My heart's an autoclave
Jacob S
Registrant
For the first 29 years of my life, I lived with an undiagnosed sleep disorder. This is very important to understand, because it means that up until this point I spent a good part of my life sleep deprived. I have non-24 hour sleep disorder, which is hard to explain but the point is I can’t control when I sleep. Even if I am very tired, my body will not learn to sleep at a set time. Looking back, I definitely had this as a kid. I would stay up all nights many nights and be exhausted in the morning. This was not an occasional thing, it was all the time. I was chronically tired, and I think this has had neurological effects. People who don’t have this often don’t realize that what seems just annoying occasionally becomes debilitating when it happens all the time. There’s a reason sleep deprivation is used in brain-washing. It makes one forgetful. It makes one compliant. You start to lose your sense of identity, and you believe what people tell you.
Because of my sleep disorder, and maybe for other reasons, I have poor memory of much of my childhood. Not that people have very good memories of their early childhood usually anyway.
My brother is on the autism spectrum, but my mother has never been able to fully admit that. Rather, she believes that he has autistic qualities but that she was singlehandedly able to keep him from developing autism because she didn’t force him to align to society’s ideas of how a person should behave. What that meant in practical terms is that he was never disciplined, never taught to control his temper. I was physically abused by him (I am 18 months older but was always small. People used to think we were twins) and never had any sort of physical dominance over him. I’m going to say that again because it was a big deal that my no one growing up ever acknowledged: I was physically abused by him. One might ask how a younger brother can abuse someone his own size, isn’t that just children fighting? Except that my brother, because of his autism, was incredibly violent and his rages were much worse than any other small child I’ve ever seen. That’s component number one. Component number two is that he was never told that it was wrong to hit me, and in fact I was told that it was my responsibility to keep my brother happy. If he hit me, it was my fault. And three, if I defended myself I was punished. IF I DEFENDED MYSELF, I WAS PUNISHED. So I was a tiny child left to the punching and biting of an autistic child and my parents knew AND NEVER CAME TO HELP ME. My parents years later once even admitted that it was much easier for them to just let me take the brunt than to try to interfere. I was sacrificed, made to believe that it was my fault and my place to take the pain. And the outside world never saw that. They looked at my brother and thought he needed help and love, but my job and the attention given me was never anything other than “why aren’t you helping your brother more?” Even though being responsible for keeping him happy was my job. Many days, keeping him fed was my job. Keeping him out of everyone else’s hair was my job. Even though that meant being hurt by him and knowing no one would come to help.
I was raised to believe that it was my job to keep everyone else happy. I was my brother’s punching bag and my mother’s sounding board. From a very young age, it was my job to listen to her talk about how my dad didn’t live up to her expectations. It was my job to keep her happy. There was never any physical incest, but everything that people talk about in terms of emotional incest was there. I was her emotional support and I was not allowed to ever have a problem with that.
I was supposed to support her “projects” as well – people she brought into the house because she wanted to help them. But I was supposed to somehow be the little boy that brought light into their lives, like a messed-up version of Pollyanna. I was encouraged to be friends with a woman who had killed her own son. It was very important that I made her feel happy and special. The night before her sentencing, we had a big party and I didn’t understand why, except I knew I could ruin it if I didn’t smile the whole time and be super “up.” She told me she would come back tomorrow and I didn’t even know she was going anywhere. The next day we all went down to the courthouse and I watched them put handcuffs on her and take her away. The judge called her a monster and I had no idea why. No one bothered explaining any of it. Years later, I used newspaper archives to figure out what she had done.
This kind of abuse was all emotional, not sexual, and so some people might see it as not important. That is very wrong. The crux of sexual abuse is that it makes the victim feel like an object and a tool, a dropcloth to be dirtied instead of a person to be valued. My life growing up made me feel exactly the same way. Having my own needs, being weak, this was bad. I existed for other people. I was not important myself.
