My childhood - BIG TRIGGER!
victor-victim
Registrant
BIG TRIGGER!!
note from the author:
I started writing this and could not stop.
As bizarre as this story may sound, it is all truth.
I don't care if you believe it.
MY CHILDHOOD (as I remember it)
--------------------------------
I met my first murderer at a very early age.
I don't even believe I was older than 6.
My babysitter, Ralph K.
He was the brother of my mom's friend, Linda K.
I remember he would take us to the swimming pool.
The adults said he was "slow".
I thought of him as a big kid, a little weird and creepy, but no serious bad vibes.
Then one day, he killed his mother and brother with a hammer.
We heard they had planned to put him into an institution and he found out about it.
They were both sleeping when he smashed their heads in.
Ralph's mother was a dear old christian woman; elderly and kind and generous to us.
Not too many years later, my mother fell in love with a man she met in a mental hospital... Joe N. Child killer.
I was only in grade 1 or 2, but even I knew there was something wrong with this.
She would take us to visit him and they would sit and snuggle and smooch, while we kids played in the parklike atmosphere of the hospital grounds.
Mom told me Joe was not really a murderer.
He had bludgeoned his two sons with a drywall hatchet because of a "psychotic episode".
He was "not in control" and therefore "not responsible" for his actions.
I kept wondering... what will stop him from having another "psychotic episode"?
If he is "not in control" how can we trust him?
Will he kill me and my two little sisters next time?
I was suspicious and cautious, but I was only a little boy so there was an element of fascination mixed with my fear.
For some unknown reason, my mother decided to tell me the entire detailed account of the 2 boys' death.
It was something to do with a failing marriage and a custody battle.
He killed his sons and left them lying on the floor for their mother to discover.
I can remember by mother demonstrating how the little bodies were blocking a door as their mother struggled to push it open.
My mother then described to me how the bloody bodies looked like bundles of rags and how the boys' mom mistakenly thought they were bags of clothes or dirty laundry at first.
Then my mother showed me how Joe put a knife to his chest and tried to hammer it into his heart with the palm of his other hand.
He also slashed his own throat and wrists and climbed into a tub of hot water.
By the time his wife found him, still alive, the water was cold.
He lived. His sons did not.
This is why Joe sat in a ward for the criminally insane.
The story gets worse.
My mother informed us children that Joe was going to be released soon.
He was cured, and they were going to get married.
Joe was going to be our new dad.
Now I was terrified.
Now, during the hospital visits, there was talk of future plans, and mom wanted to bring Joe and I closer together.
He seemed like a nice guy.
He gave me a tennis ball.
He had an accent, but did not talk much.
He smiled, but always seemed shy and embarassed.
Anytime I was close to him, I could see the ugly scars on his neck, peeking out from behind his collar.
I could catch glimpses of the scars on his wrist under his cuffs.
Every time I saw those white marks on his skin, I would immediately picture him sitting in a bathtub full of cold red water, with dead children on the floor, while their mother, still unaware, is shoving at the door.
I started to wish he would somehow die or disappear.
It felt like my real father was gone forever.
One day, I was climbing on the playground at my elementary school.
I can't recall how old I was, but it was grade 2 I think.
I saw my mother pull into the school yard in our big black car.
She waved me over.
She was crying.
"What's wrong?", I wondered.
"Joe's dead!", she said, "He killed himself."
I was confused by my reaction.
I felt sorry for Joe, and I felt bad that my mom was upset.
At the same time, I was unbelievably relieved that he was gone!
This secret feeling of gladness that someone had died made me feel very guilty, but I was happy that he was dead.
I had considered him a threat to my safety, that threat had been eliminated.
All I had to do now was comfort my mother and pretend to mourn with her.
We went to the open-casket funeral.
There was a big scarf wrapped around his neck to hide the rope damage.
Joe had hung himself under a bridge and had not been discovered for three days.
My mother had me take photos of her standing by the corpse in the coffin.
Then she reached in and pushed aside the scarf to get a look at his neck.
I was shocked, but continued to go through the motions.
I could not wait for this morbid surreal charade ritual to end.
I had nightmares for years.
Nightmares about coffins and corpses and being buried alive or being confined in a dark box.
