It took me awhile to even think about writing this story down, and even longer to actually do it. It is time, therefore I write because I must. Be careful when reading, its long and almost completely open. Thank you....


I can’t say when it started, hell; I can’t even really say when it stopped. Dates aren’t really important, I guess just the fact that it happened at all does. Even though fuzzy, the clearer memories are between 6-7, maybe it started sooner, maybe it lasted longer. I don’t know. I really couldn’t even tell you his name, I only knew him as “Father John.” The roman catholic grade school I attended was owned by the church across the street. This influence and power was something that enabled the abuse. To the best of my recollection I was pulled out of class by my principal for “private bible studies” with him. Next to the principal’s office was this horrible little room they called the library. Really all it was an oversized closet full of musty books. The one small window had a shade and the door, equipped with stained glass, locked from the inside. I can’t even remember if he brought a bible to this little study session, I guess it doesn’t matter. Its not like he had to hide anything. The principal knew, and helped, the teacher knew, and said nothing, he had all the power.

The very first memory I had of all this was of him taking off my clothes. Clad in a typical priest’s all black and white collar, he took off my clothes. Remembering different shirts is what made me first realize it was more than once. Either everything happened slow or I just remember it slow. When removing my clothes I can remember feeling the cold, a draft from the bad window. Sounds of children playing at recess; girls screaming, kick ball and four square, where sounds in the distance as I stood there naked. I guess seeing I was so little it was easier for him to stare at me with me standing on a table in the room. Damn that table. There he’d rub me up and down. I can still see him playing with my childish genitals. I remember thinking that he thought they were some kind of toy. It hurt, him pulling on them like that. At some point during this, he let out his own penis, but stayed clothed. He turned me around and for what seemed like hours he’d randomly grab or touch me all over. Whether it was my shoulders, my back, my butt, or legs, I never knew where or when it was coming. This uncertainty grew when he started pinching me. I started to cry, almost like he kept pinching harder until I did. This was probably the first time I remember him saying anything. He told me to “shhhhhhh.” When he turned me back around, he started more. He’d reach threw my legs and start to put his finger in my butt. I tried to not cry but I was shaking, and couldn’t help it. I lowered my head only to have him lift it up. The more I cried the more he pushed, and the more I cried. After awhile of hearing shhhhhh and people in the hallway outside he stopped.

It was then his mood changed. His penis, now seeming larger to me than a base ball bat, was hard. He kept rubbing it on my face, telling me how bad I was. It wasn’t long before he was forcing me to suck him. I’ve never could breathe much through my nose as a child and every time he’d put it in, I would choke. I think he giggled each time that happened. Holding my head a little longer some times, I think I stopped breathing. It was right around there that I just stopped crying, stopped pushing against the hand that held my head. I was bad, so maybe I didn’t deserve to breathe? I choked when he spilled in my mouth too. It tasted so bad, I tried to spit it out, but he held my mouth shut. I came to again, trying to move away from his grasp. My mouth was full and I couldn’t breathe. He said to swallow it…or suffer “the taste of evil” or something like that.

Eventually, whether at the same time or a different one, my “badness” got worse. He’d put me on that fucking table on all fours, naked, and make me pray while he invaded me with his fingers. He’d tell me “god” was doing this to punish me for being bad. When the finger stopped working to make me cry, he’d spank my butt. He said to pray for “god’s” forgiveness but no matter how hard I prayed he didn’t stop. Maybe the prayers didn’t work because I didn’t know what I had done wrong, and therefore what I was sorry for. When he put his penis in my mouth again, I started to make myself breathe thru my nose, even though it was hard. Once he figured out that I was doing that he’d put one hand on my head, holding it in place, and used the other to close my nose. I don’t know why, I really don’t. I was trying to be good. I stopped fighting him, I prayed the best I could. Some times he would spill on me, instead of in my mouth. I wasn’t allowed to clean up after, he’d dress me back up in my clothes and send me back to class, usually in time for religion lessons, where I’d hear about the glory of god and how lucky we were to attend a catholic school.

When his “taste of evil”, finger, and hand stopped making me cry, he started to really hurt me. He didn’t have to hit because putting that bat inside me hurt bad enough. He wasn’t easy, or even trying to be. Most of the time while he was on top of me he was whispering how bad I was, how “god” wanted him to make me understand that. Even when I bled I guess I didn’t learn. I had a hard time sitting in class, sometimes still bleeding into my underwear. When learning in class about how “god” punishes those who are bad, I never really thought it would be like that.

The lessons you learn, not the destination, are the goal of a journey...
give 'um hell!