enemy territory - POSSIBLE TRIGGERS
sorry this is so long but it really helps me to write it all out. i posted it here because of the length. i welcome comments, if you want to reply in the Male Survivors forum or by PM.
Our family house was not a war zone, though there was plenty of violence. A war implies that there is some sort of fighting that occurs on opposing sides. The acts of devastation and destruction in that house were all one-sided. I was already a conquered territory, from the first day I set foot inside his door. The step-dad was the fore-ordained victor and any attempt at resistance on my part was futile and only made my situation worse. I was just over five and a half years old. After the first couple of times that I tried to squirm away and escape, I realized that I was better off to stop struggling and just take it. Otherwise, I was only prolonging the ordeal and causing his efforts to intensify.
It was more like I was living in enemy territory. I felt like I was an alien and an interloper in his home. When my mother married him and we moved in, the house was already populated by the ghosts of his first family. The furniture in every room, the dishes in the cupboards, the clothes in the closets, and the playthings in the toy boxes were ever-present reminders that I did not belong and that there was no room for me in his consciousness.
He initially tried to force me into the roles previously filled by his 13 year old daughter and 10 year old son. That was unsuccessful for him and disastrous for me. I did not and could not fit those molds. By the age of 6, I had experienced inadequacy, failure, and rejection. I never caught up to or outgrew the step-dads idealized mirages of perfection that had supplanted the physical reality and presence of his children. And I never found or attained an approved substitute standard of achievement that would gain me even a grudging acknowledgement of adequacy or acceptance. Instead, I became adept at disappearing as much as possible when he was around. Whenever I could get away with it, I hid in my room or in the basement or in another room anywhere that he was not. When I had to be in his presence, I tried not to call attention to myself. Seen but not heard was a wise practice for me; neither seen not heard was even safer.
I had my own undercover life. It existed mostly in my imagination, between the pages of books where I sought solace and escape, and in solitary activities such as writing stories, drawing, and constructing elaborate environments in the sandbox or in the basement for my brothers electric train and my slot-car set. I wrote and rehearsed puppet shows that were seldom, if ever performed. I kept up an interior monologue in which I narrated my life both the unpleasant realities and also my fantasy alternative. My tone was detached, objective and constrained about the reality version, but indulgently and passionately expansive for the fantasy version. My sense of my own identity was fiercely guarded and secretly defiant, a steely unyielding core, forged as it was within the fiery blast of hatred and beneath the hammer blows of abusive punishment.
Everything he did to me was justified by the step-dads position, prestige and power. It was not physical abuse; it was discipline. It was not cruelty; it was being strict. It was not violence; it was punishment. And it was deserved. It was not his fault; it was mine. He was automatically right because he was an adult and a parent; I was automatically wrong because I was just a child. He did not abuse his wife (my mother) or my brother or his real sons, my half-brothers: I was the only one that was beaten; therefore, it must be my fault. I had earned it. I was bad. I was weak. I was defective. I was a sissy. I was not good enough. I needed to be whipped into shape. I needed to be toughened up. It was his job to make me fit for something. He had to make a man of me.
Everyone else bought into his rationalizations and so I did too. His abuse was reasonable, practical, beneficial, and most importantly of all mandated by scripture. He had Gods permission nay - His divine encouragement, command, and approval to beat me. He was acting under the sanction of biblical authority, so that meant that if I resisted or complained, then I was a wicked sinner who was defying Gods will.
Moreover, since he was being obedient to Gods will by following Gods commands to Train up a child in the way he should go, and not Spare the rod and spoil the child, he was virtuous, righteous and praiseworthy. In fact, if the measure of a fathers excellence is the amount of punishment he gives, then he must have been one of the best ever.
I could have stood the beatings if it had been only physical battering I was subjected to. But the verbal and emotional barrage was far more constant and unrelenting. And I believe it was far more damaging. Long after the bruises and broken skin had faded and healed for the last time, I still bore the emotional scars from the words of contempt and disparagement and the habit of being perpetually put down. A few kind words or gestures would have made a huge difference, but my mom seemed afraid to do anything that would appear to undermine her husband. So I existed in a wasteland where the only words I received were negative, critical and toxic and the only emotion I felt directed toward me was anger.
At the age of eighteen, I escaped the enemy territory of home and crossed the border into a neutral nation. I was free from the repetitions of actual abuse, but not from the repeated echoes of his words and the recurring images of his face and body, and the everlasting stain of shame upon my spirit.
For years, even after I had been able to correct my understanding of the situation and recognize the treatment for what it was and admit that I was a victim of child abuse in several varieties, it was difficult for me to identify any of the treatment as sexual abuse. There were several reasons for this.
First was the fact that, as a kid, I had no idea that there was such a thing as CSA. It was all just punishment and pain to me. One kind of torture seemed to morph into another without my being aware that an invisible line had been crossed, with no change in his demeanor, no evidence of guilt or blame on his part. After all, he had immunity by virtue of his age, size, and strength. All the guilt and blame was inseparably welded to my conscience, body and feelings. I did not know that one type of punishment was more or less appropriate than another. Every form of treatment at his hands filled me with shame and fear and inferiority.
