Tag Archive: abuse

Changes In Behavior:

Living With The Folks Overseas

When I was little, we gotten beaten a lot. I won’t go into everything – the moral crushing words, the ego scathing attacks. Beatings usually consisted of us going into our bedroom – or just one of us – waiting for a half hour or so, which is why I have the phrase “Waiting is painful, too.” I credit those waits for allowing me to prepare myself for what was to come – waiting on those footsteps to approach, the closed door opening, my father coming in. Tapping his belt on the palm of his hand. Gently explaining what we had done wrong. And then the punishment.

My brother says he could hear me scream and scream from his bedroom room with both doors shut and two walls. I don’t know for certain. You reach a certain phase when you are getting beaten where you just sort of blank out. I would sit there waiting . . . waiting . . . fading away inside of myself, hardening; preparing for what was to come. I hated crying; I couldn’t stand it, especially among myself. Or Selves, if that’s the way you want to put it.

Then the old man would have us stand and bend over, grabbing our ankles. Of course our pants would be pulled down – or our shorts – though later I learned (rather quickly I imagine!) to take them off. They just would trip you when you started dancing, and that would be seen as an attempt to escape – falling on the floor – which would be punished even more harshly.

I learned early on to face the bed, too. That first shot would often launch you – and the best launch was onto something with a soft surface. It was best to have all your toys picked up, or at least nudged out of the way so you wouldn’t end up dancing on them, too.

My dad had a favorite question to ask (I think). “Have you learned your lesson yet?” And no matter what the answer was, it was wrong. A yes or no would earn you more of a beating. I think he just asked it to see if you lied or not. Or not, most likely. Maybe. I don’t know.

I do know that I was stupid sometimes. I would not cry. And my dad liked crying children – he loved to hear you scream; see ‘the dance’. Sometimes he would take you by the hand and whirl you around – you are running in circles, the belt or something else pursuing you – going ’round and ’round his towering legs with tears streaming down your face as you ran. Those kinds of things hurt; sometimes the blows kinda went wild. It was unusual to get hit about the hips and shoulders; or on the arms.

We always ate on a regular schedule – the Army one. Breakfast (if not served before leaving for school and whatnot) was served at eight. Lunch at twelve. Supper (or dinner, if you prefer) at five-thirty pm. Meals were usually fairly simple, and at school I ate with the lunch crowd – getting my tray and food from the school. Later on I would start brown-bagging it, but this was early on. And days were fairly quite easy.

The morning would begin in the ‘hood – I get up, get dressed (usually just a pair of shorts and underwear) and go out into the kitchen. There my mom would often be cooking breakfast (eggs, toast, bacon, milk – orange juice or some other kind of juice if she would afford them – the frozen kind; made from concentrate). Then if not to school, then outside. We’d spend the entire day outside from morning to noon – and then we’d hear that big old triangle ring, and we’d come home for some bologna sandwiches, peanut butter & jellies – something like that – and milk to drink. I remember we used to get milk in those long cartons the PX sold – dark green with white lettering, and a heavy wax coating on them. They were very valuable to me, those cartons! With them I could make boats and toys to play with, either in the tub or out of it. Those heavy waxed cartons would last a long while – several floatings in the tub – until after about a week later the edges would get soft and fuzzy and we’d have to throw them away. Many a G.I. Joe took a ride in those boats – all naked (just like me) in the tub, swimming his way to freedom when the boat sunk.

But things changed when we got overseas. It was like the physical abuse suddenly just stopped. I seem to recall my mom telling us: “You’re too old for anymore whippings. From now on we’re gonna be punishing you different. With restriction and such. Taking away your privileges.” I wish it had been like that. The truth is – they still continued to beat us from time to time – with as much frenzy and hatred as before – and they would impose these new rules on us. But overall the beatings diminished. LOL, I guess the moral of the crew improved or something. But the fact is: we were getting beaten with a lot less frequency than before, when we were young children.

