My Story (Trigger Warning)
RecoveringRicky
Registrant
I previously posted my story in the wrong place, but wanted to move it to survivor stories where it belongs. In the last year I’ve done a lot more work processing what happened to me throughout my childhood and find myself in a much better place. That said, the process of digging through the mess of buried memories brings both treasure and bones. I suffered for so long under huge amounts of guilt, but talking with you all and realizing I am not alone has been such a huge step forward for me.
Sometimes it feels like the mind’s ability to repress has a limited shelf life. Mine started bubbling up in earnest a few years into my marriage. Unexpected. Uninvited. It just wouldn’t wait any longer. Therapists were way more helpful than I anticipated. Something tells me I got lucky on that account. It’s a good thing too, because even though I’ve never seriously considered suicide, I sure did hate myself intensely for a time. It can be dark and lonely, even with others around.
**Trigger Warning**
PART 1 - Age 6-7
My story begins at age 6. It goes back to the early 70s when my young, 20-something mom would leave me at a night-time day care while she hit the disco scene. I know these drop-in settings still occur, but I feel like they are more-or-less occasional offerings for parents who need a break. This place was different. There was no play time, no making friends, just rows of cots in a dark room with a TV in one corner playing some cartoon. It had to be big business because I remember there being easily 30-40 kids on cots within arms-reach of one another. You laid on a cot and went to sleep, and then around 10pm or so a parent woke you up and carried you to the car. I feel like our parents made it easy. They dropped us off in our PJs. Easy to put to us bed when they took us home, and easier access for the perps.
Sadly, it wasn’t always just our parents that picked us up. I don’t know how often it happened, but I know I was taken from my cot to the bathroom and sodomized on more than one occasion. Half asleep, maybe fully asleep, it’s hard to remember it all. I can’t confirm if they drugged us, but it was very difficult to stay awake there. I remember the counter top being so cold it seeped through my thin pajamas for the few moments he kept them on me. Laying on my back, head hanging off the edge in the dark. Dizzy. Choking. Hands holding my neck. The man being irritated at having to continually adjust me on the counter. I didn't want him to be mad at me. I was a good kid after all. I remember being upset that my pajama snaps weren’t put back right and it made them bunch up when I was put back on the cot.
I almost told one of the ladies that worked there. She saw me crying and asked what was wrong. I remember lying to her and telling her my hamster died, but none of that was true. Another time I told a lady my throat hurt and she got me some salt water to gargle. Thinking about this now, I faintly recall them telling my mom when she picked me up that I had a sore throat – to which she responded ‘he was probably just looking for an excuse to get out of bed’
Several new trauma responses started at this point. First, I started squeezing the necks of other kids for no reason. Pinching down as hard as my tiny hands could squeeze. It obviously made keeping friends pretty difficult which only compounded the problem.
Secondly, I stopped using the restroom anywhere until I just couldn’t stand it. Even at home when no one was around, I developed a coping mechanism of avoiding going #2. I would start compressing or massaging my abdomen just to keep from having to go. To this day, the smell of Ajax from that bathroom triggers a visceral response.
Another thing I identified later was the change in play (which I feel someone should have noticed). Prior to the abuse, I played like a normal kid: Swinging swords to rescue my stuffed animals from pirates, raging rivers, etc. Afterward, my play changed to me being the one rescued in all the scenarios. I was the one being bound, walking the plank, and being rescued by the stuffed animals. It's obvious to me now, but no one ever noticed when I was a kid, probably because I was always alone.
Then there were the drawings. I remember very clearly at this time that I had started drawing erections and such, and then covering up the images with different drawings so my mom wouldn’t see them. This was my therapist’s first red flag. It wasn’t that I drew an erection that was an issue, it was that I associated it with something wrong that needed to be hidden. That was my first a-ha moment among a hundred different fragments that would start tumbling out later.
