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life means walking toward death, not rushing it.
Join Date: Mar 2008
Location: Oklahoma
I am currently:  
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Forget victim, I'm a survivor! (sexual abuse, psychological abuse, Likely triggering)
I don't know why I'm sharing this with ryl, for the most part only the various shrinks I have seen know most of this. It needs to be said though. The truth shall set me free.
I don't recall the first nine years of my life, shy of snippets and random recollections. My parents divorced when I was nine. Before that, my father was a travelling salesman and was gone for two or three weeks of the month. So for the most part it was my mother who raised me. I do remember her being supportive and trying to make sure I was doing well in school. At least once. I only remember one day like that. My older half sister remembers much more than that. And she has shared it with me. And now I share it with you. My parents had just gotten home from enrolling me into the first grade. They were fighting and arguing from the moment they got through the door. Most likely from the moment they got into the car. When they got in, my father went to their room, and I asked my mother a question. My sister doesn't remember what it was, but said that it was a 6 year old question. My mother clenched her jaw and spoke in italian through her teeth. Then she put her hand down her pants, removed it and placed it over my mouth and nose, and proceeded to spank the hell out of me. As the story goes, I ran to my room and cried after she began going on about how worthless and pathetic I was. My sister went to my room to console me, and my mother forcefully removed her from the room. Apparently she also used to smack me across the face, and use the same verbal abuse techniques as well, on a fairly consistent basis. I trust my sister. she is one of the few that I do trust with all my heart.
When I was 8 years old, I met a girl, her name was Aubri. We both liked each other and just like that, I had my first girlfriend. And she was a precocious one. She gave me my first kiss. She taught me to spit (a habit I have yet to break). She taught me how to tongue kiss. She taught me how to have sex. She told me to pee in her. She made me drink her piss to prove my love to her. And as heartbreaking as it is to think of that, I feel even more sorry for her. She was 7.
Shortly after my parents divorced, my father decided he needed an emotional punching bag. His favorite communications with me often included, "you ****ing asshole" "you stupid mother ****er" "you'll never get to college, so I am spending your college fund" and MY personal favorite..."I should just put you in a dress and call you by your mother's name" Things never really improved until I joined the military.
Again, when I was nine (I don't know wth is up with that age. It just really sucked), me and my little sister were making forts in the living room while our father left us unattended so he could roller skate. In the process, she found a small pile of my dad's dirty magazines. I have no freaking clue why he thought it would be a GOOD idea to leave them under the couch, but he apparently thought it was. So we looked at them. She asked me if we could do what the people in the magazine were doing. With my experience with my first girlfriend, i thought it was something that boys did with girls they loved. You love family, right? The rest writes itself. I can't get any further without triggering myself. It wasn't until a year later that I discovered what i had done. I was terrified. I hated myself for it. Only recently have I forgiven myself. But this story doesn't end here. When I was 12, and while my dad and stepmother were leaving us unattended to go roller skating, my little sister confronted me. She told me that if I didn't have sex with her, she would tell my father that I did, but if I did, she would say nothing. I was terrified of my father. I KNEW he hated me. On top of that, when i was four, I slapped my sister across the face. He told me that if I ever hurt her again, he would hurt me three times as bad. I had sex with her, and wanted to die for every second of it. As well as for years after that.
When I was 11, my father rented the spare bedroom out to make some extra money. One of the renters was a couple. He was a mexican with long hair, she was a natural blond. They constantly fought. I called the police on them one time because I was scared. They had me in their room a lot. She would make out with me, tell me that she loved me and wanted to run away with me and leave her boyfriend. She taught me how to preform oral sex. She had me stick fingers in her butt. Sometimes she would have her boyfriend watch. One time, she went down on me while her boyfriend laughed and told me I had such a small penis and would never be able to make a woman happy. Another time, I told them that I didn't want to do that stuff anymore, so he put a gun to my head and told me to play with her pussy. I'm fairly certain that is the main reason I get sexual gratification from seeing my own blood. I think that's why it's better than sex.
On top of all of this, I grew up with few friends. From kindergarten to third grade I was beaten up nearly every day by the same kid. I was constantly picked on and made fun of. Always pushed around and shoved aside. It was so bad, that by the age of fourteen I was waiting until I was 16 so that I could get a job so I could earn enough money to buy a gun and shoot the worst of my tormentors. Luckily that fell through, because my family wound up moving to another county, let alone shcool district. Things got easier. I discovered drugs, which numbed me up pretty good. I discovered alcohol, which had the same effect. I didn't discover sex until I was 20 though, and it was a cold and empty experience when I lost my virginity. I couldn't even orgasm. I'n fact I never did until it was physically painful. I guess you could say that I discovered SH at twenty too. I started getting tattoos. But at the same time, I knew I was doing it to keep myself from cutting, so in a sense it was SH, I was only paying someone to do it for me. When I was 22, I discovered hardcore BDSM. Before that point, I had never felt so loved. I started burning myself with cigarettes at 22 as well, and when I was 25, I had my first cut.
But through all of this...I can say that I am NOT a victim. In fact no living person is. No matter what we have been through, we are alive. We survived. And though sometimes urges are strong, and we may slip up, we can at least say "at least i'm alive.
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