Nobody knows the trouble I've seen.
Wharf rat
New Registrant
I grew up in a hoarded home with my grandma, mom, little brother, and dad. As a baby I'm told I was almost always sick, I remember having pneumonia about 2 or 3 times a year until we got out of that house. It was a single wide trailer with a fake shell of a house built around it. There were holes in the floor, and on more than one occasion I remember possums or racoons coming in through the holes. There wasn't any central heat or air conditioning, in the summer time everyone almost always sat outside under a shade tree, doing whatever it is people do all day. As I got a little older, maybe 10, I wasn't only allowed to use nicotine, I was encouraged to.
Don't take all of this to say that I wasn't loved though, I really was. My mother was just a kid when she had me, I've put together enough drunk late night conversations with my father to figure out that my mom was under the impression that my dad was the bass player for a famous band. He was not. They hooked up once, and after my dad did a couple years of soul searching away from me and mom, we were all together under my grandmother's roof. I don't mean to dwell so much on the house, I know that it's an inanimate object, however this house was the host to all sorts of evil, before I was even born. As far as I know, that house has been host to many suicide attempts, one successful suicide, the long term sexual abuse of two people, two divorces, and a myriad of other terrible things. I know the house is inanimate, but, it is my opinion that it is a spiritual black hole.
The summer of 2003 was when i think I became conscious, atleast that's when my earliest memories are from. The earliest memory I have is of me laying on a couch, I never had beds until I was much older, and a figure looming over me for what seemed like hours. The figure was my older cousin, a woman who was maybe 17 at the time? I'm not entirely sure exactly how old she is, everything is a secret in my family, I don't even fully understand exactly how she's related to me. All I know is every summer from around 2002 until 2006ish she would fly in from out of state and stay with us all summer long.
It started innocent enough, I thought I accidentally walked In on her 'changing' , now that I'm older and have had time to think about it I'm almost certain she had me purposefully walk in on her nude, and masturbating. At the time I liked what I saw, I was still very young, and I didn't understand what was going on, but in that moment I remember there was no fear. Curiosity was probably the chief emotion, or maybe even confusion. I have trouble knowing exactly what I'm feeling. She let me watch for a while, then yelled at me to leave her alone. That was the last day of that particular trip to our house. I didn't think much of what had happened in the time immediately after. I started masturbating, of course at that age nothing would happen, I was maybe 6 or 7 at the time. While my cousin was back in her state I used to hear my mom talking on the phone about her and that part of my extended family. She would say, in her own words, that my cousin had emotional problems. They caught her doing something disturbing, I'm not sure what. I've asked my mother what they caught her doing, and who she was talking to about my abuser. She claims to have no memory of any of the phone calls I heard, or any memory of my cousin being caught doing anything that would lead them to belive she had emotional problems. For the sake of brevity ill just refer to my abuser by name, Olivia.
The next time I saw Olivia wasn't summer, it was Christmas, and to my knowledge this is the only year she came down to where we were for Christmas. It leads me to wonder why she wasn't with her mother and sister who both lived about 16 hours, by car, away. Again, I can get no straight answers from anyone about why she was with us, why she didn't stay with her father, and step brother, who lived literally next door, or why she always slept in the living room where I slept. The only incident at Christmas, was again, me walking in on her masturbating, standing there watching for a while, then leaving. The following summer, the year now being 2003, she flew in and my dad went to pick her up from the airport. I was actually excited to see her, my family has the same obsession with, "blood being thicker than water" that most white trash, trailer park people do. I was reminded all year that Olivia would be coming to spend summer with us, and no matter how strange she may seem, she was our blood, and you don't turn your back on blood. With hind site it's easy to tell people about how strange she was, I think my mother's earlier assessment of her having emotional problems was correct, but I didn't have the tools avaliable to make an assessment of her character. She was blood. Anyway, my dad was bringing her back from the airport and I was excited to see her. I don't remember what happened when she actually got to our house, but I remember that night. I said previously that she would stand over me at night, she did that almost every night she was in our home. She never did anything until the night in question though. She was standing, as usual, over me watching me sleep. Then she reached on top of the covers and out her hand on top of where she probably thought my penis was, it was actually just the blanket bunched up in between my legs. She rubbed there for a while, and then laid on the blow up matrress beside the couch I slept on. She then grabbed my arm and pulled me into the blow up mattress on the floor, she began touching me in all the places you could imagine, and at the time I was already masturbating, and having fantasies of such a thing happening. I loved it. I was a willing participant at this point, someone walked in on us, again, I don't know who. I heard her say she was sorry, then I got back on the couch I slept on and went back to sleep. The next morning me and her were under her covers kissing and my mother walked in, she told us to knock it off, and I followed my mother back to her bedroom to watch her do her make up. Just as a refresher, at this time I was maybe 6, she was I think 17 or 18.
