In the process of writing my autobiographie I came across this wonderful site. I signed up right away and have been visiting here for awhile now.If I'm telling my story today it's so that no one here could ever feel that I used their personal material to my comercial advantage. We've all been abused enough ! My book won't be published for at least another year - I'm not quite done.

When I was four years old I was molested by a teenage boy. Now I know how that sounds bad but the sad truth of it is that his attention toward me was my lifeline. My mother couldn't stand the sight of me most days and she would lock me outside so that I wouldn't bother her. My stepfather was crualty personnified. My abuser however, liked me! He smiled at me and said nice things to me. He caressed me and kissed me and made feel loved , valuable. OK, so I didn't really understand his continual insistance on the "game" we always played when he would strip me naked in the bushes behind our house, but he was so important to my emotional survival in those years that I refused him nothing. I have to say also that I never once felt threatened by him and I have no recall whatever that he ever physically hurt me. I know today that in that regard I was so much luckier than many. It wasn't until many, many years later that I learned that the harm he did cause me was to rob me of my ability and my natural right to say no to the unacceptable, the undesirable. When he was finally done with me and he moved on, he took with him all of my natural boundaries of self-protection. For the better part of twenty years any man only had to imply or direct me to sexual activity that I did not want and I simply had to comply. I had no power to say no. I can't count the times when I found myself on my knees for some fool doing his bidding, hating it and myself for it - asking myself: "why am I here, why don't I just leave, I don't want to be doing this". But there I would stay till the job was done and he gave me permission to leave. That's what being molested with kindness and gentleness did to me. It imprisonned me in sexual obedience. Nice legacy, huh?

So when at the age of eleven I was gang raped by my seveteen year old cousin and three of his friends, it could be said that I was prime for the picking. I truly put up no resistance whatever. My cousin, Brian, after having taught me how to felate him and my younger cousin Tim every morning before leaving the bedroom we all shared, started making me ask him repeatedly to F*** me. I had only a vague idea of that was. I knew that it had something to do with what men did to women, but what exactly it entailled I could not have said. This constant asking to be f***ed went on for days and I did it because every time that Brian made me ask for it everybody would just howl with laughter. It made me feel like I too was part of the gang. I was too naive to realise that everybody was laughing at me and not with me.

When the day finally came, Brian said: "You've been so sweet about asking for it all this time, how could I deprive you of the pleasure anymore. Today sweetboy, is your day". They laid me on my back, someone knelt over my face so as to hold up my ankles and before I realised what Brian was going to do, I felt myself being split in half. That's the only way I can describe it.

I was no stanger to physical abuse, my mother was a crazy and violent woman and she once had stipped me naked and proceeded to whip me from head to toe, front and back with a double folded rubber skipping rope. I had been punched, slapped, kicked down a flight of stairs and on and on. Pain, I was used to that. But what Brian did to me that afternoon down by the swimming hole was nothing like I had ever experienced before. It was the second time in my short life that I truly thought that I was going to die. The guy sitting on my face shoved himself down my throat to stop my screaming and when Brian was finally done, someone else took his turn at me. By the time the third guy did me I was hardly feeling anything anymore - my body just went into shock and my mind had completly shut down.

After I was let up they congratulated, patting me the head and such, me for having been such a good boy and as I admit this to you now, again the tears are flowing, because I actually said Thank You.

Brian had to piggy-back me home that afternoon because my legs wouldn't hold me. I spent then next four days in bed with my aunt hovering by side and insisting that I not ever mention what had been done to me. She kept saying that other people wouldn't understand that Brian and his friends meant me no harm and that if the church ladies found out they might not want her to be a part of their commity anymore, and bla-bla-bla.


At fourteen I left my mother's house and traveled over two thousand miles away to the other end of the country. I would have kept going if I hadn't hit the ocean as a barrier to my escape. I now found myself in downtown Vancouver and on my second day there, while walking down Jarvis street some older guy asked me how much I charged. Charged ? For what ? He said: "How much to let me blow you"? Blow me ? Blow my mind was more like it. I had no idea a boy could get money for sex. I sure learned fast though. In no time I was making my hundred dollars a day - in 1972 fellas, that was serious cash. And for the following fourteen years that's how I made my living.

At twenty eight I was so used up and disabused by my life that I didn't have the ambition or the strength to kill myself. And then I had a spiritual awakening that has lead me here today at fifty one years old, recovering still, yes, but getting better all the time.

Once I had been victimised which caused me to become a victim. I then transitioned from victim to survivor (survivor: no longer a victim but not really living though, just sorta in between) and I am now in process of getting to where I set out for at the beginning of my reconstruction process. I am transitionning from survivor to Victor! You just watch me go, I'll get there!

It is said that the wisest of souls are the most deeply scarred ones. Geez, maybe I'll become a Sage! Ha!

Finally, thank you Micheal (you know who you are) meeting you here and connceting with a kindred soul is what motivated me to post this today. I owe you, man.

Change your vocabulary and you change your attitude. Change your attitude and you change your life.

Joel (sweetboy)

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Wise souls are deeply scarred