Feeling some clarity today, and want to do this so here it goes. Some pieces, kind of an outlne, and some other thoughts, I guess.
First abuser: (chronologically). My grandfather. Lived with us for a while. This was when I was about 4-6 yrs old. My grandfather watched us; my parents were busy with my mother being in and out of the hospital. He was a molester and a photographer.
He was pretty sadistic, as I remember it; he used to hurt me a lot. I had to get medical care for some of what he did, for quite some time afterward. The reasons I might have needed such care were never discussed. I do remember the doctor's office, I remember a lot of pain associated with that too. Small town, I think the doctor was complicit in never making a big deal of things.
The poses, etc. he put me in are embarassing to think about.
I remember one time, when I was about 5, some other company from out of state pulled up to visit us at our house. I ran to my parents' bedroom, took off my clothes and stood in front of the mirror in a "certain way." I hurt myself at the time, on purpose, or because of associations, but pretty seriously and on purpose, the pain was important or something. I remember thinking "I hope these people don't hurt me so much when they do it to me." It turned out they were not there to molest me though, that was just what I expected from people who visited.
Next piece is not sexual abuse but involves my father. He didn't like me much. He was physically violent with me. He was incredibly emotionally abusive too. The physical violence took many forms, the emotional abuse too.
Once, the nuns who taught at my school witnessed what he was like. They next day they called me into the principal's office, wrapped me in blankets, kept me out of class, and fed me all day long. They told me not to worry, they said they knew things were bad at my house at that time. Because of all this, I think, my father starting paying a lot of attention to the school, fixing things, volunteering, etc., things he never did at home. The whole string of events ended with me being lectured, publically, and may times, in class about what a great man my father was. There were details. There was a list of things he did for the school. Because of him even the lenten season proceeded well. Imagine that, a good lent. He must be a fucking saint.
I was in third grade at the time. That was the year that me passing out all the time began: I used to faint, or just fall down, or both, at various times. I don't know how to call what it is that used to happen, but it was often a genuine medical emergency. I think I couldn't handle the fact that what I knew and what was being enforced were such different things.
I used to get my hand beaten for having bad handwriting. I used to get beaten for having bad teeth. I used to get beaten for asking too many questions. I used to get beaten for talking so goddam much. I used to get beaten for walking loudly down the hallway. I used to get beaten for making noise when I open and closed the door. Etc.
I knew, at an early age, that sex was the only thing I was good for. My father was always displeased with me. Always. Sex was the only thing I had ever done that had ever made an adult happy with me. I began to hope that if I could just find an old man who liked me in that way but who was nicer than my grandfather, who didn't hurt me so much, then maybe I could leave my house. I knew where to find those kinds of guys at a certain store in our town. I also used to practice posing for pictures, especially when I was in the bathtub. That part pisses me off, becuase the fucking pictures piss me off and to think I was willing to engage with all that further just fucking gets to me. I know it shouldn't blah blah blah.
That dynamic, of wanting to leave my house, stayed with me for a long time. Once in junior high, I actually asked family that I saw a couple times during vacation if I could go live with them for a while. I liked the way that dad interacted with his son. The guy told my father. It did not end well for me.
Although I'm getting ahead of myself, taling about junior high, there are a lot of confusing for me cross-stories and related themes from this time in my life; shit that went on with guys, shit that went on with girls, shit that didn't go on with guys, shit that pissed me off about guys who came onto me, how fucking stupid some of the girls were, how agressive some were, how that fucked me up because I wanted an escape from aggression, even some fucking good people, people who were maybe sincerely nice to me but its all a mess, shit that happened on trips I took, etc. I'm going to leave it all aside for now to get back to a more chronological approach. Plus, parts of all that piss me off, parts of it are confusing, and its all just basically some kind of nightmare.
My father mocked me a lot (this is going back in time, now, and some of the same time period). He used to like to make me cry so that he could mock me more for crying. I hate the fact that I used to let it get to me.
He also would just stop talking to me for days at a time, for no reason. Wait, I don't want to talk about this. Bottom line, those times didn't end well for me either.
He was unpredictable. I was going to write out an example of me getting beaten once for peeing too loud, but that one ended really embarassingly, so I'm skipping it. Other examples, but I'm going to leave them out; beatings I took that others have told me about, etc.
2nd abuser - time-wise. Something I really only recently started thinking about/remembering more although there are parts of it that I have always remembered. This stuff is what has been driving me absolutely crazy lately. But its more that process of remembering it all of the sudden that's bothering, rather than the content. I don't have much feeling at all for the person who was this abuser. I can't, don't want to, and won't talk much more about it right now. This was when I was still pretty young.