Sometimes the "ghost" of Joe would silently accuse me of wishing him dead.
Even so, I would try to thank him for leaving my life, and then I would beg his forgiveness.
I never hated him.
Unfortunately, my mother did not want to put this incident behind us.
She changed her last name to Joe's last name, as if she had married the dead child killer.
That alone was bad enough, but then she forced that name onto me and my sisters.
She registered us at school under the fake family name, and put that name onto my school books.
I threw the books away, and whenever I encountered the fake name I would scribble it out and write my real last name.
I refused to accept or answer to the new name.
My sisters were too young to rebel, so I took the full measure of my mother's wrath.
She insisted, but I resisted.
This was the beginning of our relationship problems.
That divide has continued to this day.
We are now 45 years past Joe, but she still carries that last name, and that is very disturbing to me.
Any attempt on my part to discuss this issue results in an argument.
I used to be embarassed about that, and I would avoid answering any questions about the name.
Now, I realize it was no fault of mine.
About 20 years ago, after my niece was born, my brother-in-law wanted to know why I had a different last name than the rest of the family.
I figured, as a blood relation, he deserved to know the truth.
So I told him.
Somehow, my mother found out that I had told him.
She denied it and accused me of lying.
To this day, my mother is still angry with me.
I have been disowned and disinherited, and she has made a point of making sure I am aware of this through my sisters.
She feels betrayed by me, because I refuse to disown my real father.
I am disloyal according to her.
As a child, I was forbidden to use the words "father" or "dad".
Anytime one of us kids referred to him as such, even accidentally, we would suffer and endure a hateful monologue that could go on for hours.
This often included yelling, screaming, swearing, and sometimes even smashing things like dishes.
I only remember her hitting me twice.
Once, she lost her temper while my sister and I were still little.
We were making up a song about Joe chopping up his kids while we were listening to a Johnny Horton record.
I guess we were singing too loud and mom must have overheard us.
She burst into the room in a rage, with a belt in her hand, swinging at us wildly.
I don't recall any pain.
All I remember is laughing hysterically as she whipped us while we scrambled to avoid the belt.
She was furious, face red with rage, spit flying from her lips as she swore and lashed out at us.
Her reaction was so sudden and violent, that it seemed ridiculously funny to me at the time.
We never made fun of Joe again.
The only other time I remember my mother raising her hand to me was years later.
I was about 12 years old and we were arguing (again) about my father.
We children had been conditioned to refer to our biological father as "fuck face", or "f.f." or "double f" for short.
Other acceptable labels were "jowls", "walrus", or "el creepo" ("el c" for short).
I refused to do this and I figured I was old enough to stand up to her.
I think I called her a bitch, and she hit me with a belt.
It did not hurt.
I was not scared.
I took the belt from her and whipped her back.
She called the police, so I took off for a few days.
It was about this age that I became rebellious and reckless.
I thought I was independent and free.
I came and went as I pleased.
I could stay up or out all night.
I went to school or not, depending on my mood.
I did whatever I wanted.
I think, at this point, she gave up on me.
She did not give up on her continuous hate program, however.
It seemed like a daily lecture about our "psychopath" father was part of her routine.
When my mother started telling me, "You're just like your father!" I decided...
"If I am the son of the devil, then I must be evil."
I started to smoke, cigarettes and joints, tobacco and marijuana.
I tried alcohol a few times, but I did not like drinking booze.
I became a thief, a liar, a vandal, an arson.
I was addicted to chaos, violence, adrenaline, and testosterone.
A lethal chemical cocktail.
All I did was hate and blame and fear and envy.
Meanwhile, my efforts to be truly HARD were hindered by persistent empathy.
Try as I might, I could not rid myself of "weak" emotions.
I refused to acknowledge the existence of "love".
I considered "love" an illusion for suckers, produced by hormones in the body, designed to trick and reward biological units for breeding purposes.
By this time, I had been already sexually active and experienced for many years.
I had been introduced into child sex behaviour by my slightly younger female cousin while I was very little.
My cousin had been molested by my mother's brother, and she seemed to know a lot about sex.
She knew enough to seduce me into simulated intercourse and mutual masturbation.
No actual penetration had occurred, but we tried, in our innocent ignorance, to "play house" as she called it.