PART 2 - Age 7-11
Disco days continued and my mom made friends with another co-worker who also liked to party. She had two kids of her own that were my age, so they would constantly split the cost of a sitter. I don’t know where these sitters were, because the shit these kids and I got up to was impossible without zero supervision. Turns out these boys were being even more violently assaulted than I ever was, and they had become very hyper-sexual. So, out of the frying pan, and into the fire I went. Every Friday and Saturday night was something new.
One night, I showed up to be babysat and the boys weren’t there. Their mom said “Oh, they’re outside somewhere, just go find them.” I found them alright. They were giving blowjobs to older teens in the parking lot under a street light. And it went on like this for years. Whispers and fumbling under the covers, in the pool, under a table, in a tent. They were my best friends, until one day they were abruptly gone. No good byes. No closure. Our parents had a falling out and I was told I'd never see them again. I was gutted. A lot of my memories from this time became dissociative and third-person.
I became desperately lonely after this. Familial love was present, of course, but in my opinion reserved. I got more affection from teachers than family so I started excelling at school. I became a people-pleaser. I felt 'praise' but not necessarily 'love.' It would have to do. I think it was the little things that sent subtle messages to me about how unwanted I was as a child. The fact that the only pictures of my childhood are the candid ones taken just so my mom could finish up the roll of film from her last vacation. Memories of how scratchy my sheets were compared to the luxurious satins of her bed. Things you don't notice in the moment that communicate worth without using words. I can think of a dozen more if I get in my feels.
On top of this, my dad hardly touched me. My therapist and I once pored over old photos (such as they were) looking for answers to when my abuse occurred. I always ‘looked’ happy, but my therapist noticed something different. In every photo taken with my father, whether it was hugging, sitting on his lap, arm around him, etc., he was always leaning away from me. Every photo from this period showed a subtle ‘ick.’ People communicate so much without words. It's imperceptible in the moment, but it has such a huge impact on a child.
By now it was the early 80s. The days of kids on milk cartons and being warned to watch out for men in strange vans. And I watched for them, all day, home alone, I watched. In my twisted little child’s mind I wanted to be snatched up even though I understood what that meant. ‘At least it would mean someone wanted me,’ is what I told myself. I was a very friendly, gregarious, outgoing little kid, but I had trouble making meaningful friendships after my only two friends had disappeared.
I struggled with the vacuum of that lost intimacy for some time. By age 11, I practically threw myself at anyone (adult or otherwise) who would pay attention to me. I wasn’t crushing on other boys. I still adored girls. God, how I adored them. I still remember the name of every girl I had a crush on from 2nd grade on. But, I craved the physical affection that was (for better or worse) ripped away from me without notice. I took a lot of deliberate risks as a child, and if my mom hadn’t moved us out to the country, I’m not sure I would have survived the 80s.
Later on in HS, my girlfriend asked me what my favorite fairy tale was as a child. When I told her it was “The Little Match Girl,” she gasped. Supposedly it suggested something about your childhood. To her it said "deep loneliness and sense of abandonment." My therapist made a similar observation. He asked me, “when all of these sexual events were happening, where the hell were all the adults?” It never occurred to me to ask myself that question. They were nowhere. I was alone or with the other kids my age having sex. When they were gone, I had no one. No adults. No friends. Just this void. I just sat in my house or rode my bike down empty streets all summer.
Years later, I reconnected with both of the boys. Both are married with their own families. One was very, very apprehensive about meeting, even for dinner. I think he was afraid I was going to dig up things he didn’t want to discuss, but I just wanted to see my friend again. The other was much more open with me, and this was absolutely critical in filling in a lot of gaps. Apparently, their situation was way more violent than I realized, to the point that they were almost killed by their mom's boyfriend and made to look like an accident. Looking back, the regularity of their abuse makes mine feel trivial in comparison, but I'm indebted to the closure he brought me.
Of course, this isn't an exhaustive list of abuse trauma, but I feel like it sums up the bulk of what is 'most healed' at this point in my life. To this day, my parents have no idea any of this ever happened. They probably never will. My kids know some of it, and the impact it had on my adult life, but only to the extent that it explains my breakup with their mom. I still get fragments of buried memories, but I don’t find them to be nearly as intrusive anymore. In fact, I feel like I’m recovering pretty well these days, not 100%, but far and away better than 20 years ago, and I have some of you to thank for that.