Another circumstance that muddied the waters was that often the sexual taunts and innuendos he hurled at me were mixed in with the other insults and jibes. In the same way, the mockery of my appearance or body in general could shift imperceptibly to a mockery of my private parts and my probable future sexual orientation and predicted sexual behavior. It was hard to separate the generic harassment from that of a sexual nature.
In addition, it all seemed so spontaneous and unpremeditated. It was something that just happened. It didnt seem to have any motive or purpose except to hurt me. As a pre-pubescent child, I did not know anything about sex so there was no way to link the acts with the idea. Later, as a boy going through puberty, sex came to be associated with both shame/pain and pleasure in a confusing and contradictory mix. Once I discovered the explosive ecstasy of a sexual climax, it became even more incomprehensible that what he did to me could be sexual in nature. There did not appear to be any sexual thrill involved only anger on his part and shame and pain on mine. This was not what I associated with sex as an adult. I saw no connection. There did not seem to be any pleasure for either of us. There was plenty of shame and pain for me, but only unquenchable and unending anger for him, along with frustration and dissatisfaction. He did not seem to be attracted to or to enjoy what he did only to be disgusted by me. If that all-eclipsing and thrilling orgasm that I had discovered by accident was the goal of sex, and I was convinced that it must be otherwise, why all the fuss? then what he was doing was falling far short and surely could not qualify. If sex was involved at all, it seemed to me that it was only on my side just my warped interpretation of what he was doing - and that made it even more shameful for me.
Finally, far into my adult years, decades after the abuse had ended, I was able to realize and accept that the acts and words and attitudes that he perpetrated all qualified as sexual abuse, even though they were not the typical type, according to my preconceptions. I even had the uncomfortable thought, one that I expressed apologetically and self-effacingly in a group session, that I had never experienced the normal kind of abuse. If I had, perhaps I could have recognized it sooner instead of minimalizing it. The use of that word normal when applied to something as perverse as child sexual abuse, set me off on an angry outburst, followed by tears to think that I was envying another form of abuse over my own, and using the oxymoronic adjective normal to describe such an abomination.
Now I know why I have always found it impossible to separate the physical abuse, the verbal/emotional abuse, and the sexual abuse. (And I maintain that I also suffered spiritual abuse at the same time, because of the religious excuses that were used.) They are all so tightly intertwined that the various types are inseparable. It is not like a weaving where you can unravel a particular color of threads from the others of other colors in the warp and woof, but like strands of fibers that have blended contents twisted together into every strand and then woven into a fabric that is consistently mixed throughout its substance.
Lee
Our family house was not a war zone, though there was plenty of violence. A war implies that there is some sort of fighting that occurs on opposing sides. The acts of devastation and destruction in that house were all one-sided. I was already a conquered territory, from the first day I set foot inside his door. The step-dad was the fore-ordained victor and any attempt at resistance on my part was futile and only made my situation worse. I was just over five and a half years old. After the first couple of times that I tried to squirm away and escape, I realized that I was better off to stop struggling and just take it. Otherwise, I was only prolonging the ordeal and causing his efforts to intensify.
It was more like I was living in enemy territory. I felt like I was an alien and an interloper in his home. When my mother married him and we moved in, the house was already populated by the ghosts of his first family. The furniture in every room, the dishes in the cupboards, the clothes in the closets, and the playthings in the toy boxes were ever-present reminders that I did not belong and that there was no room for me in his consciousness.
He initially tried to force me into the roles previously filled by his 13 year old daughter and 10 year old son. That was unsuccessful for him and disastrous for me. I did not and could not fit those molds. By the age of 6, I had experienced inadequacy, failure, and rejection. I never caught up to or outgrew the step-dads idealized mirages of perfection that had supplanted the physical reality and presence of his children. And I never found or attained an approved substitute standard of achievement that would gain me even a grudging acknowledgement of adequacy or acceptance. Instead, I became adept at disappearing as much as possible when he was around. Whenever I could get away with it, I hid in my room or in the basement or in another room anywhere that he was not. When I had to be in his presence, I tried not to call attention to myself. Seen but not heard was a wise practice for me; neither seen not heard was even safer.
I had my own undercover life. It existed mostly in my imagination, between the pages of books where I sought solace and escape, and in solitary activities such as writing stories, drawing, and constructing elaborate environments in the sandbox or in the basement for my brothers electric train and my slot-car set. I wrote and rehearsed puppet shows that were seldom, if ever performed. I kept up an interior monologue in which I narrated my life both the unpleasant realities and also my fantasy alternative. My tone was detached, objective and constrained about the reality version, but indulgently and passionately expansive for the fantasy version. My sense of my own identity was fiercely guarded and secretly defiant, a steely unyielding core, forged as it was within the fiery blast of hatred and beneath the hammer blows of abusive punishment.