This happened several times over the next while.
I don't remember how or why it ended, but I really liked it, so I continued this game with other kids for years to come.
This double life of secret sex and shame went on the background, always hidden, until I was about 11 years old.
That's when I met Willy, the one legged biker.
Now, even though I was a child, I was not innocent.
I knew more than I should, enough to get into trouble, but not enough to know better.
In addition, everything I knew was wrong and twisted.
I thought it was normal.
I won't blame my parents.
My father was absent.
I knew he was alive, but I had been forbidden to speak to him, or about him, for so long, I had lost contact.
Our bond had been broken, and we had no meaningful relationship.
I started to believe my mother when she claimed he had "abandoned" me.
He became an abstract influence on my life.
I had no idea who he really was.
I created an imaginary image that was far from human.
This image was deeply influenced and corrupted by years of relentless intense negative words from my mother.
She literally demanded that we hate our father.
She never forgave him for what he had done to her, and we were to demonstrate our loyalty to her by cutting him off.
She has not given up on this vendetta against him and persists to this present day.
My mother said ugly things to me, such as...
"Your so-called father is a psychopath.
He never made love, he raped me.
He does not love you.
He is incapable of human emotion.
He never cared about you.
You are nothing to him but cock-drippings."
This may have been true to her, but I did not appreciate hearing this stuff as a child, especially concerning my own dad.
The constant pressure of hate-programming did not endear me to my father, NOR my mother.
What little I do remember about my parents as a couple was not happy memories.
My father was always working, hardly ever home it seemed to me.
Whenever he was at home, he was busy, on the phone, running his business.
Sometimes he would physically discipline me, so I was generally scared of him.
He was a big man, a tough guy, a boxer, born in europe.
I have zero memories of them being affectionate toward each other, not even one kiss or hug.
I only remember anger, arguments, tension, fighting between them.
Near the end of their marriage, there was a lot of violence, blood, bruises, police, hospitals, death threats, guns, suicide attempts, arrests, etc.
For me, the worst part was the shame and embarassment of the rumours and ridicule coming from the neighbour kids.
These stories eventually spread to my school.
This is the main reason I started hanging out with other "troubled" and "trouble" kids.
The more messed up my peers were, the less mess up I appeared.
Besides, by now, I could no longer relate to "normal" kids my age.
To me, they were boring. They were ignorant. They were innocent.
Some of them were scared of me, and I started to enjoy that.
I started to hang out with the "bad boys" and it was "cool".
We called anyone who respected or obeyed authority a "suckhole".
Ironically, I was very intellectually intelligent.
Three years in a row, I had been awarded top student in my elementary school.
I believed that I was a superior specimen, smart, shrewd, sly, a survivor, special... or so I thought.
Sad to say, this combination of alienation, arrogance, anger, and abuse in the mind of a precocious preteen did not make me "special".
Instead, I had been forged into the perfect pre-groomed prey for pedophiles, perverts, and predators.
Enter Willy, the one-legged biker.
I thought he was cool.
He wore leather.
He had long hair.
He had a wooden leg.
He rode a motorcycle, with a sidecar.
Willy lived in our basement suite, with a woman and a little girl.
The woman had one of those speech impediments in which all R's sound like W's.
The funny thing was, she didn't seem to care or notice.
She talked a lot and never avoided words with R's in them.
This provided many amusing monologues.
Because we shared the backyard, I became familiar with the family.
My first clue that something was not right was the little girl, Shelly.
I have no idea what was wrong with her, but she could not talk.
She was unable to speak words, and communicated with noises and other non-verbal methods.
As soon as we were alone together, she grabbed my hand and pulled it toward her pants.
She wanted me to touch her.
It was obvious that she was also sexually active, and likely another victim of child abuse.
We started to "play house" together, in private.
Meanwhile, Willy started to buddy up to me.
He let me ride in his sidecar.
He invited me to hang out in his suite and eat with them.
I looked up to him.
Then one day, he took me for a ride.
We ended up on some isolated dirt road, with bushes all around.
He parked and took me for a walk in the woods.
He told me how much he loved me.
He hugged me and kissed me.
I did not like it, but I was afraid to hurt his feelings.
Then he put his hands in my pants.
