Friday, December 6, 2013

"Don't Tell Your Mommy, This Is Our Little Secret"

I met K at swim lessons when I was 7 and she was 6. My mom quickly felt bad for K, because she had no friends, and struck up a friendship with K's mother L and told me I had to be friends with K.

When I was 10, during a sleepover party one night, L started touching me in a way I knew was wrong. She fondled my newly developing breasts, and touched my down there. I hoped it was the only time. It wasn't.

Over the next 4 years, L would invite me over her house for sleepovers with K. While I was there, she would touch me. She would have K touch me. She would penetrate me with objects both vaginally and anally. At one point, she penetrated me anally so hard that my anus bled for a week. Outside of their house, K would touch me every chance she got, even if it was just a slap on the butt or a squeeze of the boob as she walked by me in the hall. After each incident, L would give me presents, and take me to my favorite restaurant, and remind me once again that it was our little secret.

Did I listen? HELL NO! I told every adult I could think of.

"You can't be molested by another female"
"Stop being ridiculous"
"L would not do that"
"Stop lying. If you bring it up again, you're grounded."

I gave up and just cried to myself at night. I still do sometimes, 6 years after the last incident.

I don't know if I'll ever completely be "over" this. I can't go "woe is me" forever, but sometimes, I just have to face my past.

-- crazychick10793

I Was Molested As Child

I Can't Keep Lessening What It Was And Ignoring It

it happened twice, there was another thing with my brother , but I wouldn't call it molestation.
the second time wasn't as bad as the first. it was when I played mini-football for a year in fourth or fifth grade, which even without the molestation, was one of the most shameful experiences of my life (pardon the lame attempt at humor). it was the assistant coach; I forget his name. he was one of those weird, half-doctors ( maybe of the feet. Christ, I think he may have been a pediatrician foot doctor, but I hope not). I had got hit hard in the gut, so I was very complacent. either way, at mini-football I was always in a nervous daze. he brought me to the supply closet to check the injury, reminding me that we was a doctor. he helped me get take of my belt and grabbed me. I was too shocked to move and he was muttering comforting doctor words. it lasted less than ten seconds. he was very skilled and casual about it; I could have easily dismissed and forgotten it. the other coached knocked, and he pulled the pants back up. the other coach was suspicious, but I was still shocked and seemed fine, so that was that.
after a few days of walking in a daze, I realized what had happened and then remembered the full details of the first time
the first time was the summer before kindergarten, at a playground, during a sister's soccer game. I can remember it all surprisingly clear. I was playing with my cousin, when three guys playing basketball asked us to join; I’d played with them a couple times before. they seemed to be barely out of their teens. one had serious acne, the other had a scruffy half-beard. I was unaware of the concept of molestation, but they made me wary. they were friendlier than anyone I'd ever met, while at the same time it seemed to be all in on a joke I was not privy too.
it was almost too clichéd. they literally said "we some candy in our van." I was suspicious even then, but I was adventurous and brave, two traits they would soon kill in me for almost a decade.
I got in and, as the door shut, all my braveness left me. they closed the curtains and stayed parked in the parking lot, testing the waters. I was crying, so they put a stale, candy necklace in my hand.
(this is where it gets disgusting, but I have to put down what happened and quit trying to lesson what it was) The one guy had an expensive video camera (I’m just realizing that they were probably pornographers). They commented on the heat and asked if I wanted to take my pants off. I said no and was frightened, but unsure if anything was wrong. They started to pull down my jeans, but they were tight, so they scrunched them just low enough for it to stick out. When they touched it, I started to urinate on their carpeting. The scruffy guy got pissed, and I apologized, while the others convinced him to calm down and assured me that they didn’t mind. They started putting their fingers down the back of my jeans and rubbing my front. Nothing in the conversation suggested anything was wrong or strange, so I calmed down and loosened up. They just kept complementing me.
Then they brought my attention camera, and asked if I wanted to help them try it out. they helped me pull down my clothes past the knees. I did a dance I liked to do for my parents. After that, I think the one raped me. That memory is a fog, unlike the others, but I remember finding blood my underwear a few times after and fearing that someone would find out.
They asked me if I wanted to be in a movie and I said sure. They started to drive away and I had a gripping fear that I was about to die. I crapped myself and cried as hard as I could. I fell on my knees and started moaning begs. They got nervous and started yelling at each other. They made a circle in the parking lot and shoved me out where they took me. I wanted to run to my mom but I didn’t want to tell her. I knew she would know something was wrong if she saw my pants. I wandered the playground as kids stared and tried to think of how to hide it. I ran into the woods and threw my underwear up a hill. When I went to her, terrified and silent, she realized that I had crapped myself and assumed that was why I was scared. I never had to tell anyone.
I don’t think I need to say how this affected me as a child, anyone on here knows. I was scared and I was nervous. I was sexually confused. I made fleeting connections with friends. I still had to sleep with my mother at least once a week when I was thirteen.
Now, it’s still going to affect me. What’s it going to be like the first time I get intimate with a girl, knowing the other time something similar happened, it was like this? What if I have a son, and I have to fear this for him. What if I can’t fucking scorch this mess from my memory?

