I haven't posted on here in a while, partly because I've been dealing with my abuse primarily by avoiding it. Even though I've had four different therapists, including the one I'm seeing now, tell me that it's almost certain I was sexually abused by my older brother (now dead), based upon everything I have dug up, I still walk around most of the time in a sort of limbo. I'll think "Yes, I might have been abused," but that's about as far as I go during daily life. The thing is, the times when I have felt the most certain that my brother did abuse me, I have felt close to anxiety that could overwhelm me and, I fear, render me nonfunctional.
Some of the strongest parts of my evidence are the following:
I had rectal bleeding all through the third grade, then had surgery for rectal polyps, then continued to do what I guess was anal masturbation and draw more blood;
Although I was always attracted to girls, once I hit puberty I would, especially when drunk, have very degrading homosexual fantasies after which I would feel that I simply wanted to die of shame;
I have a tape recording of my brother, who died at sixteen in a car wreck in which he was driving recklessly. On the tape, my brother was about twelve, and he was pretending to be a "fag" and describing, in extreme detail, all kinds of homosexual acts, including making a number of references to to rectal bleeding as a result of being "buttfucked";
I used to steal compulsively, from 2nd grade through fourth grade, and then again from 6th to 7th, and then feel horribly guilty about it. I only stopped when I was taken to Juvenile Detention;
I have felt an extreme hatred for my brother that began a few years after his death, when I was 12, until now, when I am 30. This hatred never made sense until I began exploring these tings related to sexual abuse;
I abused alcohol from junior high through high school, to the point of blacking out, then being utterly terrified the next day of what I had done that I couldn't remember;
I wrote a number of poems from age 15-21 that, when I put them together at some point over the last year, wove a tale that, if someone else were writing it, I would feel nearly certain that they had been sexually abused;
I have had chronic problems with anxiety throughout my life, culminating in debilitating terror about being gay when I was a senior in high school and a freshman in college, as well as a breakdown whenI was in graduate school that forced me to drop out for a semester and be hospitalized three times, with Electroconvulsive therapy being the only thing that brought me back to reality;
I rely on anger to survive. Not in the sense that I yell at other people, but in that I usually listen to extremely angry music, as in bands like Slipknot and Slayer, in order to feel any sense of power. I feel, when I can't get in touch with my anger, that I am utterly helpless and can't do any of the daily tasks that I normally excel at--these are the times that I begin freaking out;
I have a concrete memory of one of my brother's friends asking me to "rub dicks" with him every time we went swimming, and one time I remember doing this with my brother and this friend. I also remember at one point my brother's friend peeing on me while we rubbed dicks and then laughing when I got angry;
I remember constantly being called a "buttfucker" and a "cocksucker" by my brother and certain of his friends, before I even understood exactly what these words meant;
I can remember, when I had continued to draw blood from my rectum, going and seeing a doctor, who, after examining me (which was very humiliating, and during which I was afraid I was going to get semi-erect), asked me "Do you ever put anything up your anus?" I remember going utterly cold and replying "No," and hating myself with such passion and resolving that I would never, ever do what I did with the toilet paper anymore, no matter how bad I felt like I needed to to get that feeling back, the feeling of pleasure related to getting the shit out of myself (sorry for the graphic imagery here);
In high school, three different times I had opportunities to sleep with girls and I wound up, despite being aroused while kissing them, going limp as soon as my pants were off. I didn't really want to have sex because I was scared, but I didn't feel like I had a choice. Then, when I went limp, I would feel like I wanted to die with shame, and I would store this shame in with my other evidence that I was gay;
I constantly wrote poems about death and suicide throughout junior high and high school, and have cut on myself a few times, once when I was in a hospital and wanted to show how bad I felt, and a couple of other times when I wanted relief from the pain inside, as well as an expression of how badly I hurt;
I am very compulsive, jumping from one distracting activity to the next. As I'm writing this, I'm wanting a drink. But I don't have to have alcohol; I can be compulsive about so many different things, as in work, listening to heavy music, playing a computer game, searching for underground metal CDs, and the list goes on. The main thing is the escape.
I have more evidence, but that's enough for now. Thanks in advance to anyone who actually reads this whole post and gives me a reply. I guess I'm just seeking validation right now.
"I've been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand... Could these sensations make me feel the pleasures of a normal man?"--Ian Curtis, Joy Division