Although I wanted his attention and affection, I was very uncomfortable with an adult man touching my private parts.
When we got back to the house, I did not tell anyone what had happened.
I started to avoid Willy.
I turned down any more offers and invitations from him.
Unfortunately, my bedroom was in the basement.
All he had to do was open a door, slip down the hallway, and sneak into my room.
He started to do this over and over again.
To me, it felt like every night.
I would hear the suite door carefully open and close.
Then I would hear his one-legged hopping sound as he got closer.
He would pause at the entrance to my room and quietly call out my name in a whisper.
"------?" Pause. "------? Are you awake?"
I would lie there in silence, hoping he would give up and go if I did not respond.
That never worked.
With my eyes closed, I could hear him approach.
Then I would feel the weight of his body as he sat on the edge of my bed beside me.
I can still hear and smell his tobacco beer breath.
I would lie still, pretending to be asleep, as he rubbed my tummy, slowly, in circles, working his hand lower and lower until it was between my legs.
It was like I was paralyzed.
What really horrified me was my body's involuntary response to his fondling, caressing, and masturbating.
Despite my disgust and fear and confusion, the touching always resulted in obvious arousal.
I could not control it.
I did not like it, nor did I want it, but it still felt good and the predator knew this.
All I can say is, I am grateful that he never wanted anything in return.
He did not get me to touch him and he never exposed himself.
He did not attempt anything anal, preferring to play only with my penis.
I was afraid though, and did not want to wait for it to get worse.
I decided to tell my mom.
My memories of my mom at this time in my life are very vague.
She had been depressed and angry for so long that I barely knew her it seemed.
I remember she slept a lot, on the couch, or hid in her bedroom for days.
There was a lot of medicine.
Then there were long periods of crying and sobbing.
These were punctuated by eruptions of spontaneous rage.
Fits of fury invloving long monologues of hate-speech, punctuated with foul language.
Her hate was directed toward all the people who had put her into this position.
She was trapped in a prison.
She blamed her abusive mother, step-father, ex-husband, the system, and the "baggage" and "burden" of "leftover brats".
She often said that her life was "over" and "ruined" because "no man wants a single mother with three kids".
Somethimes, I felt sorry for her.
I wanted to help or fix the problem, but I was too young.
Other times, I despised her for her "weakness".
Either way, I spent as little time with her as possible.
I had no curfew, no routines, no rules, no borders, no boundaries.
A lot of kids envied my apparent freedom, so I mistakenly thought I had the ideal lifestyle.
But I had to do something about the Willy situation.
I told my mother that Willy was coming into my room at night and constantly trying to hug and kiss me.
I told her it was making me uncomfortable, and I did not like it.
However, I was too ashamed to mention that his hands had been in my pants.
I hoped and assumed she would figure that out.
Together, we confronted Willy.
Cool and calm, he apologized and explained that his son had died and would have been right about my age.
Willy went on to say that I reminded him of his dead son, and he had grown very fond of me.
He said he was sorry, and he should have known that I was "too old" for hugging and kissing.
I was thinking, "would you have put your hands in your son's pants, too?"
The good news is... Willy never bothered me again.
The near disclosure must have spooked him.
The bad news is... my mom fell for his story.
She expressed her sympathy and it was left at that.
After the conversation with Willy, she told me how sad it was, and how sorry she felt for poor Willy.
She encouraged me to spend time with him.
I said I wanted her to evict him.
She defended him, saying he was a "good tenant".
Not wanting to reveal more details of the molestation, I did not press the matter.
Instead, I enlisted the assistance of my sisters in a "get rid of Willy" harassment campaign.
We began to make life for Willy very unpleasant, using a variety of dirty mean tricks.
We three had become very skilled at getting rid of unwanted "guests".
Our mother had a bad habit of allowing vagrants, alcoholics, schizophrenics, and other undesirables to move in "temporarily".
She would call them "friend" or "boyfriend" but we always thought they were taking advantage of her.
They would stay until we three kids banded together to drive them out of the house.
Of course, this contributed to my mother blaming us for coming between her and the world.
Anyway, Willy quickly realized we wanted him gone, and he left.
Mom got mad, but I was deeply relieved.
I never saw nor heard from him again.
