Yonni's post and Brian-Z's recent re-posting of his stories prompted me to repost since I removed them several months ago. So here goes....


WHAT HAPPENED TO ME

I grew up in Oklahoma and was raised in a household that was dominated by a physically abusive, alcoholic father. In our house no one ever talked about anything serious, if we said anything at all. We were terrified that anything would send my dad into a drunken rage. Silence was the rule of the land, we all pretty much suffered in silence hoping that dad would leave or die. This “wonderful” lifestyle made me a great target for the events that would dominate my life and would shape my personality and behavior patterns for the rest of my life.

I was sexually abused for a one-year period starting when I was 7 years old and ending when I was eight years old. My abuser was a high school graduate who was going to attend the Naval Academy (America's Finest, I guess) who lived with his parents down the street from my house. For as young as this guy was, he was a master manipulator. He started out by asking my mom if she needed anything at the grocery store. If so, “Why not let Will come with me and get your stuff”. We would always stop at the 7-11 on the way home for a Slurpee. I thought that it was pretty cool hanging out with someone older than me who had a car. One day as we were heading to the 7-11 after the grocery store, he told me that I would need to pay for my Slurpee. I told him that I didn't have enough change from the store. He then showed me how I would pay for it. He undid his pants, took my hand and made me rub his dick. This led to him forcing me to masturbate him. I was really scared, not sure what to do. Again, he told me what to do. I would do this whenever he asked or he would beat the shit out of me. He also told me that if I told anyone what was going on, they wouldn't believe me and then he would “make me pay” for telling. This went on for several months until school ended.

When school was out, my brother and sister started going to the YMCA every day for some summer program (I was the youngest sibling). My parents decided that I would stay home with a babysitter. Yep, you guessed it, my babysitter was the same guy. As I recall, the abuse really took off the first day I was home alone with him. This is where many of my memories are fragmented. I remember the acts that I was forced to do, but can't really put them into a narrative. However, the abuse occurred pretty much every day through the summer. Some of the things I was forced to do include: (Note: I wrote some of the details because I really felt it was necessary for me to be as open with what happened as possible. I hate writing it, and hate thinking about it, but if it can help me deal with this then so be it.)

I would have to get naked and wait in my bedroom for him to come in and rape me. As I recall, many times I was in there for hours waiting for him.
Sometimes he would sit in my dad's chair and I would have to be in front of him, naked, for a long period of time before he would start.
I was forced to do oral sex on him and he would always make me swallow.
He would have anal sex with me repeatedly. I recall that this caused bleeding on many occasions. Here I was, all of 7/8 years old and walking to this store called Woolco and using my allowance to buy underwear, because I would get rid of my bloody underwear so that my mom wouldn't see it.
Many times he would humiliate me by laughing and making fun of the size of my penis. He would also flick it as he was making fun of me.
This phrase haunts me at all time: He would also end each time by saying “you little fag, you ain't good for nothing but fucking.”

He would constantly threaten to hurt me if I told or if I didn't do what he wanted. So, I didn't tell and I did what he wanted.

After the summer, we went back to the grocery store thing, although I usually had to do more than masturbate him after that summer. Finally, he went away to school.


Resting Place of a Lost Soul

It was an ordinary bridge in an ordinary place. The commuters from Midwest City and Choctaw, and Nicoma Park probably rarely paid it any mind. The City planners probably didn't think twice about tearing it down to put in the new four-lane bridge. The construction crews just viewed it as just another job. What those people did not realize was that this was the safe haven of a seven-year-old boy who was living in Hell.

The creek that ran underneath the bridge was an unattractive red-stained waterway that drained a mundane suburb. It was a glorified drainage ditch that carried storm water and agricultural runoff down to the North Canadian River and finally into the Gulf of Mexico. Rarely did anyone visit the creek unless it was to dispose of unwanted appliances or garbage. This was the place where I disposed of the evidence of brutality. This was the place where a monster disposed of a seven year old soul.

Under the bridge was where I went to lick my wounds and to hide from the world. After each episode, I could get away from him there. At first, I would go under the bridge to cry and try to figure out what was happening. I could put on my game face and come out with no one the wiser. I spent so much time there. This was now my preferred place to play. No one knew where I was, no one would talk to me, and I didn't have to talk to any one else. I didn't even have any toys there. I would just dig in the red dirt with my hands and with sticks. I would dig for hours; tunnels, pits, you name it. I would also imagine myself floating away from there down to the Canadian, into the Arkansas, into the Mississippi, and finally into the Gulf. I would have been free.

Later, when the really bad stuff was happening, I no longer cried or played. The creek had turned into my River Styx. The legend says that you give the ferryman a gold or silver coin to carry you across the river into the realm of the dead. I paid the ferryman dearly almost every day for month after month after month. I didn't pay him with silver or gold. I paid him with bloodstained underwear. I paid him with the light of a child's innocence. I paid him with my soul. I had arrived in the realm of the dead. I had no emotion. I had no spark. I was the living dead. I didn't cry anymore, I didn't play any more, I went there to escape, and I still felt safe there. No one could hurt me there. But all I did was simply stare at the water for hours at a time. Sometimes I threw rocks. I didn't even care about escaping any more; I had been completely and utterly brutalized to the point that I was not Will anymore. I was the receptacle for a penis, nothing more. His statement had come true; I was now truly good for nothing but fucking. I knew this to be true.

I have been fortunate enough to live and recover part of my soul. Unfortunately, I will never be able to recover it all or rekindle the spark of that innocent child. But I truly believe that part of my spirit still resides under that bridge and I would find him happily digging in that red Oklahoma dirt.


SCARS

This is a short remembrance about one of my abuser's twisted and sadistic habits.

I was bent over the edge of my twin bed in the bedroom I shared with my older brother. My arms were spread wide with my left wrist tied to the footboard of the bed and my right wrist tied to the headboard. He almost always tied my arms when he raped me. He didn't do it real tight; I could have slipped right out if I wanted. I guess it was just another warped perversion of his. And he always tied me with electrical cords. On several occasions, he decided it would be fun to whip my back with the cords. I still have stripes on my back from those episodes. I remember once my mom was taking me to the Doctor and I was very worried that the Dr. would ask where the scars came from. I distinctly remember my mother just being silent-never answering me. For a long time I assumed that I got those scars from my dad, as he was pretty brutal. I'm actually glad that they didn't come from my dad. I still have to see my dad and I don't know how I would react toward him if he were the source.

I hate having people ask me why I have scars on my back. I rarely take off my shirt. However, I'm glad that they are there because for a long time I didn't believe my memories and this physical evidence forced me to believe them and deal with them.