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#378441 - 12/06/11 12:51 PM Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero
Chase Eric Offline

Registered: 10/25/10
Posts: 2016

SPECIAL NOTE: I recently re-read this intro after some posts kicked it back to the top of the forum stack. I wrote it over three and a half years ago, and so much has changed that I felt it was important to reflect that here. I have grown quite a bit, and my perspectives have evolved as well - but I admit I never realized how much until I read what my three-and-a-half year younger self had to say. So I went through this carefully and added a bit more while trying my best to preserve that earlier voice. I think in so doing, these words may prove more useful to others with similar experiences. Interestingly, the view count on this post topped 10,000 while I was reworking this. That is humbling, but in a way this is not just my story. It is the story of many here who have taken the time to tell me how much this resonates with their own experience. If my words have connected with even one survivor, or one person who has a survivor in their life, or most especially given pause to an abuser - hence sparing one single child from having to live out his own journey of healing - then that helps kill any second thoughts I may have for sharing at this level.

September 2015

Hi - I suppose it's about time I did an intro - this and my post about my name and avatar pretty well sums me up here in the forum until/if I post my so-called story.

I don't know really the difference between introductions and stories - a casual introduction explains little, yet a full story seems overkill. Since I often find myself repeating the essentials of myself to others, I might as well use this as an opportunity to post this as reference. When you get to the end of this intro, I think you'll know pretty much who I am and why I am here.

As a preamble, please keep in mind that what you are about to read is something I once would have died rather than reveal. I am spilling something out here that once occupied all my energy to conceal. I journaled every day of my life for that fateful year I turned thirteen. Yet I dared not speak a word of my abuse to my diary; I was in denial of what was happening even as it was happening. So while I know this is a public share, it remains to me a sacred one. For a long time I did not trust myself with this strange and uncomfortable intimacy of breaking such secrets. But breaking secrets is precisely what has compelled me to put this out there. Imagine if, while any of us were being abused, we ran across someone else our age going through the same thing. Imagine we could sit under a shady willow tree alone and just talk about it - really talk like we couldn't do with anyone else. It would kill the notion we were alone, help us find an entirely different context in the utter confusion of what we were going through, give us the support we were aching for, and perhaps embolden us to speak out and stop it. And so I write.

There is, of course, another side to sharing so publicly. I hope the eyes that move past this point do so for good reasons and in the proper spirit. Perhaps like most here, you are a survivor. There is nothing more powerful than suddenly realizing you are not alone with this. And to you, I want to share at a level deep enough to remove all doubt (albeit at the risk of triggers). Perhaps you have never experienced child sexual abuse (CSA) but would like to understand it. In that case, maybe by sharing my experience, it will define the problem deeper than the more sensational and superficial slant you might otherwise get from news media. And while you may have never have experienced CSA, someday you may have to talk about something you saw, something you suspect, or something that just seems not right. I don't advocate hysteria, but if my story encourages you to take that second glance, that deeper look, then these words have some value to you as well. Maybe you are the parent of a child who was a victim, or the partner of a survivor. My hope is that this will give some insight from another survivor's perspective in understanding even a little more of what they are going through. And perhaps this can give voice to those survivors who may be challenged in finding the words to put to their experience. And finally, maybe you are an abuser yourself - or have struggled with such thoughts. If so, I do not judge you, but rather challenge you. Dare to extract the deeper message beyond the imagery it may conjure. Dare to open your eyes and see the incredible life damage such actions can do to a victim. Dare to seek the help my abuser never got but should have. Challenge yourself to understand that you can be the biggest hero in a child's life by being the best person you can be, stronger than your flaws.

My journey has convinced me that every survivor's experience is a fingerprint, a result of almost infinite variables that define what happened, when it happened, the ages of victim and abuser, the number of victims and abusers, where it happened, how it affected them, how frequent and for how long, the physicality of it, where it was on the spectrum from gentle grooming to violence, who the abuser was to the victim - and the infinite shades of character that define who the victim was when it started and who they had to become to survive it. This is my fingerprint. I am not a therapist or educated in any form of counselling. I cannot tell you what works and what doesn't, and I will not try. All I can do is share my story. But if some of the ridges of my fingerprint line up with yours, that resonance can be a powerfully healing thing.