All this happened before I even hit puberty.
note from the author:
I started writing this and could not stop.
As bizarre as this story may sound, it is all truth.
I don't care if you believe it.
MY CHILDHOOD (as I remember it)
--------------------------------
I met my first murderer at a very early age.
I don't even believe I was older than 6.
My babysitter, Ralph K.
He was the brother of my mom's friend, Linda K.
I remember he would take us to the swimming pool.
The adults said he was "slow".
I thought of him as a big kid, a little weird and creepy, but no serious bad vibes.
Then one day, he killed his mother and brother with a hammer.
We heard they had planned to put him into an institution and he found out about it.
They were both sleeping when he smashed their heads in.
Ralph's mother was a dear old christian woman; elderly and kind and generous to us.
Not too many years later, my mother fell in love with a man she met in a mental hospital... Joe N. Child killer.
I was only in grade 1 or 2, but even I knew there was something wrong with this.
She would take us to visit him and they would sit and snuggle and smooch, while we kids played in the parklike atmosphere of the hospital grounds.
Mom told me Joe was not really a murderer.
He had bludgeoned his two sons with a drywall hatchet because of a "psychotic episode".
He was "not in control" and therefore "not responsible" for his actions.
I kept wondering... what will stop him from having another "psychotic episode"?
If he is "not in control" how can we trust him?
Will he kill me and my two little sisters next time?
I was suspicious and cautious, but I was only a little boy so there was an element of fascination mixed with my fear.
For some unknown reason, my mother decided to tell me the entire detailed account of the 2 boys' death.
It was something to do with a failing marriage and a custody battle.
He killed his sons and left them lying on the floor for their mother to discover.
I can remember by mother demonstrating how the little bodies were blocking a door as their mother struggled to push it open.
My mother then described to me how the bloody bodies looked like bundles of rags and how the boys' mom mistakenly thought they were bags of clothes or dirty laundry at first.
Then my mother showed me how Joe put a knife to his chest and tried to hammer it into his heart with the palm of his other hand.
He also slashed his own throat and wrists and climbed into a tub of hot water.
By the time his wife found him, still alive, the water was cold.
He lived. His sons did not.
This is why Joe sat in a ward for the criminally insane.
The story gets worse.
My mother informed us children that Joe was going to be released soon.
He was cured, and they were going to get married.
Joe was going to be our new dad.
Now I was terrified.
Now, during the hospital visits, there was talk of future plans, and mom wanted to bring Joe and I closer together.
He seemed like a nice guy.
He gave me a tennis ball.
He had an accent, but did not talk much.
He smiled, but always seemed shy and embarassed.
Anytime I was close to him, I could see the ugly scars on his neck, peeking out from behind his collar.
I could catch glimpses of the scars on his wrist under his cuffs.
Every time I saw those white marks on his skin, I would immediately picture him sitting in a bathtub full of cold red water, with dead children on the floor, while their mother, still unaware, is shoving at the door.
I started to wish he would somehow die or disappear.
It felt like my real father was gone forever.
One day, I was climbing on the playground at my elementary school.
I can't recall how old I was, but it was grade 2 I think.
I saw my mother pull into the school yard in our big black car.
She waved me over.
She was crying.
"What's wrong?", I wondered.
"Joe's dead!", she said, "He killed himself."
I was confused by my reaction.
I felt sorry for Joe, and I felt bad that my mom was upset.
At the same time, I was unbelievably relieved that he was gone!
This secret feeling of gladness that someone had died made me feel very guilty, but I was happy that he was dead.
I had considered him a threat to my safety, that threat had been eliminated.
All I had to do now was comfort my mother and pretend to mourn with her.
We went to the open-casket funeral.
There was a big scarf wrapped around his neck to hide the rope damage.
Joe had hung himself under a bridge and had not been discovered for three days.
My mother had me take photos of her standing by the corpse in the coffin.
Then she reached in and pushed aside the scarf to get a look at his neck.
I was shocked, but continued to go through the motions.
I could not wait for this morbid surreal charade ritual to end.
I had nightmares for years.
Nightmares about coffins and corpses and being buried alive or being confined in a dark box.
Sometimes the "ghost" of Joe would silently accuse me of wishing him dead.