However, the restrictions started to get a lot longer and more frequent. That’s not to say we made bad grades – we didn’t. We generally managed to keep it between a C and an A. However, those few times we made an F or a D were bad. (I made my first F in 5th grade, failing math because I had gotten caught up and lost in the system. Somewhere between North Carolina and the ‘hood decimals got lost. Or rather, the ability to change them from one thing to another (say fractions or percents) got skipped over. I can only assume that in North Carolina the military school was behind while in Georgia the civilian school (I am talking about Windsor Springs Elementary here) was ahead. As a result there was a gap in my education that the teach failed to detect – or correct – or she just didn’t have enough time to do it. Promising students weren’t granted any special considerations and favors back then; not like today with their “Magnet Schools” and schools for accelerated children. So I was just left to thrash along on my own – without any success at the thing. My father’s explanations were confusing, and my moms? She always sent me to my dad.

A ‘D’ or an ‘F’ would mean restriction to your room. How long depended on ‘you’. However, while we were overseas there was so much to do – my parents were constantly touring and we were moving around – that restrictions were usually of a shorter duration – may a few weeks or more, but sometimes just a couple of days (depending upon our behavior during the restriction time). Asking to be ‘let off’ or ‘get out’ would buy you a week or more, so you had to be careful about asking. You had to catch them in a good mood. And even then you’d better come bearing some proof you were doing better – a string of A’s, I presume. I rarely got off restriction early, however. Often we would come back from some ‘vacation’ touring over there only to find I was still on restriction, still confined to my room.

The belt fell out of favor except for with my dad – my mom preferred a wooden spoon. She had a wide bladed one with a thick handle that she used to beat us with – and you stood, just stood there taking it. Fighting back, it was understood, was forbidden. My brother tried ONE time. After that he never tried again. Reaching behind him he grabbed the belt from her hand – and when she got the gun he realized: that was the wrong thing to do. So she beat him with the belt in one hand, gun in the other until he was singing his tune and dancing, too. I think he was about fifteen, sixteen years old at the time. He never challenged her again.

As for me? Always the stoic person, I might have complained from time to time – did my crying when I’d get beaten – but I just sort of lumped it up; ‘forgot’ about it – rubbed my ass and went on. I had learned crying did no good. Indeed, depending on who was beating you, it could actually be bad. My dad would give up beating on you once he’d gotten his thrill. My mom, on the other hand, would be encouraged by your crying and whining to beat you some more – for crying and whining! – and then you would be sent to your room to finish it off. My dad? It always started in the room to begin with, so we left it there. (The pain & anguish I assume. “We” left ‘something’ – or someone – there to ‘take it’, deal with it, be done with it, et all.)

I assume that’s where my ‘high pain tolerance’ came from – all those beatings and all that waiting. Because that waiting gets you ready for the pain. You learn to control it – how to ‘turn it one’ (that pain tolerance), and ‘turn it off’. There’s a difference in sensation when I – and ‘we’ – do that. It’s like someone else is sucking up the pain for us. Little Mikie, I assume – since he was one of the ones built to do that. As a result ‘he’ has a lot of pain built up on the inside. On the other hand – ‘he’ is one of the sweetest human child(ren) I’ve ever met. There’s a little bit of artificiality to him there, too – which is what led me to suspect ‘he’ was a creation of Little Michael, the ‘real’ boy inside – the one who made all the decisions about who was to ‘come out’ at what time; who was to ‘do’ what, when and how – a whole lot of other things.

Anyway . . . just another story about how things ‘changed’ when we went overseas. How the discipline changed. I don’t know if that’s because we had new neighbors all around, or they were afraid of thin doors (what the neighbors may hear). I don’t know for certain it was our age at all. I certainly suspect it had more to do with other people being around – living so close to them, jowl to jowl, cheek to cheek so to speak – that they didn’t want anybody staring at them when they went to the commissary or PX, or simply stepped out the door. Noise levels were to be kept down in the apartments – in the houses it didn’t matter. So I reckon I’ll never know. Perhaps it was a combination – the parents realizing their children had gotten a little old for their ‘beatings’ – coupled with the instinctive knowledge they may be heard.

After all, you don’t want your neighbors to know you’ve been beating your kid. None of them.


Secrets have been told.

(big smile).



“Here! Meet Prince. Make friends with him!”

A hand between my shoulder blades firmly shoved me forward. I dug in my heels, afraid. I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to make friends with Prince. I was terrified of him. I could see what he did to kids. Around me the other kids were crying. Some had deep gouges on their chests and shoulders, some were oozing blood.