Everything he did to me was justified by the step-dads position, prestige and power. It was not physical abuse; it was discipline. It was not cruelty; it was being strict. It was not violence; it was punishment. And it was deserved. It was not his fault; it was mine. He was automatically right because he was an adult and a parent; I was automatically wrong because I was just a child. He did not abuse his wife (my mother) or my brother or his real sons, my half-brothers: I was the only one that was beaten; therefore, it must be my fault. I had earned it. I was bad. I was weak. I was defective. I was a sissy. I was not good enough. I needed to be whipped into shape. I needed to be toughened up. It was his job to make me fit for something. He had to make a man of me.
Everyone else bought into his rationalizations and so I did too. His abuse was reasonable, practical, beneficial, and most importantly of all mandated by scripture. He had Gods permission nay - His divine encouragement, command, and approval to beat me. He was acting under the sanction of biblical authority, so that meant that if I resisted or complained, then I was a wicked sinner who was defying Gods will.
Moreover, since he was being obedient to Gods will by following Gods commands to Train up a child in the way he should go, and not Spare the rod and spoil the child, he was virtuous, righteous and praiseworthy. In fact, if the measure of a fathers excellence is the amount of punishment he gives, then he must have been one of the best ever.
I could have stood the beatings if it had been only physical battering I was subjected to. But the verbal and emotional barrage was far more constant and unrelenting. And I believe it was far more damaging. Long after the bruises and broken skin had faded and healed for the last time, I still bore the emotional scars from the words of contempt and disparagement and the habit of being perpetually put down. A few kind words or gestures would have made a huge difference, but my mom seemed afraid to do anything that would appear to undermine her husband. So I existed in a wasteland where the only words I received were negative, critical and toxic and the only emotion I felt directed toward me was anger.
At the age of eighteen, I escaped the enemy territory of home and crossed the border into a neutral nation. I was free from the repetitions of actual abuse, but not from the repeated echoes of his words and the recurring images of his face and body, and the everlasting stain of shame upon my spirit.
For years, even after I had been able to correct my understanding of the situation and recognize the treatment for what it was and admit that I was a victim of child abuse in several varieties, it was difficult for me to identify any of the treatment as sexual abuse. There were several reasons for this.
First was the fact that, as a kid, I had no idea that there was such a thing as CSA. It was all just punishment and pain to me. One kind of torture seemed to morph into another without my being aware that an invisible line had been crossed, with no change in his demeanor, no evidence of guilt or blame on his part. After all, he had immunity by virtue of his age, size, and strength. All the guilt and blame was inseparably welded to my conscience, body and feelings. I did not know that one type of punishment was more or less appropriate than another. Every form of treatment at his hands filled me with shame and fear and inferiority.
Another circumstance that muddied the waters was that often the sexual taunts and innuendos he hurled at me were mixed in with the other insults and jibes. In the same way, the mockery of my appearance or body in general could shift imperceptibly to a mockery of my private parts and my probable future sexual orientation and predicted sexual behavior. It was hard to separate the generic harassment from that of a sexual nature.
In addition, it all seemed so spontaneous and unpremeditated. It was something that just happened. It didnt seem to have any motive or purpose except to hurt me. As a pre-pubescent child, I did not know anything about sex so there was no way to link the acts with the idea. Later, as a boy going through puberty, sex came to be associated with both shame/pain and pleasure in a confusing and contradictory mix. Once I discovered the explosive ecstasy of a sexual climax, it became even more incomprehensible that what he did to me could be sexual in nature. There did not appear to be any sexual thrill involved only anger on his part and shame and pain on mine. This was not what I associated with sex as an adult. I saw no connection. There did not seem to be any pleasure for either of us. There was plenty of shame and pain for me, but only unquenchable and unending anger for him, along with frustration and dissatisfaction. He did not seem to be attracted to or to enjoy what he did only to be disgusted by me. If that all-eclipsing and thrilling orgasm that I had discovered by accident was the goal of sex, and I was convinced that it must be otherwise, why all the fuss? then what he was doing was falling far short and surely could not qualify. If sex was involved at all, it seemed to me that it was only on my side just my warped interpretation of what he was doing - and that made it even more shameful for me.
Finally, far into my adult years, decades after the abuse had ended, I was able to realize and accept that the acts and words and attitudes that he perpetrated all qualified as sexual abuse, even though they were not the typical type, according to my preconceptions. I even had the uncomfortable thought, one that I expressed apologetically and self-effacingly in a group session, that I had never experienced the normal kind of abuse. If I had, perhaps I could have recognized it sooner instead of minimalizing it. The use of that word normal when applied to something as perverse as child sexual abuse, set me off on an angry outburst, followed by tears to think that I was envying another form of abuse over my own, and using the oxymoronic adjective normal to describe such an abomination.
Now I know why I have always found it impossible to separate the physical abuse, the verbal/emotional abuse, and the sexual abuse. (And I maintain that I also suffered spiritual abuse at the same time, because of the religious excuses that were used.) They are all so tightly intertwined that the various types are inseparable. It is not like a weaving where you can unravel a particular color of threads from the others of other colors in the warp and woof, but like strands of fibers that have blended contents twisted together into every strand and then woven into a fabric that is consistently mixed throughout its substance.
Lee
