Sorry this is so long, but my story is long, and Iíve never put it all down like this at one time. Iíve never even talked about it all at once. Iíve only talked to my therapist about most of this, but always just little clips of memories. It actually took a couple days to write this so forgive me if my story kind of jumps around. Some of it is graphic, so be warned. But most of it leaves out the real details and actions. A lot of what happened was recurring. The same things over and over. It just progressed over the years and got worse.
I have no idea how it actually started. Although I do have this vague memory (at least I think it is a memory) that is one of my recurring dreams. I was in a bedroom and it was night. I remember there were bunk beds in the room, and I was on the floor. I think I had a sleeping bag, like it was a sleepover or something. Then I remember the door opening and all I can see is someone standing in the doorway silhouetted by the light in the hallway. I couldnít tell who this person was, or where this was happening. Itís all too blurry now. As I saw this person standing there this feeling of dread and fear came over me, like I knew something bad was about to happen. The next thing I know he is telling me/guiding me to get into bed with him. I remember climbing up to the top bunk where he was, and laying down next to him. And thatís it, I donít remember anything else about that. And like I said, I donít know if thatís a memory of something that happened, or just a dream.
My earliest real memory of anything was when I was 6 I was putting on every pair of underwear I had, and my mom questioned me about it, but I never told her anything. The next memories I have are of what my abuser would call ďthe game.Ē My abuser would coerce me into stripping with him and rubbing our penises together, performing oral sex on him, and/or him rubbing his penis in between my butt cheeks. Not penetrating at that time. I remember saying I didnít want to do that stuff, then him telling me he would tell my parents and Iíd get in trouble if I didnít do what he wanted. I also remember him pulling my pants down and making fun of me because I was wearing boxers (it wasnít the norm at the time for young kids to wear boxers). So, he would mess around with my underwear a bit then strip those off and start playing with my penis and saying how different it was from his (he is circumcised I was not). And he would make fun of me because I was different. Hell, he even made fun of me because my penis was bigger than his. And that just went with everything else making me think I was strange, and I was the one that was weird. Those are actually the reasons that I thought for a long time why he abused me. I thought he could sense somehow that I wasnít circumcised, or that I didnít wear the same underwear he did. I thought because he could somehow sense those things he chose me. All of those things happened a lot, although most of them kind of just blur together. I remember another time he made me follow him into the bathroom where we stripped and he started rubbing himself against me and hugging me. Then I clearly remember him saying we should take a picture because of how good we looked together. I remember that because I thought it was weird anyone would want a picture of me naked.
I guess you should know my abuser is my age. That caused a lot of problems of people believing me when I finally disclosed the abuse. Most people claimed it was just experimentation between two young boys. But I donít feel that way. I was coerced into doing these things with him, and later physically threatened. Iíd never call that experimentation between two boys, I call that rape. If he had done this to a girl, everyone would have cried rape. But because of how old we were when I remember it starting, I know either one of us, or both of us had been abused prior to that, and he just took over the role of the abuser. There is no way two boys that young should know about the things he made me do.
This all pretty much stayed the same as we got older. Only adding masturbating each other as we found out what that was. It all had kind of become a routine. Then when I was 13 I decided I had enough and wanted it to stop. One night on a scout camping trip I told him I wasnít doing it anymore and I didnít care who he told. Thatís when he pulled out a knife pulled my pants down and held the knife to my genitals and told me if I didnít perform oral on him right then he was going to castrate me. From there things only got worse. I would resist more, and he would only physically force me to do things to him. I donít remember when, but at some point he decided to add anal sex to it. Oral and rubbing his penis between my cheeks wasnít enough anymore. I remember the first time he tried to penetrate me he couldnít get it. The next time he had discovered lube, and after that he would just force me to be his sex toy whenever he felt the desire. He would do things to me, or make me do them to him everywhere. He would stick his hand in my pants, or make me do it to him at school, at the mall, at the swimming pool, everywhere he could he would. He would make me perform oral on him at all those places too. Itís a wonder how no one ever caught us or said anything. I wish they had. He did a lot of things at the pool. Often forcing me underwater to put his penis in my mouth. Or just groping each other. He would even come up behind me and rub his penis against my butt. Even though it was a private pool, and I lived two houses away, he would always make us shower together at the pool locker room where he would do things to me. He was always excited after we went swimming. It usually resulted in oral or anal sex. I remember we were at another friendís house once, and we ended up alone, and he took that short time to force my mouth to his penis, with me trying to fight it the whole time. He would often cum in my mouth which would make me throw up. The thought of it still makes me want to vomit. I can still feel the things he did to me. I can still taste and smell them. Itís revolting. He used me as his own little cum receptacle. One of the worst memories I have is when he used a bat to penetrate me. It was one of those mini bats that they gave out at baseball games that I had. I donít remember much of that experience except for him holding me down and forcing the bat into me. I remember how much it hurt, and praying it would stop. I had loved that bat, until that day. After that day I broke that bat and burned it. Is still canít stand to even see one of those little bats. Whenever we went on a scout camping trip he would always make sure that we slept in the same tent, just so he could use me. Most of the time I would what my therapist calls disassociate. I would often view what was happening from another personís perspective. I always was thinking what it would be like to be someone else. I would often pretend to be someone else.