-- alivehuman

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Check out this book

Hard Candy, Nobody Ever Flies over the Cuckoo's Nest, Charles A. Carroll

Left on the doorsteps of an orphanage as a toddler with his less than one year older sibling who was probably borderline retarded, this is a tale of an enduring love between two brothers who had no one else in life but each other. Never loosing the impish grim and charming good looks, Charles along with his brother traveled from orphanage to foster home to state institution to foster home and back to state institution. As a court order required the brothers not to be separated, a terrified young Charles found himself joining his brother in a state facility for boys with mental disabilities, "a nuthouse" as one would call it. No one bothered to notice that this was not an appropriate placement for a perfectly normal little boy.

The story relates in chilling detail the daily living horror that was Charles' life. A normal youngster dumped in with society's outcasts in a nightmarish hell of abuse, hunger, filth, punishment, neglect and unending loneliness. A world where almost all adults he encountered continued the pattern of outright brutality and physical abuse or in true institutional form looked with strong blinders the other way and just did their time at the job. A world where children were left just to sit for years, suffering unending misery and boredom, never given the chance to develop their natural capabilities in any manner. The will to endure, protect his brother and survive kept Charles placing one small foot in front of the other each despairing day. The will to maintain his sanity in an insane place, to endure suffering no child should ever be expected to face and to survive to bear witness against an unjust and little known system gives Charles the strength to speak for the all but forgotten.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Rape, I Was Thirteen

