Long, long ago, in an old house on Sumner St. in Newton, Mass....

I can still remember being too little to speak, and seeing a giant penis coming down towards my face. And I remember those eyes... like sharks. Totally black, and full of indifference, when they weren't hating...

My father abused me from a very young age. Probably before I could talk. He was always trying to see me naked, check out my genitals, watch me peeing; and whenever he was around, he always wanted to talk about penises when we were alone together. I remember when I was five, he took me up to the attic and was showing me his Korean War bayonet. Pressing it into my stomach, telling me how he used it to kill his enemies... then he wanted me to drop my pants so he could "examine me" and see if I was growing right.

When he wanted to threaten and scare me, he would tell me stories of werewolves, vampires, and other monsters. It was pretty rough because there was a pass-thru walk-in closet between my room and my 3 sisters bedroom, and he used to come out of that late at night to abuse me. To this day I am afraid of the dark, and I will literally freak out if I see someone looking in a window at me at night. Sometimes its worse than others. Did you see the movie Jeepers Creepers? That's my father. That movie gave me nightmares for months.

When I was 12 he took me to Canada for New Year's for a skiing trip. And he abused me in the hotel room when we were alone at night. Except I was awake for some of that, and I remember it. I also remember how he kept trying to seduce me, telling me that we could and should pee together. Same old story, I was just old enough to say no. And be embarrassed and humiliated. And wake up while he was fellating and masturbating me.

Of course, there were lots of fights with my mother, whom he would get physically violent with. But of course she knew how to push his buttons. And he loved to steal things, and blame them on me. So I became the black sheep. And of course, the more I acted out, the more I ended up on Daddy's lap, getting beaten with an army belt, then fondled, of course, while Daddy dear got his rocks off.

And then there was Robert G-C, a couple of years older than me, who decided he wanted to make me play doctor with him... Till his mother caught us. I knew it was wrong, and I didn't want to do it, but he had cajoled me into it, and removed his clothes, and pushed himself against me. When we got caught, she called his daddy, who came home from work, threw me in the back of his 1965 black Cadillac, and took me home to talk to my parents. This of course, because Robert decided to scream bloody murder that I had made him do it, and it was all my idea. Of course, when he went and told everyone in my first grade class, I was ostracized badly.

My Dad was a management consultant of some kind, and he was never there. And when I got hurt, he laughed at me and made fun of me, or took me around to show off my bandages. Or put me in life threatening situations, and then when I nearly died, like at Echo Bridge, when I slipped on the ice and went about halfway over the railing, screaming my head off because I thought I was going to go over the falls and die, and he just laughed at me and told me to pull myself back over. So I did live to my 8th birthday.

A pity I cannot remember any of my birthdays.

When I got myself a Commonwealth Scholarship, and became one, and got a degree at Oxford, I decided to come back home to the USA, and not stay in England. Looking back on this choice... Well you can't change the past.

So I went to work for my mother, at her "academy", and step-father, and their partner, my mother's former lover.

While my abuse continued from Noble, Mother's former lover (and patient; she was a psychologist till she lost her license) who while he was robbing my family blind of all our money and property, used me for slave labor in his realty trust company. His favorite nicknames for me were "Toby", "Rastus" and "stump".
He accused me of stealing too. Which was why I felt vindicated when his water bed burst, and the money I had supposedly stolen turned up under it, very soggy. I guess I had a personality for attracting perps by then.

I don't know why I ever agreed to live and work with my mother (and step-father). But I did. And as I pursued my career, I got very good, and very well known, and made a lot of money. And I ended up supporting my adult family, most particularly my mother.
This went on for 20 years. I don't have time enough and words enough to convey how bad it was. But I ended up living with and supporting that woman until I was 40 years old, and she died.
During that time, she did at least as much emotional, psychological and spiritual damage as my father had done physically and sexually with his abuse. I felt obligated to support her (if I REALLY loved her). At the same time, she positioned herself as a God in my life, and was always willing to hit the smite button. My dysfunctional youth turned evolved into a dysfunctional adulthood.

So here I was, generating 6 figures a year, supporting everyone, and yet I was required to write a standard of conduct for myself. A 13 page standard of conduct, which I had to adhere to, or mommy dear would take her love away (and I'd never make it on my own). Hard to believe. Two huge houses, 7 businesses, a yacht, a whole bunch of cars including a classic Rolls-Royce, but if I did not do what she said, I would never make it on my own. Of course I believed this.
And there was the isolationism: I did not go to a movie or movie theater for 20 years.
I had NO relationship with women, and no friends for 20 years. I wasn't allowed them. Had to work, had to keep the income coming in.
And then there was the daily journaling... I had to write down 3 things that I had done wrong, what was wrong with them, and what I'd do different every day. And I'd better get them right.
Or there was the thousands of dollars spent on E-bay (of my money)on clothes never worn, shoes never worn, jewelry never worn, 1500 video tapes she just had to own.... I cleared out and donated a lot of stuff when she died.

And there was the usurping of my relationship with God. And the talking to the spirits. And her being convinced that Jesus was her brother. As in a peer to peer relationship.

She was a very, very sick woman, and I truly hope that she has found her peace.

I am writing this story only shortly after I have decided to forgive my perpetrators. I have written these letters under separate postings. And I am sure that I will add to this story as time goes on.

In the meanwhile, this is how I came to be a survivor, how I came to hate myself, and how I came to find myself now on the road to recovery.

Jeff Parker
August 2008

WOR Alumni Sequoia March 2008
WOR Alumni Alta Sept. 2008
My whole life has changed in the past year...
divorced, but have begun living again
and trying to thrive...