The hand shoved again. I was trembling inside; there was no way around it. Prince stared eagerly at me, his eyes bright as drool dribbled down his chin.

We had arrived in the ‘hood perhaps a few months before. We were in our neighbor’s backyard – the one across the street. Everyone envied them their house. It was a long brick ‘ranch’ with a big front and even bigger back yard peppered with those large scaly pines that grow in the South. In the back stood the remains of an old well house; its broken block walls staggered like an old man’s teeth. Another shed stood further behind; its walls narrow and high.  That shed was kept lock most of the time, and for some reason that one still scares me – I can see it in mind’s eyes, the planked door all a cant . . .

Prince stood, tongue lolling from his mouth as he rolled his eyes, watching me.  Waiting.  Waiting for me to come.  The hand pushed me forward again.  It was my mom.  I tried backpedaling but it was futile. Her hands clamped my shoulders and shoved me forward.

“Make friends!” Mom commanded. I could hear the disgust and irritation at my cowardice beneath her cheery tone.  I knew she was covering her irritation at me for our neighbor’s benefit.

“He won’t hurt you!” the other mom cheerfully chirped. Behind her stood her children. Several were still crying, heads down, looking at the long red streaks marking their chests, thighs, and stomachs.  They were still sniffling.

I looked at Prince.  He was chained up good I reckon – I could see a big loop banding the pine’s wide base – but he had a six foot lead. There was a wide circle where he stayed, the chain keeping the ground swept clean.  A battered pine straw rim surrounded it, showing the limits of his range like a boxing ring. Deep scars marked the ground, and you could see where his nails had raked the edge along the ring. Soon they would be raking me.

Taking a firm breath and holding it, I forced myself to step forward. Prince was huge compared to me – a mere six year old. Standing up he could put his chin on top of my mom’s head. She hadn’t any big problem with him; just a little. The grownups were big enough to handle him.  I wasn’t.  None of us kids were.  And he was friendly.

The hand shoved me again as I faltered to a stop.  My mom bent and breathed a curse in my ear.  “Go on and step forward, you little bastard!”  She straightened back up again.

“Go on! He’s friendly enough.” Gone was the anger, again the waiting audience heard cheer.  Mom shoved me again. Her neighbor stood, smiling encouragingly and chirping advice. She’d put Prince out just a few days before and she wanted everyone in the neighborhood to get to know him. After all, he was handsome in his own way. But he was too friendly. That was the problem – he was too friendly and unabashed about his greetings.  If you could count on anything, it was that they were wholehearted. I could see it in his eyes: he could hardly wait.  ‘They’, the grownups, were trying to break him by using us children on him – teaching us how to handle him while teaching him not to hurt us – too much. Either way, it didn’t matter. We were getting torn up.  Prince didn’t care.  He was just confused because they’d pull the last child out from under him just as he’d begun to ‘play’ . . .

The children’s mother alternated between cheering us on and scolding her kids. She wanted them to lead by example, including the ‘not crying’ thing. They were still crying because their scratches hurt. This wasn’t the first time they’d been through this ordeal. They had gone through it a few days earlier, when Prince had first arrived to the neighborhood. I had noticed when we first entered the back yard that they kept their distance from that ring, staying just a few feet outside that ring of dusty sand, looking in. Sometimes they would reach towards him, or he would think they had gotten too close and he would lung, mouth gaping and claws snatching. And he had long claws. Yes, he certainly did.

I had watched ever since my mom had brought me over here, into this green backyard with it’s circle of dirt – watched the kids greeting him one by one – the grownups beating him down when it finally got too much for the kid in question to bear – beating him back with a stick or a broom handle – and then another kid would be asked, or forced to go forward. Each one had gotten a mauling; all except for the older kids. They were almost able to handle him. But even given their size, he was quite a bit bigger than them when he would stand, his back arced against the chain that was binding him to the tree so he would go running away and cause some sort of trouble somewhere else like he had done already. I guess that’s why they were keeping him there; later on, after he had learned this lesson, they were going to let him go roaming and rambling through the neighborhood . . .

And I guess that’s why, in a way, they wanted everyone – especially all of us kids – to meet him. Introducing us to him; letting him sniff us over his his own way and fashion. While also teaching him some manners. There again at our own expense.