Which is why when the sexual abuse did happen, it just kind of slid into everything else. People talk about abusers convincing the victims that it was enjoyable. I grew up already understanding that whether or not I enjoyed something was not important. That it was selfish and evil of me to even consider if I enjoyed something. I enjoyed movies. By myself. I enjoyed video games. By myself. I enjoyed escaping into other worlds. But my own life? No, I didn’t enjoy my own life. My life was to serve. And the times I spent escaping somewhere else, that was not my own time. That was stolen moments between when someone else needed me to be their support or someone to hit or someone to yell at.
Like I said, I don’t have very good memories. I remember being very very little and a crayon going up my butt. I honestly don’t remember though if I was doing it to myself or someone was doing it to me. I remember a boy reaching down my pants and making fun of me for not being potty-trained. I was very afraid of him. It happened more than once that he put his hands on me. Down there.
I remember my father taking me into his room and he was naked. I remember being very scared. I remember his penis seeming huge. It was long, but it was not erect. So I don’t think anything happened. Let me make that clear, I really don’t think anything happened. But it is an odd memory that has no context around it, but I am sure I didn’t make it up. Maybe it was just some weird idea of male bonding he had. He is a very strange person. My mother once told me that my father had weird fantasies that he wanted to share with me, but she told him not to. But my mother did share with me how they would roleplay, how he would ask her to pretend that she was someone else. I really didn’t need to know that, but those are the kind of things she used to tell me.
There was a camp.
The camp: An AWANAs camp, summer between third and fourth grade. I was in a cabin with other boys. The counselor was an asshole, the only clear memory I have of him is him screaming at us because we didn’t know any John Denver songs. I was picked on, I don’t remember exactly why. I was in the shower when I thought everyone else was gone, and they threw another boy in the shower with me – he was the other small boy, the other one they picked on and the only black kid. They wouldn’t let either of us out. I was so scared. Let me make this clear: more scared than I should’ve been for just being in a shower with another boy. There was a reason I was taking a shower when I thought no one else would be around. I remember being pushed up against him. I remember not being able to get out. I remember feeling sick later.
About the same time, there was a boy. Spring of third grade, as far as I can tell, so right before the camp. Maybe why I was scared at camp. His mother was a nutcase. He was a jerk. I was supposed to be his friend. I was always told to be everyone’s friend. I was to help him because he needed a friend, because his mom was always sad. His mom was a “project” for my mom. I would stay out his house for long periods of times. Sometimes his mom was there, but when she was she was mostly asleep. No one was looking after us. He would rape me. I am sure of it. It took me a long time to be sure of it. He was younger than me but bigger than me. I’d spent my whole life being told what made me happy didn’t matter. Whether or not I liked being his “friend” didn’t cross my mind. I was supposed to be his friend because he needed a friend. Everyone told me so.
He and his mom lived in a converted barn behind his grandparents house. He told me to bring him my GI Joe airplane and I did. We went up to the hot attic of the barn, where he slept. He took it and gave me a weird marble egg and a piece of rabbit fur and said it was a fair trade and it seemed mean to say no so I didn’t. (My wife found me the same exact kind of plane years later and bought it for me. I still have it. I also still have the egg. I don’t know if I should keep the egg. I look at it and I feel like it’s all I got for my innocence, so I don’t know if getting rid of it would make the trade gone forever or if it is more of a reminder that I can still reclaim something from what I lost).
We did something in his grandparents den. I don’t remember what, but I remember it wasn’t good. Not something he wanted anyone else to know about.
