I am here at this website because I remember. I donít remember details. I donít remember exact times. But I remember the sexual abuseĖ like all of you.
I started having flashbacks after I sobered up and moved 3,000 miles away from my family; I moved to Los Angeles. My partner and I left the east coast for reasons we kept to ourselves but ultimately we knew it was the only way we felt we could survive.
I am 50 now. When I started remembering the incest it was around the late Ď90s; I would have been around 40 then.
One day this memory came to me. I donít know how this memory came to me but it was very unsettling. I saw myself in my parentís bedroom. No one was home. I was lying down on my stomach on my fatherís side the bed. My head was on his pillow and I pinned in my arms down either side of me. I had pulled my underwear down to my knees so that my bare butt was exposed; I was masturbating.
On my fatherís side of the bed! Not my bed. His bed!
When I remembered this I thought it was so disgusting and unbelievable. I was probably around 13 years old when I started doing this. But I remembered that I had been doing this thing up until I was about 17. Always when the house was empty, always like clockwork, like on autopilot, I marched up to his bed and did this thing.
How could I have forgotten that? Why did it suddenly come up in my mind? I donít know. Maybe because something inside me wants to remember so I can understand why I am the way that I am. Why, for example, are my dreams always filled with blood and knives and stabbings and dismemberment and castration. Why is my father in all these dreams or some same-like figure portraying him? Why do I hate and loathe myself.
I canít explain the triggers that cause some of my flashbacks. Some are smells or visual stimulus or tactile sensations.
It is very bizarre but, now, many times when I think of my father I suddenly get a weird feeling in my mouth, then a wave of repulsion comes over me and I feel like I am going to vomit. Why would anyone have these feelings about their father?
I remember I saw a picture of a flaccid, uncircumcised penis. The first thing that came to my mind was a ball of wrinkled up skin with white milky stuff at the end of it. The penis was long and hard and always near my mouth. I also saw a hand guiding it; it wasnít mine. But that was all I saw because I had to immediately close my eyes; the thought of it being my fatherís penis was beyond what I can describe.
I was probably 5 to 7 years old the time that incident took place. I donít remember the exact age. But I remember the place: the large bathroom of another house we lived in around the mid Ď60s.
Then I had a flashback later when I was taking off my clothes after coming back from the gym. This flash back came to me when I was around 40. I had worked out very hard at the gym and was very sweaty. As I was bending over to remove my shorts and jock strap I smelled something disturbingly familiar as my hand brushed across my scrotum.
I immediately smelled the inside of my fatherís thigh and my scrotum felt just like his.
When these flash backs would come I would always pause as if time had stopped and I would just stare ahead Ė in shock and disbelief. Like each flashback was a piece to a giant puzzle. And with every piece I would stop still to look at this unfolding nightmare of a picture before me.
As I am writing this I know that I have to reveal a seemingly inexplicable integral part of my life. It confusingly relates to my incest. It revolves around the fantasies I have when I masturbate. They are almost exclusively about getting spanked by father. I canít help but think of it. I try to stop. But I always end up circling back to it.
Then I remembered back to when I masturbated on my fatherís side of the bed Ė during the times when I was 13 to 17. This triggered another flash back.
Around the same age Ė 5 to 7 - when my father forced me to have oral sex, I remembered a time when my father spanked me. In this memory there was no one at home. It was in the late afternoon. We were in my bedroom. I was lying down on my bed. It was a bunk bed that I shared with my older brother. I was on the lower bunk. I was on my stomach. My underwear was pulled down past my butt so it was exposed.
I remember my father either sitting on a stool or he was on his knees, I guess so he could have a good spot to lean in and spank me. I remember at that time thinking how hard it hurt when he spanked me and if I could just squeeze my butt cheeks tight enough together it might not hurt as much. I remember saying to my self Ė squeeze the butt cheeks hard like the last time.
Last time? So there must have been more times than this one?
After my father finished spanking me, he gently put his hand near the base of my butt. I remember his finger or some other instrument (a rectal thermometer or tooth bush handle) moved over my scrotum and inside my butt. I remember at this point feeling all different kinds of sensations Ė worst of all Ė that it felt kind of good? When he put whatever inside my butt it was the exact opposite of the violent way in which he just previously spanked me: not hard but like a caressing. Like when you pet a dog after you beat it?
To this day I canít remove or separate these incidents from personal and sexual life. It stays with me now like some cancer. It pollutes me then it goes in to remission. It pollutes me and I have to wait for a remission. I live in a constant state of internal psychological battle
The only solace I can take in all of this right now is the fact that my younger sister confided in my several years ago that she herself had suspicions about being molested by our father. I felt so relieved (and glad) in a morbid and sick kind of way because then I knew someone else would believe me, that I was not alone and insane.
Right after she told me - we talked a bit about it but then a couple of days later she became very scared and clammed up. We talk to this day, my sister and I, but we never discuss the incest. I am sad for that because I would like to dredge it all out of us like a drained swamp. My father is still alive. He is about 80. I have never told him, confronted him. I am just waiting for him to die. Or something to die.
So - Where do I go from here? Sometimes it seems like the journey I am on has these blurred and distorted signposts. Am I on the wrong path, right path?
I began drinking again. I couldnít handle it.
But I stopped (again). Sobered up (again). And have been on the wagon for almost one year now Ė come this July.
I joined this site several months ago. I am certain that each story told here has volumes of pages, words, and letters missing.
This is my story. It still goes on. At least I started to get most of the puss and ugly parts out. Now I have to deal with all the holes left inside.
Thanks for listening. Thank you for sharing your stories. It is painfully important. Best to all surviving.