In a nutshell, I was the victim of a long-term serial abuse case that my therapist characterized as "unusually intense." It was at the hands of an older next-door neighborhood kid - I was his little "side kick" and looked up to him like a big brother. We were best buddies despite our age and physical differences. When he got older he started molesting several of the 8-9 year old girls in our neighborhood, and I was one of the only boys (I was 12 when he started on me). Despite his ubiquitous interest in the little girls, his sessions with me were far more frequent. Since, as boys, we often slept together in sleeping bags in the basement or in a tent pitched in our wooded back yard, his access to me allowed much longer and more intense sessions with less threat of interruption - often involving full consummation two or three times over the course of a single overnight. As I write this, I remember one morning walking back to the house from the tent, my eyes so puffy from lack of sleep I barely recognized the boy looking back from the powder room mirror. My mom laughed and said that it looked like I was awake all night. She had no idea. This pattern became my "normal" and continued through my teens until I finally just "ran away" to California (from New York state) in part as a measured but desperate move to distance myself from him.

Among those who were caught in his web was my little sister. The dynamics of that went deep. I was the protector not only of her but of all the girls of whom I was aware of. I did so by "taking the bullet," knowing he couldn't shoot them if his gun was empty. Better me than my sister, I thought. I was already tarnished - so if I was in for a penny, I guess I was in for a pound. I can't even begin to explain all the psycho-dynamics that caused me, but one of the results is that I still have a very tough time getting in touch with my anger. Seeing him molest the girls deeply disturbed me, but breaking up his sessions with them was a whispered effort. Secrecy trumped everything. So I had to be very cool and manipulative with him, even though I was the greater victim of his manipulations. I was smarter than he was, but he was older and stronger. He had a tremendous urge and relentless whining insistence I never managed to stand up against. Yet I knew that if I acquiesced, my sister and her friends wouldn't have to. At least, that is, until the next day. And the next. And the next. My perspectives were those of a child, and thus rather myopic.

Anger? It never seemed appropriate. I didn't understand what sex was when this started - although I knew instinctively that it was wrong - and I was too busy keeping a level head to spare my sister. I couldn't afford to indulge in the indignation the parents in the neighborhood showed once they found out. Their anger scared me much more than anything my abuser was doing to me, and many of us victims stayed hidden as the drama played out over our heads. Had the adults been as calculating as I, I suspect this guy would have been TREATED AND MANAGED instead of threatened with punishment (as if that would resolve the issue). To this day, I rarely get angry about anything and tend to be very even-tempered. Frustrated? Yes. Anger, however, has almost always proven itself to me as a useless self-indulgence. How Spockian. I still shrink from angry people, tending not to trust them or their judgement.

Our abuser was caught when one of the girls awoke with nightmares and told her mother. The mother's husband was out of town on a business conference, so she approached my father, who was a medical doctor and very respected in the neighborhood. My dad in turn assembled a committee of two other fathers and they met in closed session with our abuser. They came very close to handing this over to the police. But their final decision was to keep it quiet and circumvent what would have likely been a difficult trial for everyone. Years later, those fathers since gone, I discovered they apparently never knew I was a victim - nor my sister. There were so many of us but they never looked hard enough, or perhaps they could never have imagined the scope of the abuse. If they had, perhaps they would have taken this further. There's more - much more - to this part of the story. I am sharing the essentials here, and maybe some day I'll share it more fully, but suffice it to say that the solution to the problem was to throw me back into the lion's den to save the girls. I was perplexed as to why they insisted that I "help him through this, keep him occupied, and keep him from the girls," because at the time I had reason to believe they were aware I was a victim as well. I was 13 at that point, and thought the nastiness was over. But while it was over for the girls, it got worse for me. The effect of the solution was to drive the dragon deeper in the cave, where my abuse was more secretive, frequent and intense.

My molester knew that I was "assigned" to ensure he stayed away from the girls. After a short period of contrition, he started in again with me - with a renewed urgency. He often made sure to remind me that if I did not submit to sex, it would be upon my conscience that he would have to touch the girls again. And so it felt to me as if the whole neighborhood was in collusion with my continuing molestations - that everybody was keeping my secret. My dreams gave that away. I remember vividly a recurring nightmare in which my parents - and other adults - were standing behind my molester, waiting their turn. Of course I never experienced incest or even the hint of that. But my shame was intense. I would wake up and avoid my parents. I began losing trust that my friends would do the same. I didn't know what healthy boundaries were, much less how to protect them. Anyone who got too close to me was suspect, even simple smiles had ulterior motives, and as I got older, anyone who found me attractive was by definition sick and dirty (perhaps reflecting an inverse of how I saw myself?). I started wearing baggy clothes before baggy was in style just to hide the curves of my body.