He raped me in a little shed. There was some sort of play. Something about a prince and a princess. I’d be lying if I said I remembered exactly what he said. But it was definitely some sort of game. But I am sure he raped me. He was also only in third grade. Much bigger than me though. I am pretty sure he didn’t ejaculate or anything like that. I don’t think there was any anal trauma. Some people might be mad that I call that rape. But he acted like I belonged to him, he did what he wanted to me physically, and it was sexual. I looked at the trees behind the shed and he was behind me and we were “playing” and it was according to him what happened to all the Disney princesses after the movie, or some story like that. And no I don’t remember it better and I wish I did. I could be remembering something wrong. I was always so tired, and always living my life just to keep other people from being mad at me, because that was the only thing I was supposed to do. Being myself, wanting things for myself, was always bad. So why bother even figuring out if I liked something. Better to just not even activate that part of the brain. I don’t remember it well, but honestly I don’t remember it worse than I remember any other part of my childhood. Compared to so much of my childhood, it’s bright and vivid and it still makes me shake to write “I was raped.” It makes me shake. So much of why it makes me shake is actually because there is still a big part of me that says it is mean of me to think of myself. What happened to me doesn’t matter. How selfish to insert yourself into the world like that. Other people being raped is bad. But me being raped? No, doesn’t matter. I am only important in helping others. I cannot exist for myself.
But I was raped. And I am important. And me being ok with myself is more important than getting every little fact right. Whenever I did get up the courage to tell my mother something that made me sad, she would argue with me. Show me how I got some little detail wrong. And then tell me that by getting that little detail wrong, it meant that ALL my feelings were wrong. You can’t be sad about something unless you can prove you are absolutely correct and every little detail is perfect. I didn’t know at the time, that’s what they always tell rape victims. The first mistake, and you have no right to complain. So I still feel that. So afraid that I’ve said something wrong here, and that somehow invalidates everything. But I can’t help what I feel, and the point is that just writing out the words “I was raped. He raped me” has real power over me. And as long as that has power over me, I need to keep wrestling with it whether or not every single detail is right. Whether or not anyone else understands. I was raped. Even though he was younger than me. Even though he was pre-pubscent like me. Even if I am remembering some detail wrong. I was raped. And I will keep saying it until I no longer feel like I don’t deserve to. If I saw it happen to another little boy, I would not scold him for feeling like I feel. So why am I so mad at myself for feeling this way? If he said he was raped and told me his story, I would believe him and agree with him. But me? No. All I feel is that I am somehow sucking up attention from the people who deserve it more than me. Nevermind. Asking for understanding or acceptance, asking myself how I feel? SELFISH. MEAN. EVIL. I get what I deserve.
And I kept being sent back to his house "to be his friend" and I never said anything because everything before that moment had taught me that it was my job to be what other people wanted. Who I was myself didn't matter. I realized years later that in that stage, I was a living kleenex. A blotter for a bloody nose, a place to catch tears, a tissue to jack-off into. You don't expect a kleenex to have an opinion on how it is used. You don't want it to.
I was a ripped kleenex.
Because of my sleep disorder, and maybe for other reasons, I have poor memory of much of my childhood. Not that people have very good memories of their early childhood usually anyway.
My brother is on the autism spectrum, but my mother has never been able to fully admit that. Rather, she believes that he has autistic qualities but that she was singlehandedly able to keep him from developing autism because she didn’t force him to align to society’s ideas of how a person should behave. What that meant in practical terms is that he was never disciplined, never taught to control his temper. I was physically abused by him (I am 18 months older but was always small. People used to think we were twins) and never had any sort of physical dominance over him. I’m going to say that again because it was a big deal that my no one growing up ever acknowledged: I was physically abused by him. One might ask how a younger brother can abuse someone his own size, isn’t that just children fighting? Except that my brother, because of his autism, was incredibly violent and his rages were much worse than any other small child I’ve ever seen. That’s component number one. Component number two is that he was never told that it was wrong to hit me, and in fact I was told that it was my responsibility to keep my brother happy. If he hit me, it was my fault. And three, if I defended myself I was punished. IF I DEFENDED MYSELF, I WAS PUNISHED. So I was a tiny child left to the punching and biting of an autistic child and my parents knew AND NEVER CAME TO HELP ME. My parents years later once even admitted that it was much easier for them to just let me take the brunt than to try to interfere. I was sacrificed, made to believe that it was my fault and my place to take the pain. And the outside world never saw that. They looked at my brother and thought he needed help and love, but my job and the attention given me was never anything other than “why aren’t you helping your brother more?” Even though being responsible for keeping him happy was my job. Many days, keeping him fed was my job. Keeping him out of everyone else’s hair was my job. Even though that meant being hurt by him and knowing no one would come to help.
