This update to my story has been a long time coming. My initial recount of my story (http://tiny.cc/9eczow
) is factual, but also quite condensed. With this update I intend to go into more detail about my experiences up to this point, both as a way to get it off my chest and as a record to go back to as I attempt to begin my recovery anew. So let me begin. I have decided to post it in the Introductions section this time around, because I would like to hear how other survivors can relate to my story.
I can already feel that this is going to be exhausting to write, but I feel it must be done. Right now at 19, I have had many people tell me that I have yet to truly experience the harsh reality of the world because of my young age. I could not disagree more. I may be young, but even at my young age I have come into contact with the rotten side of humanity enough times, that for all intensive purposes I might as well be 50.
As I stated in my previous story post, I did not have the most stable of childhoods. It could be argued that I did not even really have a childhood. My parents were very young when they had me. Young, naive immigrants with a minimal grasp of the workings of the dynamic new country around them. If their grasp of the workings of the US was minimal, then their grasp of the mechanisms of parenting was nonexistent. Fresh from their upbringing in Mexico, it was their belief that every infraction could be solved with a beating. Or at least that is the conclusion that I can draw considering what I experienced at their hands. Hand, sandal, shoe, belt (oh how my father loved the belt) fly swatter, you name it they used it.
Now after much soul searching, I believe that corporal punishment does have its place in discipline, but I believe that it should be used sparingly and with restraint, two conditions that my parents did not follow AT ALL! I have since asked them what drove them to have such little regard for my well being that they would treat me so savagely and the only real response I have received is that "nothing else worked with me." A lot of times I look back and I can't help but feel that in my early years I was little more then their personal punching bag to take out the weight of their own frustrations. Yes, there were good times as well. More often than not they are eclipsed by the bad times.
The physical abuse I suffered was tremendous and terrifying. My mother took part in her share of beatings, but they were nothing compared to those inflicted to by father. I can still remember the time when my father broke down my door, held me against my bed and savagely beat with his shoe until my arms and shoulders were numb and swollen. My arms were bruised for weeks after that beating and it was very painful to move them.
There is one instance of my father's "discipline" that continues to make me doubt his humanity to this day. One night, after my procrastination, I delivered a note from my school to my parents stating that I was to spend a day in a disciplinary center because of my conduct. My father came to my room and beat me with his belt. Then he ordered me to the kitchen where he ordered me down on all fours, like an animal, and stated he wanted me to stick my butt out to him as he intended to beat me in that position. To this day I do not think I have ever felt more degraded and humiliated in my life. Certainly much more degrading than my CSA. I don't know where I found the valor, but I refused to comply. Then in a rage he told me that I was to spend the night sleeping on the kitchen floor as I sobbed uncontrollably. He went and sat in the living room for a few minutes as I continued to sob and then hd came back and ordered me out of the house. I do not think I ever felt more alone and scared in my life. As I walked a short distance to the end of the street, I continued to sob as the realization sank in that I had truly been abandoned. My father eventually called me back in, but the damage had been done.
He would later tell me that his father used to beat him and throw him out of his house all the time and that he would just go out and sleep in an abandoned house. I guess that meant that I just wasn't man enough to deal with his "discipline" the right way.
The physical abuse was bad, but I think the verbal abuse was just as harmful. He was always calling me a clown, a woman, an idiot, and stupid. My mother did her fair share of shaming always pointing out acidly how some of my mannerisms were too girly. To this day I still fear becoming too animated with my mannerisms and the way I carry myself for fear of being labeled as too girly. A fear instilled in me by my parents very early on.
All this obviously filled me with a lot of resentment and rage for my parents and for the world in general which led to very aggressive acting out in school. Eventually I was programmed by my guidance counselor at school (and my parents beatings at home brought on by the terrible inconvenience of having to be called up to school every other week)that such behavior was inappropriate and that I had to find other outlets to let out my frustrations. I think this explains my pattern of behavior that I would follow later in my teen years that I will elaborate on later. To this day, because of this programming, I find incredibly hard to confront anyone about anything. As I was taught as a kid, it's all about keeping your frustration to yourself to keep yourself out of trouble after all (and you out of our hair.) Especially when raised voices are involved, I get hit with a mixture of anxiety, fear, followed by firey rage. Whenever I confront someone angrily it is truly an ordeal for me. As silly is it sounds, when I confront someone angrily I am literally anticipating the first blow to my buttocks or to my head, as happened any time I attempted to confront my mother or father.