Many speak of child sexual abuse and the loss of trust. To me, that "big brother" friend certainly lost my trust. No surprise there. But then I started not trusting my friends, even my family. My dubiety grew like a cancer - extending to relatives, teachers, authority figures - and robbing me of the healthier relationships I should have been building. But the biggest loss of trust was with myself. My body was responding to the abuse in ways I didn't want, despite mustering every ounce of my will. It vexed my conscience and impugned my sense of integrity, and I judged myself harshly. I grew to understand that my abuser just couldn't help himself. Yet even though he was the more guilty party, I expected far more from myself than from him. He was defective. But what was my excuse? Eventually I just ran away from it all with all the naivety of believing I actually could. Just like the biblical Jonah, I found I could run to the ends of the earth, but in the process never succeed in distancing even an inch from myself.

But I tried. In California, three thousand miles from home, I attempted to reboot my life and bury the boy I was. I went there to forget who I was. I dyed my hair and changed my name. I gave myself a ticket to be whoever I wanted to explore being - as long as it wasn't the boy I was - the boy I left back home. I thought I might be gay but wasn't sure. I would fall in love equally with girls or guys. My new-found anonymity made me bold enough to explore. My first "coming out" experience was at the local bar - a place called Mr. Mike's in Glendale. Although I forgot my ID, the bartender was cool about it (I looked very "16" at 21). He bought me my drinks all night - every time my glass neared empty, a fresh one appeared next to it. I was terrified to talk to anyone around me, but with him behind the counter, I had an easy friend. He put the last one on the bar right at closing time - inviting me to stay and finish it while he locked up. He was treating me special - and I was lapping up the attention like a puppy. I felt self-possessed that night, affirmed. But I wasn't prepared in any way for what was soon to happen. The drinks were catching up to me, and things were starting to spin. His disarming smile disappeared when the door was locked. I tried to slow things down. But "wait" meant absolutely nothing to him. "No" meant even less. He was twice my size and age, and my slender frame was too busy processing all the alcohol he bought me to mount any meaningful resistance. There was nothing gentle in his touch - no humanity in it - and he proved himself a pig. I hated him. I hated me. I left the bar a different person than when I walked in. I convinced myself it was just a "bad date," that I somehow deserved it for tempting him (something my "big brother" abuser would often make me believe), that I didn't know how to play this new gay social scene properly - that this was how it was done. After all, it was my decision to accept the drinks he bought me, my decision to bask in the attention he showed me, my decision to drink all that he gave me when I was so new to drinking anything. And it was my decision to stay when he locked that door. So - like my CSA - I owned the problem because I set myself up for it. The loudness of silence roared in my ears when I finally stepped out onto the empty street. The city was sleeping, and I should have been, too. I should have been safe in bed, and regretted deeply I chose to be out instead (yet another bad decision). I walked through the darkness to my apartment 20 minutes away, and stepped into a long, hot shower. The memories of that night washed down the drain with the sweat, the blood and the tears. And until therapy years later, I never looked at it again.

It took a long time for me to see the truths of what happened. In both cases- my CSA and this episode - I knew who the "bad guy" was. But so what? The point was moot - both were beyond hope and it was not within my power to make them "good." But I sure as hell expected more of ME. In the bar that night - just like those nights in the tent, in the basement, and in the woods that ended only a few short months earlier, I judged myself as if I could have salvaged my integrity, my honor. My thinking was - hey - what else do I deserve for being a despicable little gay boy? Despite the violence of it all, I simply did not see it for what it was (the "r" word). And in both cases of abuse, the same-sex taboo condemned me before I could even launch out of the starting blocks. There was no finish-line of justice or help to run towards even if I tried. So these episodes became my secrets, floating pieces of filthy memory I tried to lock down, re-define, pack away, hide, and try to forget. It took me years to see through the lies I told myself and to understand how my victimization with one abuser set me up so perfectly for another. It also took a single defining event in my adult life ... and a really good therapist named Marc to whom I am eternally grateful. If you are reading this, Marc - you might just remember me. And I think I can finally accept that hug.