This is when my memory starts getting blurry, I haven't always been a reliable narrator for things that have happened to me in the past. Here is what I know happened to me for sure. At some point in between her visit in 2003 and a visit in 2006 I got a bed, and had my own room. Previously the room that I called mine was used to store newspapers, cat food, and general other bits of trash. I can only assume that something sexual happened between us In those three years but I have no recollection of anything from those years, sexual or no. We were in my room alone, she was playing with dolls, I was playing a video game I think, or maybe watching TV. Suddenly I was on my stomach and she was on my back with her knee between my shoulder blades. I didn't scream, I don't know why. I tried to get away but I couldn't, she was big for a woman, maybe 5 foot 11, built like a linebacker. She wrapped an extension cord around my neck that we used to power a lamp in my bedroom, she pulled either end of the cord and I couldn't scream then if I wanted to. I felt like my eyes were going to pop out of my head, I could feel my skin on my forehead getting tight, my eyes and face were pulsing. Then I woke up with her entire hand inside of me, there was blood on her, on me, and on the carpet where I was laying. I laid there helplessly for a while, I have no idea where my mother was at this time. I eventually got up, tried my best to clean the blood on the carpet, hid my bloody underwear, and hid in my closet. I don't remember anything else from that day. I don't know who found me hidden in my closet, if anyone found me at all. For all I know I ended up coming out on my own accord and re integrated into the family as if nothing had happened. There was another incident very similar to that one that happened the next year I think? Maybe sooner, I'm not sure. Only this time she used a belt instead of a cord, and rather than sodomize me she tied up my genitals and hurt them. Also that time she didn't give me the solace of passing out for the abuse. She kept me awake, only choking me just enough to make me panic, and again I never screamed. It makes me wonder if I was threatened in someway to not scream, maybe I already knew no one was home to help.
I didn't see Olivia for a while after that, then one day it was announced that we were traveling to her house for Christmas. Only when we got there, she wasn't there. Just her mom, and sister. I have no clue why we went, where she was, or why I wasnt allowed to ask where she was. It was surreal being in her house. I went to her bedroom after everyone went to bed one night and looked around, it was decorated as if she was still 13. Christmas was uneventful, it was the year LeBron left Cleveland, I remember watching the local news and people were burning their LeBron jerseys. The last day we were at their house Olivia showed up, way more subdued than I was used to seeing her, she almost seemed as if she had been drugged. We left and drove back home and that was the last time I ever saw my abuser.
Shortly after we got back home we moved out of that house into a trailer across the street, it was strange, I wept when we left. Eventhough I had terrible memories in that house it was all I knew. My parents divorced in 2012, as I'm sure many people did. The housing market crash ruined my dad who made his living in selling residential and Comercial electrical supplies. My grandmother still lived in that house, I used to go visit her and she never understood why I didn't want to go see my old room. She hadn't changed it after I left. There was still SpongeBob stickers on the walls, and the lamp with the sketchy extension cord was still there. At that time I didn't have as visceral a reaction as I do to that house now. Although I still had a general uneasiness in that house, and especially going down the hall that led to that room. After my parents got divorced I started acting out, I already acted out a little, but in 2012 I really amped it up. It went from not doing homework in 2010 to smoking weed in 2011, to trying to cook crack to sell in 2012, and no, no one would sell me the cocaine to cook into crack. Thank God.
