We never spoke about it, I never told anyone about it until now, and I don’t know if it were abusive or experimentation. Either way, its not a fond memory. At 6, she broke up with him, to my dismay as these kids were essentially my siblings at this point, and we moved back to my old town, or rather the next town over from it. And that, gentlemen, is where it all went to hell. Resulting from a tragic deus ex machina, my mother made the acquaintance of a man from Brooklyn (she was herself from Long Island). Never liked him, and I liked everyone. Something about him just rubbed me wrong. However, unlike all the others, he stuck around. We got closer to his family, and he dug his hooks in deeper and deeper. The marriage was set and executed the following year, and around that time the pregnancy was announced. My brother came into this world when I was 8 and I became Cinderella. I was ostracized, ridiculed, humiliated, insulted, degraded, forbidden from being in the living room or eating at the dinner table, forbidden to have friends, taken from school to go to work with him, weekends didn’t happen for me, I was made to do manual labor with him, the beatings started, and just general cruelty abounded, all the while being blamed for everything that went wrong. Pure scapegoat. The messages of you never disobey your family, your family loves you, you’re a bad person because you don’t allow us to hurt you and be cruel, why do you make us do this? You’re stupid, you will never amount to anything. My own mother told me I should have been an abortion and my cousins (3,5, and 8 yrs older) had free rein to gang up on, torment me, and pick on me. When I cried or told on them I was called a fag or snitch. Public humiliation and punishment was a thing for me….yet no one else. And even if I didn’t do it, I still got in trouble for it. Fast forward to 11. Now, I’m fighting in school. Starting at 9, the belt came out and I was beaten with nearly every object you could think of, being told how horrible a child I was that I would make them have to do this to me. My mother’s only protest at any of those beatings was “Not the face! He has to go to school!” My 11th birthday present was being beaten with a PVC pipe. A teacher saw the welts on my shoulders and said nothing to the authorities. I got a .22 riifle as a “present” but it was bestowed only to be taken away immediately because I was such a bad kid and I hurt everyone in the family by existing. Every time I tried to make friends, I was never allowed to hang out with them. I wasn’t allowed to ride my bike in town. I wasn’t allowed to go to school functions or use the phone. By this time, I was fighting almost daily. I would get suspended ( always in school suspension….I think the school realized I shouldn’t be at home because they should have expelled me by that point and second offenses were supposed to be out-of-school…I had dozens of fights in 6th grade alone.) I was on Ritalin by 6, and in group therapy by 10. I was a bona fide “problem child”…though nobody cared that I was being hurt like that, and ultimately I was just a liar and made life so hard for my “nice” parents, who treated the other kids so well (they did). This continued through my 12th birthday. Like Christmas, I got gifts only to have them revoked, so birthdays were pretty meaningless at this point, but I was excited to be nearly a teenager. Things went as they always did and I was used to it. It was normal now and I adapted pretty well, besides all the kids I beat up (though they were always bigger than me). But finally! There was a wonderful change. My birthday was April, and around June an uncle took an interest in me. Finally- an adult who was nice to me and did things with me, and told me I wasn’t a bad kid, and bought me presents. For once in my life, I had someone in my life that I was not a burden to be around. I wasn’t unwelcome. It was really nice and I couldn’t have been happier to have that. That summer, we got close. He would take me away for an afternoon, several times a week. I got to be around someone who wanted to be around me and I wasn’t going to get beaten. Aces across the board as far as I was concerned. September comes around, 5 SEP 2000. I will never forget the date. He brings me back to his house, which I had never been to. I was stoked to see his apartment and he led me into the living room…where he had me lay on the couch and turned on a porno. Lost in sheer confusion and discomfort, I asked what was going on, as he towered over me. He told me I should pull down my pants and masturbate. I protested and he then inquired if I were ashamed. I said I wasn’t , but just didn’t like the idea and he asked me if I weren’t ashamed, why would I be concerned…didn’t I trust him? Rather than risk upsetting him, I relented and pulled out my penis, which was hard because, 12. He had me masturbate, and then fondled me. It felt really good, but really horrible at the same time. I protested and he stopped, and at some point let me put my pants back on. This ended the first interaction at his house. Later, we returned and we went to his bedroom. He had me lay on the bed and watch more porn, and then he put my penis in his mouth. The pleasure made my mind fragment, the horror and discomfort and revulsion led to the most confusing episode of my life. As I approached climax ( I didn’t know it at the time) I asked him to stop, which he did. At this point he admonished me for stopping prior to climax and informed me that there were potential health risks….besides, what didn’t I like about it? I was hard, after all. His wordplay bested my 12 year old ignorance and I considered that argument. I must have liked it, right? The body doesn’t lie; its science. He proposed