When I went through therapy ten years ago, I was so full of self-delusional constructs that I simply couldn't see that what happened to me as a child was molestation. My past was deeply entrenched in the lies I told myself. It was supposed to be "grief therapy." I was inconsolable for months after the sudden death of my father, and it soon became clear that my grief was not abating. A friend gave me a card with a number, and I made the appointment. When the therapist took me for a walk down the dirty trail into my past, I figured - OK, this is the stupid game I have to play - fine. Talk about what he wants and then we can finally discuss what I was really there for. But those sessions opened my eyes to everything I had closed them to. Marc was brilliant - letting me do all the talking, but his questions were guideposts, marking the trail he knew I needed to walk. He could sense precisely where I did not want to go, and didn't let me get away with skirting around those places. The truths I told myself just did not stand up to the physiological truths - that I was a small prepubescent boy submitting to receptive anal intercourse - countless times - with a bigger, fully pubescent male 3 years older than me all under the threat that he'd molest my sister if I said no! And when I said yes, he'd molest her anyways. But - hey - that was MY fault, right? That little boy had the power to make better decisions for himself, right? When that boy was asked to help keep the abuser from the girls, he sure didn't do THAT right. It's amazing how much I managed to kid myself for so long. Unlearning those lies I told myself was an adventure into my soul that was as dark as it was fascinating. It wasn't an easy journey, and I was a skeptical and reluctant patient. It was like walking through a muddy swamp in heavy boots - embarrassing, awful stuff to dredge myself through - in large part because I owned every sin. It was a true trail of tears, a hard look in the mirror for the first time in my life. And at the bottom of that deep hole was waiting a kid I dismissed and packed away with all the other memories. A kid I called dirty. A kid I wouldn't look at. A really good kid who quietly allowed me to dump upon him all the blame, all the sins and secrets and shame, and shut the door to leave him in the dark past forever. A kid who was abused by his molester, only to then be neglected by me. All this talk of an inner child that I used to laugh at? Well, I hated mine, and I cut him out of me like an amputation. In so doing, I wandered through my adult life without a core, and wondered why nothing seemed to work out - in school, in relationships, in work.

That was the person I was when I entered therapy. If I could sum up in a simple three-word sentence the biggest lesson those sessions taught me it is this: Look at it. It sounds simple, but my whole life was about not looking at it, about keeping secrets and redefining truths. Therapy made me realize that I wasn't going anywhere in my life because I had no idea where I was coming from - or even who I was. Just looking at it was all I needed to do - but that was a major effort and I could not have done it alone. I didn't need to "fix" anything. I didn't need to "recover" from anything. I just needed to open my eyes - and amazingly, once I did, everything in my life started re-aligning itself. And while my life remains far from perfect (if there is ever such a thing) - it is certainly far from the imperfect that it was. It helps me to understand that - for me at least - there is no endpoint, no gleaming moment called "recovery" where I stand on a mountain peak in the sun, triumphant. There is only the journey. This is my life - and it doesn't matter that I didn't ask for it, or felt I was entitled to something better, or that I'm "damaged goods" - as my sister described herself after being abused by this man.

So who is Eirik today? I am an educated professional, in the middle of my life (admittedly an assumption), in a stable relationship for several years, and am generally happy. I am also wounded, dysfunctional in many areas, and still coming to terms with who I am. A lot was stolen from me. I'll never know the man I might have been had my CSA not occurred - but I suspect my life would have been quite different. I am still learning to rebuild myself, but I think I can usually say that I am a better man today than I was yesterday. And that little boy I neglected? He's the best part of me. You'll see him here now and then - occasionally in my avatar or my signature - smiling despite what was happening. He had an amazing bounce and effervescence. His dad called him a super ball - the harder he hit, the higher he'd bounce. He did the best he could, holding everyone's secrets, trying his hardest to spare others from falling prey to the darkness he knew, navigating X-rated problems that confounded even the adults, problems he didn't understand, problems for which he felt there was nowhere to turn for help. And he dealt with all that carrying only the tools and perspectives of a 75 pound kid who just wanted to ride his bike, swim, play pickup basketball and sandlot baseball until the sun was too low to see the ball, and make friends. He returned every smile, was cute as a button, and was an easy mark for bullies. But he was a powerhouse, and stronger than I could ever hope to be now as an adult. This place is for him as much as it is for me.