Sometimes it feels like the mind’s ability to repress has a limited shelf life. Mine started bubbling up in earnest a few years into my marriage. Unexpected. Uninvited. It just wouldn’t wait any longer. Therapists were way more helpful than I anticipated. Something tells me I got lucky on that account. It’s a good thing too, because even though I’ve never seriously considered suicide, I sure did hate myself intensely for a time. It can be dark and lonely, even with others around.
**Trigger Warning**
PART 1 - Age 6-7
My story begins at age 6. It goes back to the early 70s when my young, 20-something mom would leave me at a night-time day care while she hit the disco scene. I know these drop-in settings still occur, but I feel like they are more-or-less occasional offerings for parents who need a break. This place was different. There was no play time, no making friends, just rows of cots in a dark room with a TV in one corner playing some cartoon. It had to be big business because I remember there being easily 30-40 kids on cots within arms-reach of one another. You laid on a cot and went to sleep, and then around 10pm or so a parent woke you up and carried you to the car. I feel like our parents made it easy. They dropped us off in our PJs. Easy to put to us bed when they took us home, and easier access for the perps.
Sadly, it wasn’t always just our parents that picked us up. I don’t know how often it happened, but I know I was taken from my cot to the bathroom and sodomized on more than one occasion. Half asleep, maybe fully asleep, it’s hard to remember it all. I can’t confirm if they drugged us, but it was very difficult to stay awake there. I remember the counter top being so cold it seeped through my thin pajamas for the few moments he kept them on me. Laying on my back, head hanging off the edge in the dark. Dizzy. Choking. Hands holding my neck. The man being irritated at having to continually adjust me on the counter. I didn't want him to be mad at me. I was a good kid after all. I remember being upset that my pajama snaps weren’t put back right and it made them bunch up when I was put back on the cot.
I almost told one of the ladies that worked there. She saw me crying and asked what was wrong. I remember lying to her and telling her my hamster died, but none of that was true. Another time I told a lady my throat hurt and she got me some salt water to gargle. Thinking about this now, I faintly recall them telling my mom when she picked me up that I had a sore throat – to which she responded ‘he was probably just looking for an excuse to get out of bed’
Several new trauma responses started at this point. First, I started squeezing the necks of other kids for no reason. Pinching down as hard as my tiny hands could squeeze. It obviously made keeping friends pretty difficult which only compounded the problem.
Secondly, I stopped using the restroom anywhere until I just couldn’t stand it. Even at home when no one was around, I developed a coping mechanism of avoiding going #2. I would start compressing or massaging my abdomen just to keep from having to go. To this day, the smell of Ajax from that bathroom triggers a visceral response.
Another thing I identified later was the change in play (which I feel someone should have noticed). Prior to the abuse, I played like a normal kid: Swinging swords to rescue my stuffed animals from pirates, raging rivers, etc. Afterward, my play changed to me being the one rescued in all the scenarios. I was the one being bound, walking the plank, and being rescued by the stuffed animals. It's obvious to me now, but no one ever noticed when I was a kid, probably because I was always alone.
Then there were the drawings. I remember very clearly at this time that I had started drawing erections and such, and then covering up the images with different drawings so my mom wouldn’t see them. This was my therapist’s first red flag. It wasn’t that I drew an erection that was an issue, it was that I associated it with something wrong that needed to be hidden. That was my first a-ha moment among a hundred different fragments that would start tumbling out later.
PART 2 - Age 7-11
Disco days continued and my mom made friends with another co-worker who also liked to party. She had two kids of her own that were my age, so they would constantly split the cost of a sitter. I don’t know where these sitters were, because the shit these kids and I got up to was impossible without zero supervision. Turns out these boys were being even more violently assaulted than I ever was, and they had become very hyper-sexual. So, out of the frying pan, and into the fire I went. Every Friday and Saturday night was something new.