I stepped forward; I was now almost in the circle-ring. I took another step or perhaps I was shoved again. I kept getting thrust forward despite all the backpedaling I could do. Gritting my teeth –

He lunged forward, his huge claws raking me down my shoulders; cheeks, chest and chin. Slobber dripped down all over me. I was thrown backward, but those hands kept on supporting me, urging me forward again; those claws came down again, a drool covered tongue licked my cheek; hot breath huffing me in the face . . .

Like burning daggers they are, those claws; raking me down the face.  I remember one kid with a dangling eyelid . . . drooping because he’d gotten hurt in that way . . .

Beating him with sticks the grownups drove him down again; by now I was crying, my scratches were hurting, and I stumbled away while the grownups started laughing. Some of the kids were playing by now, wandering off to do their own thing.

Welcome, Prince, to the neighborhood, welcome to the game . . .

He never was quite human.

After all, he was a dog. A large one. A big black and tan German Shepard who’d been chained to a tree. And his ‘mother’, the owner, wanted everyone to get to know him – and break him of this habit he had of jumping on everyone he met – including us children. Which meant ‘feeding’ us children to him one-by-one and then beating him off of us.

It was a hell of a way to learn. Not just for him, but us children.

And I learned something that day. I learned that sometimes you have to step into the fire, knowing you are going to feel some pain. Maybe a lot of pain. And that sometimes there’s just nothing you can do about it.

And I resolved not to cry. Ever again. Not that I succeeded. I was always trying to toughen up. Even as a toddler I had resolved not to cry – not when I was beaten, nor threatened with death, nor sitting by the door waiting for the “Bad Men” from the “Bad Boys Home” to come get me and take me away from home. It just strengthened my resolve. I was learning. I was learning to disassociate, put fear from my mind. I was learning to ignore pain; putting it away somewhere in my mind. Every punishment taught me a little more about how not to cry and how to bear more pain. And I had learned – once again – and that there’s no escaping from it. I was going to be hurt. I recognized that walking in. But I had not choice. And that was something I was learning: that sometimes you have no choice – that sometimes Fate (or mothers) will shove you and you’ve got to gather up your courage, or at least your resolve and force yourself to step forward, as if it were a firm and guiding hand.




That’s all I’m going to say about that.  Be prewarned.  “Caution.”  “Triggers.”  Why should life contain those verses?

(space for your safety)

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Contains descriptions of Bestiality and Child Abuse.  Do not go there is you do not want to and are not strong enough to stomach this. 
Mostly done by my inside alter, Michael or “Mikie” as he likes to call himself.


Dogs are triggers to us sometimes.  Especially large ones.

This is because we used to have sex with dogs.

During our first time it was our abuser doing it to us.  He had us sucking dogs.  That was bad and it stinks.  It smelled bad and it tasted bad and there was this thing in our throat.  It hurt us bad sometimes taking it all in.

Later on we got fucked by dogs.  This was big dogs doing it to us.  They would enter our ass and nearly rip us out.  There are those large things on the dogs balls – they are like big balls on his penis – and he would enter us and those things would swell up locking him inside of us, ripping us.

They hurt us bad sometimes having a dogs penis shoved up your ass.  Even worse was when they would lock onto us; locking INTO us and then we’d be locked with the dog with them things swelled up big inside of you and they can’t get out and it would be inside of us hurting us.

clear streams and jets of streams shooting out inside of us.  It felt good some of the times but mostly good but sometimes bad really bad when he’d get to humping and trying to pull us out and it would nearly be ripping our asshole as large and big as we are round or at least it felt so

once we were bleeding from the ass from what he did.  he had ripped us inside somewhat I reckon.  no matter we are getting better from those things.

it hurts real bad to have a dog rip his thing from you when its all swelled up inside.

the dog claws were pretty bad and things nothing like having a dog pensi shoved in your ass while he’s expanding and ripping at your shoulders and things with his claws anxious panting and rolling his eyes and dogbreath in your face while he comes.

dogbreath on your shoulders smells bad anyways

dog penises smell bad as well.  and they are meaty and round and not like ours.  They are disgusting.