Already a mess to begin with, I suppose its not too surprising that I was easy pickings for my abuser and his brother. I was never very good at making friends. All the kids at the apartment complex thought I was weird (sadistic parents do that to you I guess) and really liked to use me more for entertainment than anything. I can't really pinpoint what ultimately led me to my original abuser. I guess it was the fact that he paid attention to me and didn't seem like he wanted to pull a prank on me like the other kids.
My first abuser was only eight years old and I can't remember the circumstances that led me behind our apartment complex that day, nor do I really remember what he said to me beforehand, but I do remember what he did to me vividly. He told to take off my overalls, pull down my underwear, and he began to rub his penis against my bare body sexually. I'm not sure what brought this on, but considering that he and his brother showed me a pornographic film in their apartment once, I can only assume that he was simply acting out what he had seen.
After he was done, and from what I can recall it only lasted a few seconds, I felt very strange. I had this underlying sense that what had just happened was wrong, but I couldn't quite decipher why it was wrong. I had never been taught about how some parts of my body were meant to be private and all that mishmash. Ultimately I decided there was no real reason to listen my intuition. Besides it had felt good. For once I felt validated, wanted, even loved, and as disgusting as it sounds, I asked him to rub up against me again to just to feel that connection one more time, a connection I did not share even with my own parents. I think this is what ultimately explains why I look back at my abuse in erotic manner (http://tiny.cc/a3fzow
) because it was the first time that I felt such a connection.
Not long afterwards my first abusers older brother made his move. I was sleeping over at my aunt's house and we had no choice but to share a bed. He woke up about 2:00 AM and asked me something, I can't remember what. Soon after he lifted the covers and pulled down his pajamas to reveal his penis. I remember thinking how big it was. I remember that he pushed my head down towards it indicating that he wanted me to suck it. I didn't want to, but for a reason that I can't recall I did anyway. Eventually he realized that making me suck him was only making me uncomfortable and he told me stop. Again, this will sound disgusting, but I got overtaken by a flash of lust. I began to caress his body and next thing I knew he was taking off his shirt to let me explore his bare chest. He even pushed my head down indicating he wanted me to lick it. I remember thinking that I liked how his body looked, and I liked the little freckles that spotted his arms and back. I caressed and licked his body for a little bit more before we went back to sleep. We also kissed a little. I cannot pinpoint what drove me to such precocious actions as a six year old child. I can only assume it was that need for connection again. To this day I cannot differentiate whether I truly found my second abuser attractive in this instance or whether I was just trying to please him and just trying to convince myself that I found him attractive to make the abuse go by quicker. I certainly look back on it erotically though which, now knowing it was abuse, would make the strongest stomach churn with disgust I assume.
My abusers lost interest in me very quickly, as abusers do, I assume. They had given me a few fleeting moments of validation, but they had taken from me my sense of masculinity and sexuality. A true man does not enjoy being dominated, as I was in those two instances and he certainly would make a terrible partner for a woman. So I must like men then. But do I really like men, or am I just seeking to recreate the abuse to go back to that time when I felt validated? I ask this question to myself all the, and I have to find an answer. Because of this instances, when it comes to the opposite sex I feel myself to be a total dud. I have never been in a relationship (not even a puppy love junior high one) much less come anywhere close to experiencing sexual activity with a woman which is apparently the very essence of every man's existence. This ultimately leads me to feel very inadequate when put up against other men (http://tiny.cc/eehzow
) and often leads me to yearn for a bond with the most awkward of men. (http://tiny.cc/7ghzow
As I went on through my elementary school years, I became more and more isolated. In sixth grade I got my first taste of validation and attention from my peers after a humorous poem I wrote became very popular. I liked the attention and I tried everything in my power to retain it even going as far as making up extravagant stories. Eventually my peers tired of me, however, and by 8th grade I was back to being that isolated weirdo.
