THIS is the very thing that pushed me into seeking out a T. Sitting in my work truck after a long cold day of cutting down trees, sobbing my eyes out. Knowing that if I didn’t talk to someone soon, I would do something that I would regret for the rest of my life.
My abuse occurred at Scout camp at the age of 16, not by a family member. Immediately afterwards, I buried the memory. This left me going thru one of the most challenging times in my life with a raft of subconscious motivations. Dating in high school was fraught to say the least. Following my SA, I didn’t have sexual contact till the end of my senior year. It certainly made being on the wrestling team weird. When I did have actual penetration sex it was typical teenage fumbling. Some of it bordered on date rape. It was never enjoyable. For either of us really. I wasn’t one to force the issue, I merely took advantage.
In college, among 56,000 other students, I was crushingly awkward. Spending long hours in the restroom of the main library beating off the the stall wall graffiti. I ate tons of LSD and wrestled with “am I gay?” I never did find an answer back then. No one wanted to get near the seething mass of rage anxiety conflict confusion that was me.
I was able to remember the CSA in my senior year of college and that helped me some. Just getting out on my own among working class heroes helped more. But eventually I realized that they weren’t like me. They were brutal shortsighted pigs looking to rutt. Then I discovered body modification and bdsm. A way to punish myself for being a monster. My depravity deepened. I never did have sexual contact with a man but silicone is an amazing substance and I wore out several “toys” while living in an old industrial space. This was 2000, and the internet was young. I found erotica, way better than the Penthouse letters, I discovered written incest and pedophilia stories. Always deeper into the darkness, but alone with my imagination, seeing the stories I was reading, and never telling a soul. Married cheated divorced. I was a filthy whore. Luckily not a diseased one. Never did find a gay man who I wanted to have sex with. Found a couple of straight ones though. They were flattered but uninterested. My inner sex life was a sewer. Remarried, still silent about my fantasy world.
I mostly stomped around breaking things and being miserable. In spite of accomplishing some truly singular things.
With the case against the BSA going front page, along with the Epstein/Maxwell circus, and having turned 50, my body has begun to weaken, as had my resolve to keep it all bottled up. Seeing the outrage on social media, the calls for simply killing pedophiles, and then a good friend while an undisclosed porn addiction got arrested for possession of child porn, the walls began to creak. The stories weren’t enough. I began to fail sexually in bed. I began to look at the kids in town. My marriage began to teeter also.
“Am I gay?” became “Am I a pedophile?”
Last month there was a story in the local paper about a 45 year old man arrested for sexual contact with 10-13 year old girls. The line that’s stuck with me is that “these guys can usually keep it under control, until they can’t.”
I’m starting my 4th month of T, and I don’t know if it’s helping overall, but the teetering has stopped. The cracks, while not gone, aren’t getting bigger.
What I have learned is that once I lost my voice for what I wanted at the hands of an older man, I lost the boundaries that most people simply take for granted. In magick they say that “do as thou whilst is the whole of the law.” But there are always costs and consequences for doing so. I pushed right up to the edge. I know that stepping over that edge would end badly for me.
Now this isn’t to say that the culture/media in the US (read Hollywood) is making any of this any easier. And having access to the internet in my pocket is mind blowing. So for someone with weak boundaries, I have to walk a very narrow line. I keep to myself mostly. I actively avoided children. Hell, I got a vasectomy at 25 because I didn’t think I would be able to control myself.
So I keep going. Keep my guard up. Asking for help is (can be) worth the effort. Undoing 35 years of mental fuckery is a quick thing.