I was raised to believe that it was my job to keep everyone else happy. I was my brother’s punching bag and my mother’s sounding board. From a very young age, it was my job to listen to her talk about how my dad didn’t live up to her expectations. It was my job to keep her happy. There was never any physical incest, but everything that people talk about in terms of emotional incest was there. I was her emotional support and I was not allowed to ever have a problem with that.
I was supposed to support her “projects” as well – people she brought into the house because she wanted to help them. But I was supposed to somehow be the little boy that brought light into their lives, like a messed-up version of Pollyanna. I was encouraged to be friends with a woman who had killed her own son. It was very important that I made her feel happy and special. The night before her sentencing, we had a big party and I didn’t understand why, except I knew I could ruin it if I didn’t smile the whole time and be super “up.” She told me she would come back tomorrow and I didn’t even know she was going anywhere. The next day we all went down to the courthouse and I watched them put handcuffs on her and take her away. The judge called her a monster and I had no idea why. No one bothered explaining any of it. Years later, I used newspaper archives to figure out what she had done.
This kind of abuse was all emotional, not sexual, and so some people might see it as not important. That is very wrong. The crux of sexual abuse is that it makes the victim feel like an object and a tool, a dropcloth to be dirtied instead of a person to be valued. My life growing up made me feel exactly the same way. Having my own needs, being weak, this was bad. I existed for other people. I was not important myself.
Which is why when the sexual abuse did happen, it just kind of slid into everything else. People talk about abusers convincing the victims that it was enjoyable. I grew up already understanding that whether or not I enjoyed something was not important. That it was selfish and evil of me to even consider if I enjoyed something. I enjoyed movies. By myself. I enjoyed video games. By myself. I enjoyed escaping into other worlds. But my own life? No, I didn’t enjoy my own life. My life was to serve. And the times I spent escaping somewhere else, that was not my own time. That was stolen moments between when someone else needed me to be their support or someone to hit or someone to yell at.
Like I said, I don’t have very good memories. I remember being very very little and a crayon going up my butt. I honestly don’t remember though if I was doing it to myself or someone was doing it to me. I remember a boy reaching down my pants and making fun of me for not being potty-trained. I was very afraid of him. It happened more than once that he put his hands on me. Down there.
I remember my father taking me into his room and he was naked. I remember being very scared. I remember his penis seeming huge. It was long, but it was not erect. So I don’t think anything happened. Let me make that clear, I really don’t think anything happened. But it is an odd memory that has no context around it, but I am sure I didn’t make it up. Maybe it was just some weird idea of male bonding he had. He is a very strange person. My mother once told me that my father had weird fantasies that he wanted to share with me, but she told him not to. But my mother did share with me how they would roleplay, how he would ask her to pretend that she was someone else. I really didn’t need to know that, but those are the kind of things she used to tell me.
There was a camp.
The camp: An AWANAs camp, summer between third and fourth grade. I was in a cabin with other boys. The counselor was an asshole, the only clear memory I have of him is him screaming at us because we didn’t know any John Denver songs. I was picked on, I don’t remember exactly why. I was in the shower when I thought everyone else was gone, and they threw another boy in the shower with me – he was the other small boy, the other one they picked on and the only black kid. They wouldn’t let either of us out. I was so scared. Let me make this clear: more scared than I should’ve been for just being in a shower with another boy. There was a reason I was taking a shower when I thought no one else would be around. I remember being pushed up against him. I remember not being able to get out. I remember feeling sick later.
About the same time, there was a boy. Spring of third grade, as far as I can tell, so right before the camp. Maybe why I was scared at camp. His mother was a nutcase. He was a jerk. I was supposed to be his friend. I was always told to be everyone’s friend. I was to help him because he needed a friend, because his mom was always sad. His mom was a “project” for my mom. I would stay out his house for long periods of times. Sometimes his mom was there, but when she was she was mostly asleep. No one was looking after us. He would rape me. I am sure of it. It took me a long time to be sure of it. He was younger than me but bigger than me. I’d spent my whole life being told what made me happy didn’t matter. Whether or not I liked being his “friend” didn’t cross my mind. I was supposed to be his friend because he needed a friend. Everyone told me so.