Once I got to high-school my mom met a new guy, a really good one. And my dad had also remarried, a woman who had been a long time friend of the family. Much hasn't been said about my father in this story, and that's because until I was in high school I'd didnt really know my father. He was always gone working, or out drinking, or playing music in his relatively band. Once I got to know him, I learned that he was loved by his peers, people looked up to him. He was a hustler in the truest sense of the word, he always had a scam going. There was always a play. He didn't do drugs, maybe occasionally smoked a little weed, but I didn't even know him to do that. What he did do was drink, he was a full blown, text book, alcoholic, and by the time I grew to know him he was widely successful in his work. He ended up leaving our trailer with holes in the floor and moved into a house bigger than anthing I had seen in person. He changed before my eyes from a half-a-criminal, pool hustler to a polo wearing, boat shoes owning, white collar upper class yuppie. His new wife had three children who, for the sake of brevity, I won't get into. Needless to say her kids very obviously suffered from sort of abuse, weather it was sexual or not I have no clue. I was sitting on my dad's luxurious back porch drinking a beer, again, I was encouraged to drink and smoke from a young age, and I watched him play catch with a son that wasn't his. It filled me with rage and I suffered somewhat of a temporary break from reality. It used to be a treat to be in the same room as my dad, much less play catch with him. I never even thought to ask him, I thought that was just something people in Mayberry did.
The same year I suffered my break from this plane of existence I was with my dad and his new family at a cook out. The person who owned the house we were at called me a homophobic slur, because he didn't like the football team on my hat. I pulled a straight razor out of my boot and just about the time I was about to slash his face my dad grabbed my wrist and pulled me away. We left, and on the quiet car ride home he asked me what happened, and a glimpse of the father I grew up with showed, he told me good, I couldnt let someone talk to me crazy without there being consequences. Once we got home I learned that someone called the police, but by the time the police got to this person's house he was passed out drunk, and no one else was willing to talk to the cops. I'm not sure what that changed in my father's eyes, but he then recommended that I do therapy. I was willing, and even excited about it. I never forgot about what happened to me, and I suffered almost content panic attacks as a result. Along with periods of derealization. Some time in the midst of me having these panic attacks I was prescribed benzodiazapines, and I learned that they were really groovy if I drank when I took a few on them, also by that time I had tried heroin and was a regular user of psychedelics, specifically a LSD analog that was popular at the time called N-BOME-17, ive since learned that N-BOME compounds are incredibly toxic and could even cause death. I wish I could say that drugs were bad for me, but if I'm being honest my experience with pshychadellics in particular were overall beneficial.
Once I started therapy I was confused, I had read some books on Freudian psychology, and some books about Carl Jung. I thought I knew what to expect, but when I went to see this woman she insisted that everything was my father's fault, that anxiety wasn't real, and that I stop all medications. I kept going back to her, I didn't see the harm in atleast having someone to talk to. I eventually told her about some of the sexual abuse from Olivia, nothing too graphic, and she seemed genuinely concerned. I felt heard, and left that session feeling like I had accomplished something. When I got to my mom's house that afternoon she was crying, she asked me if there was anything I wanted to tell her. I thought she found the small amount of money I made from selling various pills and weed. I told her nothing came to mind. She then told me she talked to my therapist, and that she her self was a victim of CSA, in the same house. In the same room. I felt so many emotions at once, anger for my therapist snitching on me, sadness for my mother having to have gone through that, and betrayal after my mom told me she called everyone in the family to let them know what happened. I think she thought she was doing good, maybe trying to rally support for me. What actually ended up happening was got about 50 phone calls and texts about how I was either full for shit, or brave for having gone through it.
I fell off the deepened of drugs, drinking, and just general debauchery after that situation. I quit seeing my therapist, but don't he bright side I was now my dad's best friend. He had a drinking buddy who wouldn't judge him for having a breakfast cocktail. It later came out that he told people who asked him about the situation that we were just kids messing around. No one knew about the choking or the sodomizing. I eventually slowed down on my drinking, no particular reason I guess, I showed up drunk to my senior prom and people were looking at me like they were concerned. It put a bad taste in my mouth, made me feel like I was cheating myself out of valuable time I could spend with some of my better influences. By this point in my life it came out that the psychologist I was seeing wasn't a psychologist at all, it was all fake. The diplomas on her wall were fake, her back story was fake, everything was fake.