Even so, I would try to thank him for leaving my life, and then I would beg his forgiveness.
I never hated him.
Unfortunately, my mother did not want to put this incident behind us.
She changed her last name to Joe's last name, as if she had married the dead child killer.
That alone was bad enough, but then she forced that name onto me and my sisters.
She registered us at school under the fake family name, and put that name onto my school books.
I threw the books away, and whenever I encountered the fake name I would scribble it out and write my real last name.
I refused to accept or answer to the new name.
My sisters were too young to rebel, so I took the full measure of my mother's wrath.
She insisted, but I resisted.
This was the beginning of our relationship problems.
That divide has continued to this day.
We are now 45 years past Joe, but she still carries that last name, and that is very disturbing to me.
Any attempt on my part to discuss this issue results in an argument.
I used to be embarassed about that, and I would avoid answering any questions about the name.
Now, I realize it was no fault of mine.
About 20 years ago, after my niece was born, my brother-in-law wanted to know why I had a different last name than the rest of the family.
I figured, as a blood relation, he deserved to know the truth.
So I told him.
Somehow, my mother found out that I had told him.
She denied it and accused me of lying.
To this day, my mother is still angry with me.
I have been disowned and disinherited, and she has made a point of making sure I am aware of this through my sisters.
She feels betrayed by me, because I refuse to disown my real father.
I am disloyal according to her.
As a child, I was forbidden to use the words "father" or "dad".
Anytime one of us kids referred to him as such, even accidentally, we would suffer and endure a hateful monologue that could go on for hours.
This often included yelling, screaming, swearing, and sometimes even smashing things like dishes.
I only remember her hitting me twice.
Once, she lost her temper while my sister and I were still little.
We were making up a song about Joe chopping up his kids while we were listening to a Johnny Horton record.
I guess we were singing too loud and mom must have overheard us.
She burst into the room in a rage, with a belt in her hand, swinging at us wildly.
I don't recall any pain.
All I remember is laughing hysterically as she whipped us while we scrambled to avoid the belt.
She was furious, face red with rage, spit flying from her lips as she swore and lashed out at us.
Her reaction was so sudden and violent, that it seemed ridiculously funny to me at the time.
We never made fun of Joe again.
The only other time I remember my mother raising her hand to me was years later.
I was about 12 years old and we were arguing (again) about my father.
We children had been conditioned to refer to our biological father as "fuck face", or "f.f." or "double f" for short.
Other acceptable labels were "jowls", "walrus", or "el creepo" ("el c" for short).
I refused to do this and I figured I was old enough to stand up to her.
I think I called her a bitch, and she hit me with a belt.
It did not hurt.
I was not scared.
I took the belt from her and whipped her back.
She called the police, so I took off for a few days.
It was about this age that I became rebellious and reckless.
I thought I was independent and free.
I came and went as I pleased.
I could stay up or out all night.
I went to school or not, depending on my mood.
I did whatever I wanted.
I think, at this point, she gave up on me.
She did not give up on her continuous hate program, however.
It seemed like a daily lecture about our "psychopath" father was part of her routine.
When my mother started telling me, "You're just like your father!" I decided...
"If I am the son of the devil, then I must be evil."
I started to smoke, cigarettes and joints, tobacco and marijuana.
I tried alcohol a few times, but I did not like drinking booze.
I became a thief, a liar, a vandal, an arson.
I was addicted to chaos, violence, adrenaline, and testosterone.
A lethal chemical cocktail.
All I did was hate and blame and fear and envy.
Meanwhile, my efforts to be truly HARD were hindered by persistent empathy.
Try as I might, I could not rid myself of "weak" emotions.
I refused to acknowledge the existence of "love".
I considered "love" an illusion for suckers, produced by hormones in the body, designed to trick and reward biological units for breeding purposes.
By this time, I had been already sexually active and experienced for many years.
I had been introduced into child sex behaviour by my slightly younger female cousin while I was very little.
My cousin had been molested by my mother's brother, and she seemed to know a lot about sex.
She knew enough to seduce me into simulated intercourse and mutual masturbation.
No actual penetration had occurred, but we tried, in our innocent ignorance, to "play house" as she called it.
This happened several times over the next while.