3rd abuser (in time): this was a guy, a priest, who used to come to our house a lot. He stood up for me in front of my family, especially about the things I was made fun of for.
The priest came over our house from junior high years into high school. In high school I started getting into a lot of trouble. Even I didn't like what I was becoming. I decided I would talk to the priest about it, since he was "cool," ran a youth group, etc. I even thought I would tell him about how my father made me feel about myself. Up to this point, because of my father and a bully I faced in junior high, I had become pretty withdrawn. I didn't trust anyone, least of all this priest, who was being so nice to me.
At some point, though, I began to believe his defenses of me and began to fancy the idea that maybe he could become the father I never had. I decided to trust him. I want to leave out a lot of the circumstances surrounding how it is that I came to spend one whole day with him because they are fucked up, involve so many layers, involve so much betrayal by so many people, and involve so much manipulation and other bs that I really don't want to get into it.
He was leaving town, so he took me around with him. He bought me some reading books he tought I'd be into, etc. Introduced me to a good friend of his he had to return some items to, etc.
Later, back at his place I started to tell him some of the things I wanted to tell him. Everything went wrong. He was a big enough guy. He pinned me down. Every time I resisted, he would use force against me in ways I don't want to explain. When I stopped resisting he wouldn't hurt me, but he would continue his "tender" I don't know, what do you want to call it? The contrast could not be more clearer; not that I was into how caressing and fucking other fucking mind-bending and fucking maddening other fucking "tendernesses" he would show when he wasn't being violent, but, the contrast was very fucking sharp. Neither alternative was easy to handle though, to tell you the truth, for reasons I will explain in a minute.
That was one of the worst things about it all of it too: that switching back and forth from violence to no violence, what he did: it all unfolded in slow motion. I distinctly remember thinking at so many points: "this is horrible, this is horrible, but at least he's not doing ______ to me." Then, I would watch in horror as he started doing specifically _______ . So then I would re-draw the line: I would say to myself "Well, its bad, he started doing ________, but at least he's not doing _______." Then he would start doing that. That aspect of it was as bad as what he was actually doing.
Like I said, when I resisted this increasingly worse progression he would just fucking hurt me, agressively, openly, directly, uncaringly. When he wasn't hurting me, while he was doing his thing, he whisphered all sorts of shit to me about how natural this was, about how great this was, about how special I was, about how love between a man and a boy wasn't understood but was one of the best forms love cold take, etc. Disgusting fucking ideas, and, given his readiness to hurt me the minute I so much as budged, shit I knew even he didn't believe. To lay there and have to listen to that fucking bullshit was as bad as anything else. I have a low tolerance for bullshit to begin with. That was the worst.
On top of everything else, he made so that his other stuff, what he was doing to me, was - I don't know: tender? or whatever - very different from the violence. I remember, when he got a reaction out of my body, he really went for the pyschological fucking jugular with me: he acted like what he was doing up to that point was nothing. He basically said/acted/I don't remember the exact words but it was pretty much: "well, look at that! look what you've done! how did... I had no idea you liked this so much." etc. bull fucking shit. but it fucked with me for a long time afterward.
He was about to take things farther at that point, because he still hadn't gotten off. Lucky for me there was a knock on the door. It was his buddy who he had introduced me to earlier. He told him that he couldn't answer the door because he was busy. That guy asked if he was busy because he and I were having a "special moment." It made me sick. It made me realize that guy was coming over to get some of me too.
Luckily, they started arguing, or something. The priest got up. I went over to the window because I thought it was the only way I could get out of there. The window was high up. I thought I was going to have to jump. I worried I would break my legs but I didn't care.
When he came back into the room he must have seen what was going on or something because all I know is that next thing I know he was taking me home. At very least, I was shaking really really bad. I thought I would never stop shaking. On the car ride home, he kept putting his hand up my leg. Whatever. Pisses me off to much to talk about. He was also continuing his whole fucking explanation of how great this kind of relationship between men and boys was, how its not gay, how I don't need to worry about it, how I don't need to worry if I feel unnatural about it now, that will all pass, etc. Long fucking theory lesson for a long fucking car-ride.
Because I was shaking so much he told me I better calm down, that my father would be very upset with me if he saw me that way. He told me I couldn't tell anyone, etc. usual stupid fucking threats, what he would tell my parents about me if I didn't cooperate with him, meet with him more, etc.
[skipping some really bad parts about what else went on that week].
Couple of months after he moved away he came into a shop in my town where I was working. I don't know for sure but I think it might have been a coincidence. I was working alone. It was late. He was with a guy from my highschool, a jock. a guy from the other side of town who usually would never be on my side of town. I was shaking so much I swear I can still remember it.