Sometime later, after I ran through all of the bad news women in my town, I met who is now my wife. We met, got engaged, and married within two years. We're still married 6 years later with a son. Recently, maybe a year ago now, my wife and me were at my mom's house, which was still right across from my grandmother's house, the house where everything happened. My mom asked my wife if she would run across the street and borrow some sugar from my grandmother. When my wife came back she was appalled, she had never seen living conditions like that house. Apparently it had gotten worse since I was in there last. There was probably a good 4 years where I didn't step foot in there. So my wife, being the good person she is, decides to go in my grandmother's house while she's out, to try to clean up. It became apparent to her very quickly that there was no cleaning this house. The hoarding behaviors I knew as a child had spiraled out of control. There was rat shit everywhere, black mold everywhere, and a foot of trash on every piece of floor that wasn't rotted in. She was having to walk a 2X4 like a tight rope to get into her bed, all for the floor around her bed was rotted out and you could see earth. Up until that day I hadn't been past her front door in a very long time, my wife implored me to go inside and see it. I didn't want to, but she insisted, I walked in, and for whatever reason I walked straight back to the bedroom. It was just like I left it. SpongeBob stickers. The lamp. A blood stain on the carpet the size of a football. It was faded, and probably unrecognizable to anyone else who didn't know exactly what it was. I wanted to vomit, but my wife was around, and my mother by then had walked over to see the shape of the house. I couldnt leave the room, it was like a magnet was holding me there. My grandmother eventually got home, and I stayed in that room staring at ground zero. She came back to where I was and I turned to her and told her she couldn't live here anymore. She broke down crying, and then my wife and mother came back there, we all stood there watching her cry while I was standing over the most sacred of ground.
My grandmother moved in with my mom that day, and since then she's been trying to find out what to do with that house, the land it sits on, and where to live. She took out a third mortgage on that house right around the time of the 08 housing market crash, funny how things all come together. She is upside down on the house, and now everytime I go to visit my mom I pass by the house and I want to vomit. I don't mean figuratively, I mean literally, I get a feeling in my stomach like I just swallowed a bottle of ipicac. I have strong urges to burn that house down. I wouldn't, I wouldn't be a good dad from a jail cell. Still, it's so strange to see a house that held so much power over me sitting there half decayed, and the only room in the house which isnt hoarded was the room I was raped in.
It's since come out that Oliva spent some time in a psychiatric hospital, I don't know what for, I'm assuming suicide attempts but honestly that's a total guess. For a while her mother maintained that she couldn't have done what I said she did because she was mentally disabled. She gave up on that stoey recently, because know oivia is married and has a baby on the way. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have violent thoughts towards her, but with this baby on the way I just feel sorry. There's no way in hell that someone can go from pedophile rapist to good mother Ina decade or so. I still have panic attacks regularly, I've tried therapists, you could understand how I may be weary though. I don't currently do drugs or drink, I am profoundly overweight though. Couldn't expect to walk away completely unscathed.
I wrote this all in an hour or so, and I can't bring my self to read over it again to see if it even makes any sense. Sorry if it doesn't.
Don't take all of this to say that I wasn't loved though, I really was. My mother was just a kid when she had me, I've put together enough drunk late night conversations with my father to figure out that my mom was under the impression that my dad was the bass player for a famous band. He was not. They hooked up once, and after my dad did a couple years of soul searching away from me and mom, we were all together under my grandmother's roof. I don't mean to dwell so much on the house, I know that it's an inanimate object, however this house was the host to all sorts of evil, before I was even born. As far as I know, that house has been host to many suicide attempts, one successful suicide, the long term sexual abuse of two people, two divorces, and a myriad of other terrible things. I know the house is inanimate, but, it is my opinion that it is a spiritual black hole.
The summer of 2003 was when i think I became conscious, atleast that's when my earliest memories are from. The earliest memory I have is of me laying on a couch, I never had beds until I was much older, and a figure looming over me for what seemed like hours. The figure was my older cousin, a woman who was maybe 17 at the time? I'm not entirely sure exactly how old she is, everything is a secret in my family, I don't even fully understand exactly how she's related to me. All I know is every summer from around 2002 until 2006ish she would fly in from out of state and stay with us all summer long.
It started innocent enough, I thought I accidentally walked In on her 'changing' , now that I'm older and have had time to think about it I'm almost certain she had me purposefully walk in on her nude, and masturbating. At the time I liked what I saw, I was still very young, and I didn't understand what was going on, but in that moment I remember there was no fear. Curiosity was probably the chief emotion, or maybe even confusion. I have trouble knowing exactly what I'm feeling. She let me watch for a while, then yelled at me to leave her alone. That was the last day of that particular trip to our house. I didn't think much of what had happened in the time immediately after. I started masturbating, of course at that age nothing would happen, I was maybe 6 or 7 at the time. While my cousin was back in her state I used to hear my mom talking on the phone about her and that part of my extended family. She would say, in her own words, that my cousin had emotional problems. They caught her doing something disturbing, I'm not sure what. I've asked my mother what they caught her doing, and who she was talking to about my abuser. She claims to have no memory of any of the phone calls I heard, or any memory of my cousin being caught doing anything that would lead them to belive she had emotional problems. For the sake of brevity ill just refer to my abuser by name, Olivia.