I don't remember how or why it ended, but I really liked it, so I continued this game with other kids for years to come.
This double life of secret sex and shame went on the background, always hidden, until I was about 11 years old.
That's when I met Willy, the one legged biker.
Now, even though I was a child, I was not innocent.
I knew more than I should, enough to get into trouble, but not enough to know better.
In addition, everything I knew was wrong and twisted.
I thought it was normal.
I won't blame my parents.
My father was absent.
I knew he was alive, but I had been forbidden to speak to him, or about him, for so long, I had lost contact.
Our bond had been broken, and we had no meaningful relationship.
I started to believe my mother when she claimed he had "abandoned" me.
He became an abstract influence on my life.
I had no idea who he really was.
I created an imaginary image that was far from human.
This image was deeply influenced and corrupted by years of relentless intense negative words from my mother.
She literally demanded that we hate our father.
She never forgave him for what he had done to her, and we were to demonstrate our loyalty to her by cutting him off.
She has not given up on this vendetta against him and persists to this present day.
My mother said ugly things to me, such as...
"Your so-called father is a psychopath.
He never made love, he raped me.
He does not love you.
He is incapable of human emotion.
He never cared about you.
You are nothing to him but cock-drippings."
This may have been true to her, but I did not appreciate hearing this stuff as a child, especially concerning my own dad.
The constant pressure of hate-programming did not endear me to my father, NOR my mother.
What little I do remember about my parents as a couple was not happy memories.
My father was always working, hardly ever home it seemed to me.
Whenever he was at home, he was busy, on the phone, running his business.
Sometimes he would physically discipline me, so I was generally scared of him.
He was a big man, a tough guy, a boxer, born in europe.
I have zero memories of them being affectionate toward each other, not even one kiss or hug.
I only remember anger, arguments, tension, fighting between them.
Near the end of their marriage, there was a lot of violence, blood, bruises, police, hospitals, death threats, guns, suicide attempts, arrests, etc.
For me, the worst part was the shame and embarassment of the rumours and ridicule coming from the neighbour kids.
These stories eventually spread to my school.
This is the main reason I started hanging out with other "troubled" and "trouble" kids.
The more messed up my peers were, the less mess up I appeared.
Besides, by now, I could no longer relate to "normal" kids my age.
To me, they were boring. They were ignorant. They were innocent.
Some of them were scared of me, and I started to enjoy that.
I started to hang out with the "bad boys" and it was "cool".
We called anyone who respected or obeyed authority a "suckhole".
Ironically, I was very intellectually intelligent.
Three years in a row, I had been awarded top student in my elementary school.
I believed that I was a superior specimen, smart, shrewd, sly, a survivor, special... or so I thought.
Sad to say, this combination of alienation, arrogance, anger, and abuse in the mind of a precocious preteen did not make me "special".
Instead, I had been forged into the perfect pre-groomed prey for pedophiles, perverts, and predators.
Enter Willy, the one-legged biker.
I thought he was cool.
He wore leather.
He had long hair.
He had a wooden leg.
He rode a motorcycle, with a sidecar.
Willy lived in our basement suite, with a woman and a little girl.
The woman had one of those speech impediments in which all R's sound like W's.
The funny thing was, she didn't seem to care or notice.
She talked a lot and never avoided words with R's in them.
This provided many amusing monologues.
Because we shared the backyard, I became familiar with the family.
My first clue that something was not right was the little girl, Shelly.
I have no idea what was wrong with her, but she could not talk.
She was unable to speak words, and communicated with noises and other non-verbal methods.
As soon as we were alone together, she grabbed my hand and pulled it toward her pants.
She wanted me to touch her.
It was obvious that she was also sexually active, and likely another victim of child abuse.
We started to "play house" together, in private.
Meanwhile, Willy started to buddy up to me.
He let me ride in his sidecar.
He invited me to hang out in his suite and eat with them.
I looked up to him.
Then one day, he took me for a ride.
We ended up on some isolated dirt road, with bushes all around.
He parked and took me for a walk in the woods.
He told me how much he loved me.
He hugged me and kissed me.
I did not like it, but I was afraid to hurt his feelings.
Then he put his hands in my pants.