He and his mom lived in a converted barn behind his grandparents house. He told me to bring him my GI Joe airplane and I did. We went up to the hot attic of the barn, where he slept. He took it and gave me a weird marble egg and a piece of rabbit fur and said it was a fair trade and it seemed mean to say no so I didn’t. (My wife found me the same exact kind of plane years later and bought it for me. I still have it. I also still have the egg. I don’t know if I should keep the egg. I look at it and I feel like it’s all I got for my innocence, so I don’t know if getting rid of it would make the trade gone forever or if it is more of a reminder that I can still reclaim something from what I lost).
We did something in his grandparents den. I don’t remember what, but I remember it wasn’t good. Not something he wanted anyone else to know about.
He raped me in a little shed. There was some sort of play. Something about a prince and a princess. I’d be lying if I said I remembered exactly what he said. But it was definitely some sort of game. But I am sure he raped me. He was also only in third grade. Much bigger than me though. I am pretty sure he didn’t ejaculate or anything like that. I don’t think there was any anal trauma. Some people might be mad that I call that rape. But he acted like I belonged to him, he did what he wanted to me physically, and it was sexual. I looked at the trees behind the shed and he was behind me and we were “playing” and it was according to him what happened to all the Disney princesses after the movie, or some story like that. And no I don’t remember it better and I wish I did. I could be remembering something wrong. I was always so tired, and always living my life just to keep other people from being mad at me, because that was the only thing I was supposed to do. Being myself, wanting things for myself, was always bad. So why bother even figuring out if I liked something. Better to just not even activate that part of the brain. I don’t remember it well, but honestly I don’t remember it worse than I remember any other part of my childhood. Compared to so much of my childhood, it’s bright and vivid and it still makes me shake to write “I was raped.” It makes me shake. So much of why it makes me shake is actually because there is still a big part of me that says it is mean of me to think of myself. What happened to me doesn’t matter. How selfish to insert yourself into the world like that. Other people being raped is bad. But me being raped? No, doesn’t matter. I am only important in helping others. I cannot exist for myself.
But I was raped. And I am important. And me being ok with myself is more important than getting every little fact right. Whenever I did get up the courage to tell my mother something that made me sad, she would argue with me. Show me how I got some little detail wrong. And then tell me that by getting that little detail wrong, it meant that ALL my feelings were wrong. You can’t be sad about something unless you can prove you are absolutely correct and every little detail is perfect. I didn’t know at the time, that’s what they always tell rape victims. The first mistake, and you have no right to complain. So I still feel that. So afraid that I’ve said something wrong here, and that somehow invalidates everything. But I can’t help what I feel, and the point is that just writing out the words “I was raped. He raped me” has real power over me. And as long as that has power over me, I need to keep wrestling with it whether or not every single detail is right. Whether or not anyone else understands. I was raped. Even though he was younger than me. Even though he was pre-pubscent like me. Even if I am remembering some detail wrong. I was raped. And I will keep saying it until I no longer feel like I don’t deserve to. If I saw it happen to another little boy, I would not scold him for feeling like I feel. So why am I so mad at myself for feeling this way? If he said he was raped and told me his story, I would believe him and agree with him. But me? No. All I feel is that I am somehow sucking up attention from the people who deserve it more than me. Nevermind. Asking for understanding or acceptance, asking myself how I feel? SELFISH. MEAN. EVIL. I get what I deserve.
And I kept being sent back to his house "to be his friend" and I never said anything because everything before that moment had taught me that it was my job to be what other people wanted. Who I was myself didn't matter. I realized years later that in that stage, I was a living kleenex. A blotter for a bloody nose, a place to catch tears, a tissue to jack-off into. You don't expect a kleenex to have an opinion on how it is used. You don't want it to.
I was a ripped kleenex.