The next time I saw Olivia wasn't summer, it was Christmas, and to my knowledge this is the only year she came down to where we were for Christmas. It leads me to wonder why she wasn't with her mother and sister who both lived about 16 hours, by car, away. Again, I can get no straight answers from anyone about why she was with us, why she didn't stay with her father, and step brother, who lived literally next door, or why she always slept in the living room where I slept. The only incident at Christmas, was again, me walking in on her masturbating, standing there watching for a while, then leaving. The following summer, the year now being 2003, she flew in and my dad went to pick her up from the airport. I was actually excited to see her, my family has the same obsession with, "blood being thicker than water" that most white trash, trailer park people do. I was reminded all year that Olivia would be coming to spend summer with us, and no matter how strange she may seem, she was our blood, and you don't turn your back on blood. With hind site it's easy to tell people about how strange she was, I think my mother's earlier assessment of her having emotional problems was correct, but I didn't have the tools avaliable to make an assessment of her character. She was blood. Anyway, my dad was bringing her back from the airport and I was excited to see her. I don't remember what happened when she actually got to our house, but I remember that night. I said previously that she would stand over me at night, she did that almost every night she was in our home. She never did anything until the night in question though. She was standing, as usual, over me watching me sleep. Then she reached on top of the covers and out her hand on top of where she probably thought my penis was, it was actually just the blanket bunched up in between my legs. She rubbed there for a while, and then laid on the blow up matrress beside the couch I slept on. She then grabbed my arm and pulled me into the blow up mattress on the floor, she began touching me in all the places you could imagine, and at the time I was already masturbating, and having fantasies of such a thing happening. I loved it. I was a willing participant at this point, someone walked in on us, again, I don't know who. I heard her say she was sorry, then I got back on the couch I slept on and went back to sleep. The next morning me and her were under her covers kissing and my mother walked in, she told us to knock it off, and I followed my mother back to her bedroom to watch her do her make up. Just as a refresher, at this time I was maybe 6, she was I think 17 or 18.
This is when my memory starts getting blurry, I haven't always been a reliable narrator for things that have happened to me in the past. Here is what I know happened to me for sure. At some point in between her visit in 2003 and a visit in 2006 I got a bed, and had my own room. Previously the room that I called mine was used to store newspapers, cat food, and general other bits of trash. I can only assume that something sexual happened between us In those three years but I have no recollection of anything from those years, sexual or no. We were in my room alone, she was playing with dolls, I was playing a video game I think, or maybe watching TV. Suddenly I was on my stomach and she was on my back with her knee between my shoulder blades. I didn't scream, I don't know why. I tried to get away but I couldn't, she was big for a woman, maybe 5 foot 11, built like a linebacker. She wrapped an extension cord around my neck that we used to power a lamp in my bedroom, she pulled either end of the cord and I couldn't scream then if I wanted to. I felt like my eyes were going to pop out of my head, I could feel my skin on my forehead getting tight, my eyes and face were pulsing. Then I woke up with her entire hand inside of me, there was blood on her, on me, and on the carpet where I was laying. I laid there helplessly for a while, I have no idea where my mother was at this time. I eventually got up, tried my best to clean the blood on the carpet, hid my bloody underwear, and hid in my closet. I don't remember anything else from that day. I don't know who found me hidden in my closet, if anyone found me at all. For all I know I ended up coming out on my own accord and re integrated into the family as if nothing had happened. There was another incident very similar to that one that happened the next year I think? Maybe sooner, I'm not sure. Only this time she used a belt instead of a cord, and rather than sodomize me she tied up my genitals and hurt them. Also that time she didn't give me the solace of passing out for the abuse. She kept me awake, only choking me just enough to make me panic, and again I never screamed. It makes me wonder if I was threatened in someway to not scream, maybe I already knew no one was home to help.