The price I paid? Here's just one. My dad told me when I was still a young teenager that despite getting on my tail about being irresponsible and immature, "You're a real good boy and I'm awfully proud of you." A real good boy? Proud? He obviously had no idea how nasty and dirty I was. He - like all the adults in our neighborhood - had not a clue of the subterranean filth flowing at his feet. And I certainly wasn't about to disabuse him of his flawed notions. I took that compliment like a hungry dog snatching a forbidden pork chop from the dinner table - and hid forever. He gave me a compliment, yet I felt I stole it, greedily keeping it until that day when I was pure enough to earn it - that day I could step proudly into his regard. But that day never came. I kept him at arm's length to preserve his delusions of me - and then I suddenly lost him forever (he died unexpectedly during surgery). His last words to me were these (and yes - I can quote them precisely): I never knew you like I wanted to - you are such a private person. But I know you love me.

That's what was stolen from me. Think about that when the news media implies it is about sex, or when louder voices drown out the quietr victims, and define the crime in terms of their own moral indignation. And when those voices quiet down and the monster is locked up forever, the victim is left alone with shame and shattered secrets. Those don't make a good story, and people stop looking. But those are what destroy us, what even sometimes kill us. Because while sex is a theft of the body, it eventually stops. But the secrets and shame it planted stay hidden under the skin of every survivor, and will eat holes through their souls.

One of the events that brought me here to MaleSurvivor was an email from a girl just a few years ago - completely out of the blue - who thanked me for being her "hero" all those years ago. I had walked in on her and my perp, and told her to get out just as he was starting to undress her. And the funny thing is - I barely remembered it. There were so many. But I can pretty much guarantee I took the bullet. She was spared. And she now has a beautiful family. She told me that if I didn't step in and rescue her, that family of hers may have never existed. I don't have a family. But I'm the dirty little hero.

Click my pic to see why I'm here.

#378444 - 12/06/11 01:31 PM Re: Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero [Re: Chase Eric]
Chet Offline

Registered: 11/09/11
Posts: 16
Loc: Kingsport, TN
Aww, Eric the Brave, (my new viking name for you!)

You are NOT dirty. What you did saved many people from the molester, if only for that day. You were used by him & the neighborhood parents. You did nothing wrong, my friend. I am honored to know you.

Think of our idea of soldier heros. They may be used by their country's leaders to go & fight in senseless wars & have to do things there that they are not proud of. But that doesn't detract from them individually as heros. You are the same in my eyes.


#378485 - 12/06/11 07:05 PM Re: Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero [Re: Chet]
traveler Offline

Registered: 02/07/06
Posts: 3775
Loc: somewhere in Africa
C E - I consider you not only "not dirty" and a "hero" - but a BIG man, at that. You did the only thing you knew to do at the time, and you are doing what you need to do now. My hat's off to you and I salute you for your courage and honesty. (I also identify with your instinct toward truthfulness. My user name is de>
We are often troubled, but not crushed;
sometimes in doubt, but never in despair;
there are many enemies, but we are never without a friend;
and though badly hurt at times, we are not destroyed.
- Paul, II Cor 4:8-9

#378525 - 12/07/11 12:45 AM Re: Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero [Re: traveler]
whome Offline

Registered: 05/07/11
Posts: 1736
Loc: Johannesburg South Africa
HI Chase Eric

Thanks for having the courage to share your story with us. It is something we can all identify with, the threats the secrecy, the violence and the confusion.
I see that you have been on MS for a while now, and I am glad that we are seeing more posts from you, this is a good sign and shows that you are beginning to heal.
I trust that you will post your full life story for us sometime soon. Writing mine, although through the healing process more has come out, Was an incredibly liberating experience for me, and really changed the way that I related to me.
I hope that writing yours will do the same for you.
I look forward to reading more of your posts and your insightful replies to others question.
As a wise man on this site said, "the more I talk about this the easier it gets"

It works If you work it, so work it your worth it.

Heal well

Matrix Men South Africa
Survivors Supporting Each other
Matrix Men Blog

#378528 - 12/07/11 01:01 AM Re: Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero [Re: whome]
Still Offline

Registered: 02/16/07
Posts: 7011
Loc: FEMA Region 1
OMG Eric...O.M.G!