There are words that we say or hear in life; and once we say them, everything changes.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Will you marry me?”
“You got the job!”
“He didn’t make it…”
“I don’t love you.”
If we’re lucky, we only hear the good ones. The ones that change our lives for the better. But for most of us, it’s the tragic phrases that stay with us forever.
I’ve heard my fair share.
“We’re getting divorced.”
“I’m moving to Chicago.”
“I wish you had never been born.”
But it’s the words that I’ve had to say that have been the hardest. These words are ones that I still trip over when I say them now, almost six years later. They’re words that make society as a whole take a step back and cringe.
They’re the words you never think you’ll say.
“I was raped.”
Even typing it feels wrong. Six years after I said it for the first time, it still feels messy and forced.
I remember the first time I said it.
I didn’t want to say it.
I remember the room I was in – my mother’s. And I’ll always remember her face.
Contorted. Pain-ridden. Inconsolable.
And my next words were “Don’t tell anyone.”
I’m not sure which three words hurt her more.
When I said these words, I was dead inside. Rotted from the inside out, like a tree that finally gives out after years of being gnawed on by bugs. I also know, however, that the second I said these words my entire life would change – even though I never could have prepared myself for the changes that would follow that day.
I remember being numb not only to my pain, but hers as well. She was yelling, and crying, and I just calmly opened the door, went upstairs, and got in bed. I think a part of me thought that because I said it, it was over. I don’t know exactly what I was thinking in those moments.
But, those words made their way up my chest, into my throat, and finally out of my mouth. And that meant that everything was different.
I was in bed and I heard a knock at the door. I remember being annoyed because I just wanted to be alone.
It wasn’t until I realized that it was a police officer that I knew that I was fucked.
It was a female officer who walked in. She didn’t say anything except stand over my bed and ask me what had happened.
I was angry that my mother had betrayed me by calling the police. I knew that my life was over. I was exploding on the inside.
But I was also dead. On the inside, and seemingly on the outside.
I told her what had happened. Mostly because I wanted her to leave.
She nodded and took notes while I said those words that I never wanted to say.
And then she told me that I had to go to the hospital.  More words I couldn’t understand.
I wasn’t sure why – it had happened over a week before. I told her there was nothing they would find, but she insisted. My words didn’t matter. She asked me to get dressed, and said that she’d wait downstairs.
I don’t remember getting dressed. The next thing I remember was walking downstairs and seeing my stepfather there. It was too early for him to be home from work, which meant my mom had called and asked him to come home. He stood in the doorway, and I froze when I saw him. I could see a police car in the driveway.
“Did that boy rape you?”
More words that I couldn’t comprehend. I couldn’t believe that these words were coming out of his mouth. I just nodded.
My mother drove me to the hospital. I don’t remember the words we said in the car. I can’t imagine what words we would have had to say to each other in those moments.
They put me in a triage room with just a curtain, in the middle of the E.R.
I remember thinking to myself that people were probably wondering why I was there, with two police officers. And I didn’t even look sick.
They left us in that room for a long time. Forever. Just my mom and I.
I remember a doctor finally walking in with a clipboard and interns eagerly waiting to cure whatever ailment I was in there for.
“So, what can I do for you today?”
He was obviously in the wrong room. My mother and I looked at each other, and I finally just said it.
“Uh, yeah. I’m here because I was raped.”
Flat-voiced. Emotionless. My mother’s eyes widened.
The doctor grunted awkwardly and flipped a page on his clipboard before quickly ushering his posse out and saying a quick “Let me see if I can get someone to help you with that.”
It was so awkward, and unimaginable, and other-worldly, that my mom and I just looked at each other and burst out laughing. It wasn’t funny; none of it was funny. But there was nothing else we could do in that moment but laugh. I’ll never forget that.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, a nurse came in. I don’t remember much, except being handed a cup and ushered into the bathroom to give a urine sample.
They were going to check my urine for STDs.
I was only 13.
I had never even thought of STDs.
Words like “HIV”
What the fuck were these words? How could they ever apply to me?
Then they took vials of blood. I remember watching when they stuck the needle inside my arm, and I felt nothing. My mother told me to look away. She offered her hand for me to hold. I just kept looking at my arm, watching someone else’s blood rush into the containers. It couldn’t be my blood. It couldn’t be my body. This couldn’t actually be happening. I was a zombie who was still breathing somehow.
I kept up that persona during the vaginal exam. It’s a blur, but I remember putting my feet in the stirrups, and then the feeling of the cold prod being put inside me.
I remember having to repeat the words to every nurse and doctor who came to examine me. They weren’t even words anymore. Just a monologue that I had become too familiar with.
The next thing I remember was finally crying.
It was after I had been examined, and every fluid my body produced had been taken for testing. It was after we told the police officers that we would be at the station first thing in the morning for a formal statement.
We walked through the doors of the hospital, and my legs gave out from under me.
I remember thinking that my life was actually over.
And looking back on it, I guess it was. That part of my life was over. Things would never be the same. They’re still not the same.
There were so many words after that.
Words that became routine.
Words that as a 13 year-old, I had never said in front of my mother. Or to an adult.
Words like “semen.”
And “penis.”
And “ejaculation.”
Words like “vodka.”
And “drunk.”
And “oral sex.”
I didn’t even know the words for some of the things that had happened. But I learned them. In interview rooms. With police officers recording my words. Writing down my words.
I remember one of the days after I said those first words.
I took the police officers to where it had happened.
And they asked me for the clothes I was wearing that day.
They were crumpled in the corner of my room. Hidden. But not hidden enough.
I remember being upset because they said I wouldn’t get my favorite sweatshirt back.
There was DNA evidence smeared on the front of it.
I remember reading his words. His statement. I remember them handing it to me. I remember reading every word over and over again until I couldn’t read anymore.
I remember the words of the kids I went to school with.
The death threats.
The messages from his friends, who were in high school.
Words like “Whore.”
And “Liar.”
They were words that made sure I never returned to school again.
I remember the words my mother said when they finally charged him.
Words like “Insufficient evidence.”
And “Conflicting testimony.”
And “unreliable victim.”
I remember what he finally got sentenced to.
“Sexual assault therapy.”
And I remember all the words I didn’t say.
I remember living in my bed for weeks.
I remember the fits of rage, and I remember when they gave me back some of the clothes I had been wearing that day.
I remember burying those clothes in my back yard so I’d never have to look at them again.
They’re probably still there.
I remember my mother.
Who had been torn open from the inside out.
I remember words like “I want to die.”
And “What am I going to do now?”
Even now these words make my stomach turn.
These words that seem to belong to someone else.
Someone weaker. And more naïve.
Not me.
My words are different now.
Words like “Friends.”
And there are still words that I struggle with.
Words like “Love.”
Words like “Survivor.”


Monday, February 18, 2013

Song for Jamey

Sacha Sacket, who is part of the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles, grew up in Iran. He was bullied and isolated and could relate very well to the story of Jamey, a 14-year-old gay teen who took his own life after being bullied for years. His Song for Jamey is quite haunting. It’s available on Spotify.

He tries to understand
He turns the pages
They say he’s not a man
It burns in stages
And so
Here’s how the story goes
He dies to let you know
That the kids won’t quit
And his heart don’t fit
And his life is shit
They say it’s such a shame
The war and wages
They find some kids to blame
And turn their pages
But no
Here’s how the story goes
He died to let you know
That the kids won’t quit
And his heart don’t fit
And his life is shit

Monday, February 4, 2013

Another bullying casualty

A 15-year-old bullied gay teen died this weekend. Jadin was taken to hospital in Oregon earlier this month after he hanged himself on a playground at an elementary school. A close family friend, said the teen had complained of homophobic bullying a week before and had talked to a counsellor at his local high school. “He was different, and they tend to pick on the different ones,” he said Jadin was a sophomore, and a member of the cheerleading squad. “If someone was down and out he would walk into a room and say a couple quick words and everybody would just forget about their problems and smile, he just had a gift.”
More than 200 people attended a vigil two weeks ago in honour of the boy. After the event, one of Jadin’s friend said: “He is amazingly sensitive. He is an amazing young man who is smart and very social; he has a personal and a presence that you want to be a part of.”