I didn't see Olivia for a while after that, then one day it was announced that we were traveling to her house for Christmas. Only when we got there, she wasn't there. Just her mom, and sister. I have no clue why we went, where she was, or why I wasnt allowed to ask where she was. It was surreal being in her house. I went to her bedroom after everyone went to bed one night and looked around, it was decorated as if she was still 13. Christmas was uneventful, it was the year LeBron left Cleveland, I remember watching the local news and people were burning their LeBron jerseys. The last day we were at their house Olivia showed up, way more subdued than I was used to seeing her, she almost seemed as if she had been drugged. We left and drove back home and that was the last time I ever saw my abuser.
Shortly after we got back home we moved out of that house into a trailer across the street, it was strange, I wept when we left. Eventhough I had terrible memories in that house it was all I knew. My parents divorced in 2012, as I'm sure many people did. The housing market crash ruined my dad who made his living in selling residential and Comercial electrical supplies. My grandmother still lived in that house, I used to go visit her and she never understood why I didn't want to go see my old room. She hadn't changed it after I left. There was still SpongeBob stickers on the walls, and the lamp with the sketchy extension cord was still there. At that time I didn't have as visceral a reaction as I do to that house now. Although I still had a general uneasiness in that house, and especially going down the hall that led to that room. After my parents got divorced I started acting out, I already acted out a little, but in 2012 I really amped it up. It went from not doing homework in 2010 to smoking weed in 2011, to trying to cook crack to sell in 2012, and no, no one would sell me the cocaine to cook into crack. Thank God.
Once I got to high-school my mom met a new guy, a really good one. And my dad had also remarried, a woman who had been a long time friend of the family. Much hasn't been said about my father in this story, and that's because until I was in high school I'd didnt really know my father. He was always gone working, or out drinking, or playing music in his relatively band. Once I got to know him, I learned that he was loved by his peers, people looked up to him. He was a hustler in the truest sense of the word, he always had a scam going. There was always a play. He didn't do drugs, maybe occasionally smoked a little weed, but I didn't even know him to do that. What he did do was drink, he was a full blown, text book, alcoholic, and by the time I grew to know him he was widely successful in his work. He ended up leaving our trailer with holes in the floor and moved into a house bigger than anthing I had seen in person. He changed before my eyes from a half-a-criminal, pool hustler to a polo wearing, boat shoes owning, white collar upper class yuppie. His new wife had three children who, for the sake of brevity, I won't get into. Needless to say her kids very obviously suffered from sort of abuse, weather it was sexual or not I have no clue. I was sitting on my dad's luxurious back porch drinking a beer, again, I was encouraged to drink and smoke from a young age, and I watched him play catch with a son that wasn't his. It filled me with rage and I suffered somewhat of a temporary break from reality. It used to be a treat to be in the same room as my dad, much less play catch with him. I never even thought to ask him, I thought that was just something people in Mayberry did.
The same year I suffered my break from this plane of existence I was with my dad and his new family at a cook out. The person who owned the house we were at called me a homophobic slur, because he didn't like the football team on my hat. I pulled a straight razor out of my boot and just about the time I was about to slash his face my dad grabbed my wrist and pulled me away. We left, and on the quiet car ride home he asked me what happened, and a glimpse of the father I grew up with showed, he told me good, I couldnt let someone talk to me crazy without there being consequences. Once we got home I learned that someone called the police, but by the time the police got to this person's house he was passed out drunk, and no one else was willing to talk to the cops. I'm not sure what that changed in my father's eyes, but he then recommended that I do therapy. I was willing, and even excited about it. I never forgot about what happened to me, and I suffered almost content panic attacks as a result. Along with periods of derealization. Some time in the midst of me having these panic attacks I was prescribed benzodiazapines, and I learned that they were really groovy if I drank when I took a few on them, also by that time I had tried heroin and was a regular user of psychedelics, specifically a LSD analog that was popular at the time called N-BOME-17, ive since learned that N-BOME compounds are incredibly toxic and could even cause death. I wish I could say that drugs were bad for me, but if I'm being honest my experience with pshychadellics in particular were overall beneficial.