Although I wanted his attention and affection, I was very uncomfortable with an adult man touching my private parts.
When we got back to the house, I did not tell anyone what had happened.
I started to avoid Willy.
I turned down any more offers and invitations from him.
Unfortunately, my bedroom was in the basement.
All he had to do was open a door, slip down the hallway, and sneak into my room.
He started to do this over and over again.
To me, it felt like every night.
I would hear the suite door carefully open and close.
Then I would hear his one-legged hopping sound as he got closer.
He would pause at the entrance to my room and quietly call out my name in a whisper.
"------?" Pause. "------? Are you awake?"
I would lie there in silence, hoping he would give up and go if I did not respond.
That never worked.
With my eyes closed, I could hear him approach.
Then I would feel the weight of his body as he sat on the edge of my bed beside me.
I can still hear and smell his tobacco beer breath.
I would lie still, pretending to be asleep, as he rubbed my tummy, slowly, in circles, working his hand lower and lower until it was between my legs.
It was like I was paralyzed.
What really horrified me was my body's involuntary response to his fondling, caressing, and masturbating.
Despite my disgust and fear and confusion, the touching always resulted in obvious arousal.
I could not control it.
I did not like it, nor did I want it, but it still felt good and the predator knew this.
All I can say is, I am grateful that he never wanted anything in return.
He did not get me to touch him and he never exposed himself.
He did not attempt anything anal, preferring to play only with my penis.
I was afraid though, and did not want to wait for it to get worse.
I decided to tell my mom.
My memories of my mom at this time in my life are very vague.
She had been depressed and angry for so long that I barely knew her it seemed.
I remember she slept a lot, on the couch, or hid in her bedroom for days.
There was a lot of medicine.
Then there were long periods of crying and sobbing.
These were punctuated by eruptions of spontaneous rage.
Fits of fury invloving long monologues of hate-speech, punctuated with foul language.
Her hate was directed toward all the people who had put her into this position.
She was trapped in a prison.
She blamed her abusive mother, step-father, ex-husband, the system, and the "baggage" and "burden" of "leftover brats".
She often said that her life was "over" and "ruined" because "no man wants a single mother with three kids".
Somethimes, I felt sorry for her.
I wanted to help or fix the problem, but I was too young.
Other times, I despised her for her "weakness".
Either way, I spent as little time with her as possible.
I had no curfew, no routines, no rules, no borders, no boundaries.
A lot of kids envied my apparent freedom, so I mistakenly thought I had the ideal lifestyle.
But I had to do something about the Willy situation.
I told my mother that Willy was coming into my room at night and constantly trying to hug and kiss me.
I told her it was making me uncomfortable, and I did not like it.
However, I was too ashamed to mention that his hands had been in my pants.
I hoped and assumed she would figure that out.
Together, we confronted Willy.
Cool and calm, he apologized and explained that his son had died and would have been right about my age.
Willy went on to say that I reminded him of his dead son, and he had grown very fond of me.
He said he was sorry, and he should have known that I was "too old" for hugging and kissing.
I was thinking, "would you have put your hands in your son's pants, too?"
The good news is... Willy never bothered me again.
The near disclosure must have spooked him.
The bad news is... my mom fell for his story.
She expressed her sympathy and it was left at that.
After the conversation with Willy, she told me how sad it was, and how sorry she felt for poor Willy.
She encouraged me to spend time with him.
I said I wanted her to evict him.
She defended him, saying he was a "good tenant".
Not wanting to reveal more details of the molestation, I did not press the matter.
Instead, I enlisted the assistance of my sisters in a "get rid of Willy" harassment campaign.
We began to make life for Willy very unpleasant, using a variety of dirty mean tricks.
We three had become very skilled at getting rid of unwanted "guests".
Our mother had a bad habit of allowing vagrants, alcoholics, schizophrenics, and other undesirables to move in "temporarily".
She would call them "friend" or "boyfriend" but we always thought they were taking advantage of her.
They would stay until we three kids banded together to drive them out of the house.
Of course, this contributed to my mother blaming us for coming between her and the world.
Anyway, Willy quickly realized we wanted him gone, and he left.
Mom got mad, but I was deeply relieved.
I never saw nor heard from him again.
All this happened before I even hit puberty.
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