The priest told that guy, right in front me, that I was also one his, the priest's, "special friends," and that he thought the two of us should get to know each other. What the next two years of life were like because of that guy is another thing I don't want to talk about, except to say this: sometimes he was very clearly looking to have sex with me, sometimes he would threaten me, sometimes he would beat down other kids and let me know it was a message for me, sometimes he would just cry and beg me just to be somebody he could talk to. A short time after high school he killed himself really violently and really suddenly. I blamed myself for a long time because I never agreed to talk with him.
At that same job, and at another one I worked after that, there was another guy who used to come in all the time, and, at times at least, it seemed like he was coming in to see me. He would sometimes get flustered when he talked to me. He was big, he was older than me, he was a good looking guy, he worked out,he was an athlete, he was quiet, he was popular enough, he had good friends, I knew his reputation in our small town, etc. His dad was weird. We had some things in common. He always, always, always acted super calm around me, always. Always respectful; almost like he could tell by looking at me so much of what was going on my life - although I might just confusing what I thought: that I could tell a lot about what was going on with him. The only thing that really bugged me were the times he would wait until I was the only one working, or wait until I worked really late, or the kind of shit he would come into the store for, it was just too much. Honestly, I felt like, if he was going through all that trouble just to see me, he had to be fucked up because I was nothing, I was just a fucking punk and a pretty big piece of shit and if he couldn't see that, he had a real lack of judgment. I found the whole thing, including how I sometimes was so intensely interested in and also fucked-up by his interest in me, I found it all so fucking complicated sometimes, so fucking complicated it used to make me angry. On the other hand, I had nobody.
At the same time: he acted like or carried himself like a protector. Don't want to get into details with how he acted that way. But I tell you what: very few people ever ever ever treated me any way even coming close to the way that guy acted around me. There were other people, I hate to say, who I could tell were into me in whatever way, and I just used to use it. With this guy, I never would never have acted that way. I'm going to stop writing this part, in part because I just starting thinking about all of this again yesterday after a long time of not thinking about it at all and its pretty jumbled. I don't want to run on too much about it.
Other thing that used to bug me is that sometimes he would pull up (actually it was pretty often) outside the store and stay in his car and watch me through the window. That was fucked up.
Other stuff going on then and later in life: suicide thoughts, mostly how I could do it by driving off the road and making it seem like an accident, often drove those roads to see if I had it in me at that point. Thought a lot about leaving town and just getting paid to have sex with people, since I considered myself good at it, etc. Was afraid of guys like my grandfather who would hurt me, so I never left.
Did well in school. Drank a lot. Drugs. Went to school high, numbed out, etc. as often as possible. Liked to get so numb that I couldn't feel my fingers. That was my favorite thing.
There's other shit, honestly, that I would talk about, even shit that happened in college, why I quit music lessons there, etc. I just could never get away from what was done to me. It was like it was stamped on my forehead: "make a move on me." The frequency of it, how taboo it all was in my town vs. how many fucking, nevermind. In any case, I just thought sex was all I was and the frequency of unwanted advances, especially from people who were in posiitions of authority, two female teachers, other shit, combined with some of my own choices, really made me feel like it was all my fault or that, at very least, I didn't deserve any pity for any of it.
Hospitalizations, medication, ridiculous and embarassing episodes with black-outs, spacing out, etc. Ridiculous fucking embarassing episodes of being away somewhere and having a flashback or a memory or whatever and things getting so bad I had to get emergency help.
I've always managed to move along, to study, to get decent jobs, etc. But I don't care about any of it and very little of it involves anything I care about in any way whatsoever. I can put on a good game face, I can even be a robot if I have to be. I used to think the fake life I lived wasn't too bad, and maybe even a credit to some kind of fucking perseverence or something, but the emptiness of some of it is beginning to really weight on me.
Not many people know the truth about my life and those who do, do not know anything about the "whole picture." I don't know if I want them to but I feel like I'm going to explode if I don't start allowing myself to be known soon. That's part of what I'm writing this.
As a favor to myself, I'm only going to re-read this once before I post it. I know I left a lot out. I'm worried if I re-read it too much I'll discover stuff I didn't mean to leave out or get lost in it or whatever.
I feel strangely dispassionate now knowing that I've written this, even though I started out with my heart beating so hard, and chest fluttering so bad I didn't know if I could do. Part of what I wrote began to affect me strongly as I wrote it.
I'm completely paranoid about posting this. Worried that one of so many co-victims will see it and recognize me through it, or whatever, worried about a million different things.
That is it for now. Thanks for reading.
I always tried one thing:
To make what happened to me not matter at all.
Turns out, it was supposed to matter.