but the claws were the worse sometimes we got hurt bad by those claws sometimes clawing up and down our sides until we were bleeding while the dog is getting it on and we’re hunched all over on our hands and elbos and nees and its all falling apart right here and now it hurt soo fuckinbad.  getting ripped up like that by those claws and things.  the penis in the ass wasn’t so bad until they’d let me go and then they’d rip this thing outta me frightening away the dog and me and the dog screaming only i wasn’t screamngn so much as asking them to let me go asking pleasing the dog saying doggie please get the fuck offn’ me and let me GO ow NOW and it would hurt so bad up inside of me.


we kinda love them but always have ahd them but they hurt me bad osmetimes.

that’s why i got me them girl dogs

they can’t hurt me anymore.


Preamble:  Day 2 of “this stuff”.  LO bitter L’ing.  Got interrupted during processing; just like the old psychologist’s office.  The Shrink’s office.  The counseler’s office.  And a few other ones.  You know the deal:  One hour session – get you ‘ramped up’ – and then ‘ding!’ (alarm goes off) – “It’s time to go!  I have another client coming in!”  And there you are all F’d up within yourself (and out, too) – stumbling out the door in a haze, zoned to the max, and switching all over the place while the attendant says, “Same time tomorrow?” meaning “This same time next week or so?” and here you are needing immediate treatment and finding none (really, really could use that old bottle – used to keep one of Everclear in my own car – for use after those afternoon sessions, LO bitter L’ing again by me and my own alters.  Note how many times I didn’t use “I” up above; that’s because we are preferring it that way; easier to ‘hide’ them alters of mine and their and ours … lying not through admission; but omission instead.)

Here’s another thing that grieves me before we go into this thing: The Rape of A Child; my own, my inner child, the one we are calling Mikie (which, BTW, IS his real name in many senses of the word!)

Can’t tell no one.  Not about what happened yesterday, Confronting Father.  Not that I don’t WANT to – this is something we’ve been burning to tell the wifie thing ever since we first met her tomorrow (meaning yesterday?) afternoon.  Yeah; things are a kinda bit crazy; time-slipping a little bit here and there between us old alters; crazy ain’t the word??

WE didn’t intend on telling “no one”; that is, we never intended on confronting the Father one yesterday; that was totally unplanned!  He just came over at a bad time for us (when we were trying to processing and make peace within ourselves about this thing called Mikie and the things that happened to him

Damn.  Suddenly very sad; we called him a “thing”, and that’s hurting the little one called Mikie: WE ARE SORRY SON!  (crap crap crap; things going wild.  LO soft but not so bitter L’ing again.  We are sorry little one; we didn’t mean to hurt you with them words; really son.)

BUT what this means is that we are not done processing the events below.  That said, we are done ‘for the day’ (not meaning for the day; just putting aside this particular issue for a tad in time.)

And the reason we can’t tell the wifie thing is this plain and simple: she doesn’t have time for us.  Not right now.  And by the time she does …. crap.  We’re hoping we don’t cut ourself; that something doesn’t go wrong.  And get this: it’s gonna be maybe Tuesday?  Perhaps sooner?  Depending upon her schedule . . . maybe she’ll have some time for us.  I don’t know.

F’ing wifie thing.  It ain’t her fault; she doesn’t know what’s going on and she’s unwilling to make time to find out.  You know: life and things.  Husband falls to the way behind; trailing along behind her like some kinda dog that needs to take a crap on the floor – and she won’t let him.  (LO somewhat bitter L’ing; that is like SOOO freakin’ appropriate an expression; the dog and kind of thing.)

Okay, lets get going; what you’ve been waiting for.

The Rape of Mikie, my Inner Child and Most Precious One (okay, maybe not most precious?  For in and of ourselves, all of us are precious?  But he is a Special One, if you are getting my meaning here ….)


He is my best friend

He is in my house

He has come over to do some watching for me

He is supposed to be watching over us

He is doing something wrong with the dog

and my brother is crying (in me? Near me.)

Here’s the deal; we are not in a good place right now okay and so don’t expect no fucking forgiveness.