I spend the night that Saturday, and so it began. We got the okay to visit on Saturday he finished me to climax. I don’t have words to describe the feelings and emotions connected to my first orgasm, but suffice to say they were far from pleasant, past the physical sensations which were….frankly the best orgasms I have ever had. I ended up staying that night and a tradition was born. I’d go, he’d have me remove my clothes (which always vanished until morning) and I’d spend the night naked, on his bed, having him fellate me, and on occasion having to fellate him. There was R-Rated movies (Gladiator!) and rap music, marijuana, and liquor.Though, I couldn’t help but notice he wasn’t so nice anymore to me. He would just sit beside me, fully clothed, only disrobing enough to make me service him. He never talked except to give me insturctions, like how I was supposed to ask him to touch me. And if I didn’t do what he wanted, I was told how selfish I was and maybe everyone was right about me, after all. At this time, I started fighting even more and began wetting the bed, too. My parents then ridiculed and shamed me for bedwetting and telling all my cousins and letting them make fun of me, too. By this time, had enough to make the case that I needed to go to a behavior health facility. In October, I was institutionalized. I met kids who were molested, and though I had no idea what the word meant, they obviously weren’t doing well. I recall thinking, in a cruel irony, “I may have it rough, but at least I’m not like THESE kids”. Finally, I was released, after being diagnosed with some bullshit mental illnesses and being an unruly, disobedient boy with social issues, and returned to my hell. I was able to get them to extend me there for only a week, sadly. I preferred being in a psych institution to being at home. Yeah. I got back and all the abuse continued. After a few more weeks of my uncle touching me, I just didn’t want to anymore, regardless of what my body said. He was angry, but I stood my ground. He asked if there was any way he could change my mind and I said, “only if you put a gun to my head”. In my defense, this is a common expression and I didn’t think he would ACTUALLY put a gun to my head. He showed me that it was loaded, pointed it at me and had me sit on his lap. With the revolver pressed against my temple, he had me drink a few shots of Kaluha, and then proceeded to take 5 round out of it. He wrapped my hand around the firearm, guided it to my head and told me to pull the trigger. I was beyond petrified. I told him if I died, he’d have to answer for it and he just told me that I was a problem child who saw a psychiatrist. It would be ruled an obvious suicide. I begged him not to make me do it, and he “generously” said that if I fellated him, I could avoid it. With the gun to my head, I did what I had to. Then, it was my turn. He grabbed me at my waist after I had assumed the postion, and he began biting my penis and scraping his teeth over it. As I wailed, he told me to shut up, that I did a terrible job and he was “teaching me the right way”. Then he retrained the weapon on me and insisted I come over to be penetrated. I begged and pleaded (with a gun pointed at me, imagine that?) and he eventually said he wouldn’t. The night went on as they all did, but in the morning, feeling it from having way more alcohol than usual and way more marijuana than usual, I awoke to see that I had wet the couch. I hadn’t done that there yet and hoped it wouldn’t be discovered. I wandered the into the bedroom, attached to the kitchen (I slept in the living room), I lay on the bed and that is when he came up behind me, got on top of me and grabbed my arm, twisting it back to the point that it hurt so bad when I tried to resist, and raped me. After an eternity of screaming and crying and begging him to stop, he finally did and I ran to the bathroom. Yet again, I went back. Thankfully, that was the last time I was penetrated. A few weeks later, I accidentally slipped up about things we did, and my mom got the full story out of me. Details aside, the family was furious at me for disclosing and tried to prevent the police from being called. I had to confront him on speaker phone in front of everyone and get him to confess (which, spoiler alert: he didn’t) and go over every sordid detail in front of all these people who hated me. We were armed to the teeth, as he had criminal connections and we were worried about retribution because my mom called the cops after the family gave him time to run away. The cops came and took all the details, and I was sent back to the institution I hated for two weeks, got to spend Christmas there and everything. We found him a month later, and I testified in open court- shamed,, discredited and embarrassed. But happily (?) the rape left severe tearing that was present even weeks after the incident, and the rape kit was able to take photos. The jury was convinced and convicted in no time at all. The other, non-sexual abuse continued until I moved away at 17. 13 years later, I’ve cut off my whole family, got my GED, a tour in Iraq and honorable discharge from the Army, a decent living, great and supportive friends, and never had a relationship. Now….I guess I’m here because I don’t have any alternative. I can’t act like its no big deal, even if I don’t fully understand how it affected me. And if there is a way out, I’ll take it. I have too long to wait until I die, sadly, and I guess it would be nice to try and have a decent life, rather than the misery it has been for the past 13 years. And…yeah….that’s my story.
Edited by ModTeam (03/02/14 08:32 AM)
Edit Reason: added sign "Trigger warning"
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