Around this same time, I finally made the realization that I had been abused. Not sure what to do I reported the abuse to a local abuse hotline. I was called in to the state police department where I was interviewed. The officer broke the news to my mother. My mother was devastated and stated that felt she had failed as a mom. When my father heard, he at first stated that felt it was no big deal. Just boys being boys before quickly adopting the script of the outraged father of an abused child. While I don't think his outrage was fake, his initial reaction leaves me perturbed to this day. Perhaps really he just did not understand the gravity of the situation.
In any case guilt soon took its toll and I soon found myself getting whatever I wanted. New bike? New television? New video game? Trip out to eat every night? You got it my dear boy! Looking back I feel awful of the way I took advantage of my parent's guilt, but back then by golly that was the least that they owed me, at least in my mind.
We got the detective's report back a few weeks later. "Claims unable to be substantiated" it said. It was only to be expected. There was no physical evidence of the abuse after all, but oh how I had longed for my "Law & Order: SVU" moment where I could look my abusers straight in the eye and proclaim for all the world to hear the monsters they were and are. But that was not to be. Just another piece of paper for the detective, unsubstantiated, unvalidated, almost as if it never even happened.
Despite the report, I still attempted to use the revelation of my abuse to try and gain back the attention that I so longed for from my peers. Yes, I admit it,although I am not proud of it, I attempted to use my abuse to solicit sympathy and attention from my peers. While the response was initially positive, I think they eventually decided that I was making the story up for my own purposes and as such felt the need to castigate me for my attention whoring as the kids like to call it nowadays. I don't blame them, despite the fact the abuse really did occur, but ultimately I have no one to blame for their skepticism but myself.
Despite my missteps in junior high, they were nothing compared of what was to come in high school. In high school I think the rage and resentment I had bottled up all inside finally exploded. I was tired of being antagonized and victimized with no repercussions for my tormentors so I began to find ways to punish them without directly confronting them.
In short I became a schemer, and I worked out elaborate machinations to essentially frame people and embarrass them. Essentially, it was petty vengeance taken to the extreme. As reprehensible as it sounds I relished it, enjoyed the empowerment and being able to seemingly outwit people that mistreated me without them even knowing...but boy did I pay the price.
As I mentioned in this thread (http://tiny.cc/ppizow
) it was also around this time that I began to correspond with strange men online and foolishly sent out nude pictures of myself. Surprisingly for a hormonally stressed out teenager, I had the good sense to use a pseudonym and never show my face in a picture, but its a small comfort in the grand scheme of things. I also made a number of ill advised posts that, as I mentioned in the post, I believe most "polite" society would find disturbing. I now live with the fear that these posts will come back to haunt me one day, but I accept and work through the fear wholeheartedly as I truly believe they are punishment for the propensity for machinations that I had. I now know that the machinations are truly the mark of an evil person and I have resolved to never commit such heinous acts again. Although I continue to be tempted to do so even today. (http://tiny.cc/31izow
And so this is where I stand as of now. As I've stated before I've never really been comfortable with the term survivor. It just sounds so proud. But I suppose in one sense I am a survivor. The friends I lacked were made up by food. While this may seem bad, I consider it a blessing in disguise. Really the only thing that stopped me during my wacko teenaged years from being dangerously promiscuous was the fact that I was not aesthetically pleasing. I know for a fact that had I been blessed with a good body, I probably would be infected with a terrible disease right now, or worse.
Like I stated at the beginning of this post, I may only be 19 but after all I have experienced I may as well be 50. Ultimately what all these experiences have taught me is that I don't need sympathy, I don't need attention, I don't need pity, I don't need revenge, what I need is healing. I have a long way to go, but I think that by being up front about everything that has happened to me thus far, it's a good step in the right direction to being the person that I ultimately want to be. I have my appointment with a new T next week. Here's to forgiveness, here's to hope, here's to love, here's to healing my dear fellow survivors!
If you have read all the way through I commend you for sharing wholeheartedly with my in my opus. Please feel free to post or PM with comments, I would love to hear from you.