Most of my memories blur together because of how often and for how long this all went on. And that I just donít want to remember it. It started sometime around when I was 6, and went until I was 16 or 17. I canít even remember when it ended. But it was almost a daily thing, if not multiple times in one day. One day, thank God, I guess he decided he was done. And it just stopped. About 6 months after it stopped is when I told my parents. My mom immediately went and started telling her friends, and she even talked to my abusers mother before it was reported to the police. I have no idea why she did that, but she did. My mom telling everyone, and then the ensuing questions made me feel like my mom had betrayed me. Not only had she not figured it out over the ten years, but she went and told people I barely even knew. Then the police got involved. The police interrogated me. They were asking me things to make it seem like I had made it all up. That I only claimed he raped me so I wouldnít get in trouble. Oh, I wish it had been as easy as that. I wouldnít be dealing with it today if it had. The detective made me feel like I was the criminal. I remember him asking me if my abuser had threatened me or physically forced me every time. I told him no, so he asked why I did it if he didnít force me. I had no answer for him. And I still donít. I guess my answer would be that I was somehow conditioned into it. Or if I just did it and didnít fight back it would be over sooner. But at the time I had no idea. And this was just another way that made me question if it was my fault, and if I had wanted it and liked it. But at the same time I knew I didnít want it and that I didnít like it. I felt betrayed by the police, the people who were supposed to protect me from the criminals (ha ha), and they accused me of making a false report. He was never charged with anything, the prosecutor said there was a lack of evidence. In other words, they didnít believe me.
My parents also got my church leaders involved. One of them straight told me one night that he believed I was lying and that I was a sinner for doing these sexual acts with this other boy. This led to me leaving the church, and having no spirituality for the last 10 years.
My parents also forced me into counseling. Not a good idea. Well, at least the therapist they chose wasnít good. First off the therapist was female. And I canít really talk to females. Especially about things like that. Then one day she suggested that maybe I had enjoyed it, and she asked me if I was gay. I ended up yelling at her and walking out, and never going back.
Finally, when I got the courage to tell my friends what was going on. I chose to tell my best friend, who I had known since I was 3, first. Once I told him he asked who had done it, and I told him. He looked at me and said ďI donít believe you. He is my friend.Ē Right then is when I took everything and pushed it deep down and hid it. I was so tired of being rejected and betrayed and treated like I chose to have this happen to me, and that I enjoyed it. I just pushed it all down and tried to forget all about it. After that incident it took me ten years before I could tell anyone else. Luckily the few close friends I have now believe me, and they support me how they can, mostly by just being my friend. Itís not something we talk about a lot. Every now and then they ask me how Iím doing with the therapy Iím in now, or I will just complain to them about how horrible my day has been, but thatís it. But thatís all I need from them too, and Iím glad they understand that.
Iím not sure what was worse, the abuse or how people reacted when I told them. The betrayal, and shame, and guilt I felt. And how it seemed like they okayed the abuse by not believing me and telling me I was a liar.
Going back, after he threatened me with the knife, I started lashing out at people. I constantly got in fights about nothing. I would start the fight. I would just make up a reason to fight, and go with it. Sometimes I wanted to kill them. I wanted someone else to feel the pain I was. Although, one thing I did do was stand up for other people. I would fight for other people. I guess I couldnít fight for myself, so I did it for others. I remember getting in one fight where I was protecting someone else at school from being bullied. The vice principle wouldnít suspend me, but suspended everyone else, including the people who broke up the fight. So I just suspended myself and skipped school for a while. But having a short temper wasnít good. It resulted in other not so good things. When I was 14 I was visiting my cousin who also had a short temper. We ended up going shooting one day, and got in a fight. Well, he ended up shooting me in the leg. I was very lucky. The bullet just barely hit me, and just barely missed the femoral artery.
At that same time I started raging on people is when I first started thinking about suicide. Shortly before I attempted it I lost a friend to suicide. He shot himself in the head, and I found him after school. What I remember most is seeing the hole in the side of his head, and seeing his family at his funeral, especially his mom. A couple months after that, I held a gun to the side of my head, and as I was pulling the trigger the memories of seeing my friend and his family flashed through my mind, and for some reason that stopped me. But, that is also when I started cutting. I would always do small cuts so I could just claim it was a scratch, but I would reopen the same wound over and over again. When it stopped hurting to cut myself I started to put rubbing alcohol on the open wound. That sure worked.
When I was 17 I decided to join the Marine Corps. It was 2003, and we had just invaded Iraq. I enlisted for a couple reasons. One was to just get away from everyone and everything. Another was I was hoping that I would get sent to Iraq and die. I joined hoping some stupid terrorist would kill me and I wouldnít have to live with the pain anymore. And at the same time I would go out doing a good thing. Well, obviously that didnít work since Iím here writing this today. I also joined hoping I would be able to finally kill someone and have it not send me to jail. Well, my plan only partially worked. It did help me escape from my childhood. I was so busy most the time I didnít have time to think about it. But when I did think about it, it was bad. And I did end up going to both Iraq and Afghanistan, but I didnít die. And staring into someoneís eyes that just tried to kill you and your men, as their life slowly leaves them, is not as satisfying as most of us dream it would be. I never cared what happened to me. In fact I was always hoping something would happen to me. What drove me was taking care of my friends and the boys I was responsible for. Unfortunately, it was a few of their times, and not mine. The military did help me direct my anger, but it also left me with more scars, both seen and unseen.
So, what did I do when I got out of the military? I hid from those wounds and memories too. I made it almost two years before it all exploded one day in a massive panic attack. I ended up curled in a ball on my living room floor balling my eyes out, wanting to throw up but unable to, and hyperventilating. I hyperventilated until I passed out. When I woke up I knew I had to get help whether I wanted it or not. After that I started looking for help. Luckily I ended up finding a good therapist who has helped me a lot. I still have a lot to figure out, and a long ways to go, but Iím making progress. And thatís whatís important, right?
There is much more to my story, but this gives a very decent overview.I decided to do this so you guys that have so kindly offered you're help can understand me even better.