Once I started therapy I was confused, I had read some books on Freudian psychology, and some books about Carl Jung. I thought I knew what to expect, but when I went to see this woman she insisted that everything was my father's fault, that anxiety wasn't real, and that I stop all medications. I kept going back to her, I didn't see the harm in atleast having someone to talk to. I eventually told her about some of the sexual abuse from Olivia, nothing too graphic, and she seemed genuinely concerned. I felt heard, and left that session feeling like I had accomplished something. When I got to my mom's house that afternoon she was crying, she asked me if there was anything I wanted to tell her. I thought she found the small amount of money I made from selling various pills and weed. I told her nothing came to mind. She then told me she talked to my therapist, and that she her self was a victim of CSA, in the same house. In the same room. I felt so many emotions at once, anger for my therapist snitching on me, sadness for my mother having to have gone through that, and betrayal after my mom told me she called everyone in the family to let them know what happened. I think she thought she was doing good, maybe trying to rally support for me. What actually ended up happening was got about 50 phone calls and texts about how I was either full for shit, or brave for having gone through it.
I fell off the deepened of drugs, drinking, and just general debauchery after that situation. I quit seeing my therapist, but don't he bright side I was now my dad's best friend. He had a drinking buddy who wouldn't judge him for having a breakfast cocktail. It later came out that he told people who asked him about the situation that we were just kids messing around. No one knew about the choking or the sodomizing. I eventually slowed down on my drinking, no particular reason I guess, I showed up drunk to my senior prom and people were looking at me like they were concerned. It put a bad taste in my mouth, made me feel like I was cheating myself out of valuable time I could spend with some of my better influences. By this point in my life it came out that the psychologist I was seeing wasn't a psychologist at all, it was all fake. The diplomas on her wall were fake, her back story was fake, everything was fake.
Sometime later, after I ran through all of the bad news women in my town, I met who is now my wife. We met, got engaged, and married within two years. We're still married 6 years later with a son. Recently, maybe a year ago now, my wife and me were at my mom's house, which was still right across from my grandmother's house, the house where everything happened. My mom asked my wife if she would run across the street and borrow some sugar from my grandmother. When my wife came back she was appalled, she had never seen living conditions like that house. Apparently it had gotten worse since I was in there last. There was probably a good 4 years where I didn't step foot in there. So my wife, being the good person she is, decides to go in my grandmother's house while she's out, to try to clean up. It became apparent to her very quickly that there was no cleaning this house. The hoarding behaviors I knew as a child had spiraled out of control. There was rat shit everywhere, black mold everywhere, and a foot of trash on every piece of floor that wasn't rotted in. She was having to walk a 2X4 like a tight rope to get into her bed, all for the floor around her bed was rotted out and you could see earth. Up until that day I hadn't been past her front door in a very long time, my wife implored me to go inside and see it. I didn't want to, but she insisted, I walked in, and for whatever reason I walked straight back to the bedroom. It was just like I left it. SpongeBob stickers. The lamp. A blood stain on the carpet the size of a football. It was faded, and probably unrecognizable to anyone else who didn't know exactly what it was. I wanted to vomit, but my wife was around, and my mother by then had walked over to see the shape of the house. I couldnt leave the room, it was like a magnet was holding me there. My grandmother eventually got home, and I stayed in that room staring at ground zero. She came back to where I was and I turned to her and told her she couldn't live here anymore. She broke down crying, and then my wife and mother came back there, we all stood there watching her cry while I was standing over the most sacred of ground.
My grandmother moved in with my mom that day, and since then she's been trying to find out what to do with that house, the land it sits on, and where to live. She took out a third mortgage on that house right around the time of the 08 housing market crash, funny how things all come together. She is upside down on the house, and now everytime I go to visit my mom I pass by the house and I want to vomit. I don't mean figuratively, I mean literally, I get a feeling in my stomach like I just swallowed a bottle of ipicac. I have strong urges to burn that house down. I wouldn't, I wouldn't be a good dad from a jail cell. Still, it's so strange to see a house that held so much power over me sitting there half decayed, and the only room in the house which isnt hoarded was the room I was raped in.
It's since come out that Oliva spent some time in a psychiatric hospital, I don't know what for, I'm assuming suicide attempts but honestly that's a total guess. For a while her mother maintained that she couldn't have done what I said she did because she was mentally disabled. She gave up on that stoey recently, because know oivia is married and has a baby on the way. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have violent thoughts towards her, but with this baby on the way I just feel sorry. There's no way in hell that someone can go from pedophile rapist to good mother Ina decade or so. I still have panic attacks regularly, I've tried therapists, you could understand how I may be weary though. I don't currently do drugs or drink, I am profoundly overweight though. Couldn't expect to walk away completely unscathed.
I wrote this all in an hour or so, and I can't bring my self to read over it again to see if it even makes any sense. Sorry if it doesn't.