He came over at the insistence of my mother and my father

He has come over while them are going to the movie

It is dark in the house but not some; it is light; there is a light in there some of the lights are on

We begin running around

okay, here’s the deal

He’s come over he’s not my best friend but hes’ my best friends only brother. He is older than him; we are thinking I am 6 and he is 13

My parents said “Watch over them he (mikie) is the bad one you gotta watch over him closely” now they are turning to me and my brother and they are saying

“You’d better do the things he does (tells me?) to do.” We aren’t given the opportunity to say yes mum no mum just be doing what we are told; you are supposed to be doing what you are told no matter what happens do as you are told no matter if he’s killin him do as you’re fucking told now ou damned little kid.

And we were never never NEVER fucking allowed no; no to anything at all ever again in our lives; we gotta do as we’ve been told.

Not doing what you are told is a BAD thing; doing what you are told keeps them outta trouble

No “no’s” allowed in here; in this thing; not never not to no one

Especially and authority figure who has been placed over us this being this teenaged kid

this friend of ours

and he is in there babysitting

and we are funning around (I wanted to type running ardound but it keesp on coming ‘funning’ LL not such a funning thing)

We are running around and around iin the household when he starts doing this thing

and it starts with Charlie our friend and this dog.

Charlies our firend and he’s my/our doggie sometimes tho’ he belongs to momma most times and we aer sad for him cuz he went and died without us bein around

how hard is that to die somewhere becauz you family hasn’t been around

He got died running after some truck someone else was taking care of him and he was our dog and my dog.

He was a big dog and too he was black and furry with this kinda long and short curly hair he was a nice dog and a good dog and he follered us around sometime and he played football with us kds and he would steal the ball and then go running and we love our poor and lost lonely dog

But thats not what happened then and this time.

This time he got it for real

The teenager is bending over him and they are doing something to him this teenager friend and my dog; he is doiong it TO him, doing something to my own dog

and it is in the hall way and (pause …. long pause …. Mikie is reluctant to go on go on Mikie you can do this things we are all here and we are feeling sorry for you all but the religious man even Matthew is feeling sick and sorry for you not sick at you but what at this teenagers done)


so I go on?

(yes mikied my friend my son my dear and loving son go on we are standing right here behind you recording this as this goes on; go on my friend talk to me.)

fucking shit (little mikie is saying he has the own words in and outta my head. This is making Matthew angry that Mikie can do this sort of thing; get into his own head: perhaps that is why Matthew sealed him off so long time ago? Back in the 84’s? Yup I reckon so he is saying turning to me and the crowd and things and he is firm but hard and sorry he’s done this sort of thing but he had to to seal off this kind of pain and embarrassment)

Okay mikie go on. The dog. The teenager is doing something outta(?) him?

Okay (mikie goes on; he and I and us are taking in a deep breath on this ugly fucking thing)

Go on.

Mikie go on. (he is standing head down staring at the thing we know and we could tell but HE must tell this thing otherwise its gonna be no good.)

“He is fucking the dog.” he is saying but that’s not quite right; the teenager is masturbating on the dog meaning he is jacking the fucking dog off; there, I said it for you Mikie, you can go on now can’t you?

Yeah sure (he says hard and firm; he’s a tough kid looking up at me with firm and angry sorta eyes but they are tearfilled in his own way instead)

He has us go down on the dog; meaning this:

my brother is in the corner crying. He is crying real bad. And then this thing he has happens

The doggies laying on his back and the teenager is sorta jacking him; doing something with his penis; he is stroking it back and forth and this big pink thing comes outta him with two red balls attached to him and then he has me go donw on him

and it tastes yuck yuck kinda nasty firm but yielding and there’s some shit shooting out of him into my mouth and things and it tastes yuckfuckingyuckyuckand I”m doing this thing I’m sucking off the dog and thigns and I kinda like it because I’m doing it for him this teenager friend of mine and he asked and I cannot say no cannot bend the rules; gotta do this thing for him and it tastes kinda nasty and Im’ using my teeth the way he showed me not to (later on sometimes) and scraping the dogs dick and the penis and the dog is knda crying and I am too sorta but not; crying cuz it tastes kinda bad and this thing is hiiting in the back of my throat and things and it hurts real bad but I wanna pleas him this teeanger and things.