One night, I showed up to be babysat and the boys weren’t there. Their mom said “Oh, they’re outside somewhere, just go find them.” I found them alright. They were giving blowjobs to older teens in the parking lot under a street light. And it went on like this for years. Whispers and fumbling under the covers, in the pool, under a table, in a tent. They were my best friends, until one day they were abruptly gone. No good byes. No closure. Our parents had a falling out and I was told I'd never see them again. I was gutted. A lot of my memories from this time became dissociative and third-person.
I became desperately lonely after this. Familial love was present, of course, but in my opinion reserved. I got more affection from teachers than family so I started excelling at school. I became a people-pleaser. I felt 'praise' but not necessarily 'love.' It would have to do. I think it was the little things that sent subtle messages to me about how unwanted I was as a child. The fact that the only pictures of my childhood are the candid ones taken just so my mom could finish up the roll of film from her last vacation. Memories of how scratchy my sheets were compared to the luxurious satins of her bed. Things you don't notice in the moment that communicate worth without using words. I can think of a dozen more if I get in my feels.
On top of this, my dad hardly touched me. My therapist and I once pored over old photos (such as they were) looking for answers to when my abuse occurred. I always ‘looked’ happy, but my therapist noticed something different. In every photo taken with my father, whether it was hugging, sitting on his lap, arm around him, etc., he was always leaning away from me. Every photo from this period showed a subtle ‘ick.’ People communicate so much without words. It's imperceptible in the moment, but it has such a huge impact on a child.
By now it was the early 80s. The days of kids on milk cartons and being warned to watch out for men in strange vans. And I watched for them, all day, home alone, I watched. In my twisted little child’s mind I wanted to be snatched up even though I understood what that meant. ‘At least it would mean someone wanted me,’ is what I told myself. I was a very friendly, gregarious, outgoing little kid, but I had trouble making meaningful friendships after my only two friends had disappeared.
I struggled with the vacuum of that lost intimacy for some time. By age 11, I practically threw myself at anyone (adult or otherwise) who would pay attention to me. I wasn’t crushing on other boys. I still adored girls. God, how I adored them. I still remember the name of every girl I had a crush on from 2nd grade on. But, I craved the physical affection that was (for better or worse) ripped away from me without notice. I took a lot of deliberate risks as a child, and if my mom hadn’t moved us out to the country, I’m not sure I would have survived the 80s.
Later on in HS, my girlfriend asked me what my favorite fairy tale was as a child. When I told her it was “The Little Match Girl,” she gasped. Supposedly it suggested something about your childhood. To her it said "deep loneliness and sense of abandonment." My therapist made a similar observation. He asked me, “when all of these sexual events were happening, where the hell were all the adults?” It never occurred to me to ask myself that question. They were nowhere. I was alone or with the other kids my age having sex. When they were gone, I had no one. No adults. No friends. Just this void. I just sat in my house or rode my bike down empty streets all summer.
Years later, I reconnected with both of the boys. Both are married with their own families. One was very, very apprehensive about meeting, even for dinner. I think he was afraid I was going to dig up things he didn’t want to discuss, but I just wanted to see my friend again. The other was much more open with me, and this was absolutely critical in filling in a lot of gaps. Apparently, their situation was way more violent than I realized, to the point that they were almost killed by their mom's boyfriend and made to look like an accident. Looking back, the regularity of their abuse makes mine feel trivial in comparison, but I'm indebted to the closure he brought me.
Of course, this isn't an exhaustive list of abuse trauma, but I feel like it sums up the bulk of what is 'most healed' at this point in my life. To this day, my parents have no idea any of this ever happened. They probably never will. My kids know some of it, and the impact it had on my adult life, but only to the extent that it explains my breakup with their mom. I still get fragments of buried memories, but I don’t find them to be nearly as intrusive anymore. In fact, I feel like I’m recovering pretty well these days, not 100%, but far and away better than 20 years ago, and I have some of you to thank for that.
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