I'm not one to sprinkle sunshine and glitter all around anyone here. Sorry if disturbing stuff bothers me dude...but your self-proclamation as the "Dirty Hero" is WAY wrong, and it hurts to see you do that to yourself.

I consider it an honor to know you here. You are a clear thinker and the most talented word-smith I know. U'm always anxious (in a good way) to read your take on things here.

#378530 - 12/07/11 01:20 AM Re: Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero [Re: Still]
TheTwoOfUs Offline

Registered: 11/03/11
Posts: 149
Loc: USA

I don't normally post on Intros. But this one I needed to post.

Everyone does what they feel they must. Some go above and beyond what they are required to do, by whatever code of ethics and morals they might possess. Others still go far beyond even that level.

I don't know if it will mean much, but the acts you think of yourself as dirty for, are in a much more vivid manner than any Hollywood "hero" - truthfully selfless. They show your true heart, bro, and your strength. It takes a hell of a person to knowingly put himself in line for something like this to protect others.

I at least do not see you as "dirty" - I see you as a selfless, strong, and loving individual with a passion for goodness. Nothing less could have allowed you to do what you did, nothing less could have allowed you to survive. And "taking the bullet" as you say, probably saved a LOT of children from suffering from the same heartache you so obviously carry.

If I could, I would have tried to protect the "hero" myself. I wasn't there, I couldn't do it, but I understand somewhat the taking of a bullet.. regardless of what form that bullet is in.

Don't discredit yourself, don't degrade yourself in that manner. Heal, recover, one foot in front of the other, and maybe someday, I hope you can look in a mirror and be proud of the fact that you, in "taking the bullet", prevented OTHERS from taking the same bullet.

This is a long post from me, on a subject that on one hand I can identify with, and on the other hand I probably have no right to speak on, but I had to speak up on this one.

I don't see you as dirty. I see you as bleeding... wounded. All true heroes ARE wounded, if only because in order to be a "hero" they have to care so deeply. But there's a lot of folks around here ready and waiting with the bandages to stop the bleeding, and I think if you keep at it, you might find you carry a lot of those bandages yourself.

This is a long enough post, and I've probably made a fool of myself in it, so I'll end it here. But one day I hope you can look at yourself and see what everyone here sees.

Courage, strength, and caring, bro. You have all of them.

Edited by TheTwoOfUs (12/07/11 01:22 AM)

Adapt. Overcome. Survive.

#378549 - 12/07/11 09:02 AM Re: Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero [Re: TheTwoOfUs]
Mountainous Buck Offline

Registered: 12/15/09
Posts: 1626
Loc: Minnesota

U r neither dirty nor little.

But u r a hero.

We have to take responsibility for what we're not responsible for.

“It doesn't matter where you've come from,
It matters where you go" Frank Turner

#378556 - 12/07/11 10:12 AM Re: Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero [Re: Mountainous Buck]
ozzie_guy Offline

Registered: 11/02/11
Posts: 17
Loc: Queensland, Australia
Eric.... I can't begin to tell you how honoured I am to have had the opportunity to get to know you my friend. Your courage, your insight, your understanding, your compassion and your strength are all so special to me. To me mate there is nothing dirty about you, although you are a true hero....

I am so glad that you have taken this step and shared some of your pain with us for in the sharing begins the healing. I love you as a brother and will be here for you any time you need me....

Stay strong....

I wonder what a life will be like being able to cope with the horrors of my memories.

Why am I so terrified of the possibility of being happy...

#378561 - 12/07/11 11:38 AM Re: Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero [Re: ozzie_guy]
Disappointed Offline

Registered: 08/11/09
Posts: 540
Loc: U.S.A.
Chase Eric,

You're a good man. You were a good, generous boy. Thank you.

I wish you the recovery you deserve so richly,


#378613 - 12/07/11 09:32 PM Re: Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero [Re: Disappointed]
R1977 Offline

Registered: 11/21/11
Posts: 3
Loc: Texas
Chase Eric,

All of the complimentary things that could be said about your character were addressed in the previous posts.

What you wrote is devastatingly tragic but in a strange way hopeful. Reading through some of these stories can char humanity: to know that there are people content to inflict such depravity on others is haunting but you are so decent and good.

Don’t view yourself in such a diminutive way, your selflessness is awe-inspiring.


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