And I look up and the teengare is fuking smiling at me saying go on go on go on and do it and it’s like he’s kinda mad but he’s not he’s kinda smiling and my brother is in the corner and he’s screaming ‘you’re hurting him your hurting him over and over again while he’s crying all balled up and things and how does he know his fuckin eyes and midn are closed a lot like min is right now

and I think I’m gonna be sick; we can feel this thing ;a deep down fucking nausea at whats going on; physcial sensations include just like when I was fucking cutting; burning sharp skin pains on waist and belly its like the dog is fucking clawing me (this is NOW realtimeing and folks; it’s for real feels like I’ve taken a razor knife to my own skin and is cutting it RIGHT f’ing NOW)

moving on. Mikie

Tell me some more. Tell the nice audience some more; they aren’t gonna be hurting you or nothing; they are friendly and people and they’re gonna be okay (okay people out there? Hang this up hang on the phone and fucking hang it up if it’s bother you nothing triggers someone more than this kinda shit I’m knowing; don’t want you out there getting hurt or nuthing)

Okay mikie, move on. You are sucking this dog thing and then what happens; comeon you can tell us (he is crying inside but we are … zoned – can’t cry a single tear for him; this is his ownprocess and we’re gonna have to go through it sometime again; I can realize that kinda thing but move on.)


The teenager he is saying stopping me and we look up and he’s got a big grin on his face and we’re wearing one too; we are happy we have served him; done him proud, make him kinda like us or something (he is my brother’s best friend) and my brother is not done crying he is kinda like laying there in the corner in the hallway moaning and some kinda shit; WE are the one hurting him we realize; WE have done this thing and it has hurt our own brother in this way somefuckinghow we don’t know when or how this has happened he didn’t suck the dog’s dick WE did and we’re not happy with him or it anyhow

but this friend of ours is saying something he’s saying ‘come on come on, do (this thing) to me!” and we are still on our knees (we were on our knees before bent over this dog thing and it SMELLS real fucking BAD kinda nauseous again)

and he’s saying ‘come on come one do it do it” and he has his dick hanging out and its an enormous thing it appears to us that way and were crawling over a few handsteps on our knees to him and he’s putting it in our moth and things and then he starts rocking back and forth real hard and then he’s saying something about teeth again making us curl our lips under and THAT hurts kinda bad and then we can taste something it’s blood in our mouth from doing this thing he’s pressing even harder and hurting our nose and shit and down pressing and our teeth are cutting lips and tongue our lip our tongue

and he says stopping

‘come on lets go to your room’

and then we’re going I”m standing up to him and we’re going down the hallway and into the dark room leaving my crying brother far behind him is with the dog and things and we are feelin g kinda sick again

and we go into my room and he doesn’t even turn the light on I though we were gonna try playing some games and things; doing something fun but no he is having me get on the bed right there beside him no he isn’t on the bed; it’s next to him and its our bed as well.

And we’re getting on the thing and laying down he has us laying down on our belly and things and then he kinda takes our pants off only its not pants its those shorts momma makes me where – the cutoffs and things we are so poor we haven’t hardly go any clothing so we must wear this thing all the time all of the kids in the hood do; the fuckin hood is a poor kinda place really fucking poor

and he’s saying something about how he kinda loves me??? and then hes’ sticking a finger in my ass and it kinda hurts and something then he’s fucking on top of me squashing me so HARD breath runs outta me like kinda like the air from the dryer vent and THEN he’s doing something else to me way down there and hes sticking it in and it hurts like fuckin HELL and then its over but no its not over yet because hes starting to do this kinda thing kinda like him and the dog; yeah to me and it kinda feels kinda good and then he sticks his dick in and then THAT hurts real fucking bad and he’s goin in and out and bouncing on me but it feels kinda good after awhile no not the butt kinda thing but him kinda pressing up against me I kinda like this thing of feeling his skin on my back kinda thing kinda feels nice sometimes but it HURTS so fuckin bad down in there even my belly is hurting so bad he’s got in in so fuckin deep or something and it hurts and I’m cryin but not tryin to show him

and then hes’ done and he’s rolling off the top of me and saying

“You wanna play?”

and we go and run

having fun again

and my bottom is hurting real kinda bad

and I’m not gonna be telling my parents and things because ITS REAL BAD and it kinda hurts down there and THEY might wanna come take a look at thing and THEN i’d have to tell them about the dog and THATS a BAD FUCKING THING we know that now we know that then we knew it all kinds of times.

Blackmail, that’s what I’m thinking (Putting Mikie away; poor kid; he’s had a hard time of it today and in the past 24 hours or so: the system pressuring him. But not “completely away”. We’re going to be needing him for the psychoanalysis type of thing. You know what I mean. Right now Aoela is taking care of him (old friend of mine; an ‘interior being’ which we discovered some time ago – about a month or so – and with whom we are involved in healing.)

So here’s the deal in a nutshell:

Mikies parents are going to the movies, and leave him and his brother with his teenage friend. The teenage friend is supposed to be ‘watching them’, with an emphasis on how ‘bad’ Mikie’s been.

They’ve also instructed their children to never say NO to ANYTHING anyone tells them (meaning someone older) – and certainly not to someone who has been appointed an authority figure over them

They have just appointed their teenage friend over “him”. He has now become the ‘authority figure’ – kind of like some kind of god.

And the teenager tells him to do this thing.

You see, they were running around playing – running around and around the house, happy and squealing like little kids do when playing a game of chase – and the teenager was the one chasing them.

Then the teenager does something (catches Mikie’s brother in the hallway? We don’t know about him; why he was crying so bad – BUT we do know he didn’t start crying until or during when the teenager started on the dog (damn, we KEEP on misspelling “dog’” as f’ing “god’ – Freudian slip or something? We dunno. LO softy and somewhat bitter L’ing.)

So… teenager rolls the dog on his back, and begins masturbating the dog; making the ‘pinky thing’ come out of him. While he’s doing that, Mikies brother comes walking up (we’re thinking; this event has almost a sense of unreality – zoned out I know; that’s why; its US and not him doing that thing: zoning) – sees what the teenager is doing, and perhaps misinterprets the thing coming out of that dog of his; slumps down in the corner of the hallway wall and floor and starts crying;

meanwhile Mikie is walking up and the teenager is saying “Watch this!” while jacking off the dog. Then (I reckon) something occurs to this teenager friend of ours, and he has Mikie start doing it – the jacking off kinda thing, and then the words come:

“Put your mouth on him” meaning on his (the dog’s) penis.

Mikie doesn’t know what to do (he’s never done this sort of thing before) and so he bends over – but really doesn’t know what to do.

The teenager shows him by pushing his head down, and inserting the dogs penis in his mouth.

And the dog begins ‘humping’ him (as if he wasn’t already) – right in the mouth.

Now I don’t know what you know about canine biology, but there’s a bone in there; so it kinda hurts him; the dogs penis is deeper than the boy’s mouth can go – so he ‘forces it in’ – so much so that it’s kind of gagging him (hence the vomiting reflex) – not to mention the awful fucking taste (yes, here years later, and I can still taste that damned thing in my mouth – fucking body memories – GO AWAY! LOL’ing, doubting that they ever will; they never will; we’re kinda knowing that sort of thing.)

Can I say this kind of thing is “awful” right now? Can you folks put up with me saying that (asking you readers; we are having a hard time going with the one word “awful” – it seems so much more than that to us.)

So here is little Mikie pumping away; the dog is ‘doing’ him while his teenager friend is standing there watching on and Mikie’s big brother (who is littler than him; therefore, you’ll often hear Mikie referring to him as his “little brother” sometims) – his brother is slumped down, curled into a fetal position (kinda – we can SEE and REMEMBER this thing like it is YESTERFUCKINGDAY! – never did ‘forget’ this one; just the dog thing kinda for a few years on back – recovered memory kinda process; the dog thing – but the REST of it we have remembered forever!)

And while this is going on his brother (Mikie’s own) is screaming and crying over and over again: “You’re hurting him!” Now whether he meant Mikie or the dog – we’re not knowing, and we’re not going to ask – for brother denies this thing; denies any kind of sexual thing ever went on between us – but it DID: we know it did, many a time: it’s our now grown brother’s way of protecting himself from his own emotions (he’s a lot like we were about 20 some odd years ago, only worse off.)

And then the teenager (getting bored I reckon, or wanting some of that kinda action for himself), looks at our little friend Mikie and says:

“Come on. Do me.”

And Mikie is fucking HAPPY to be doing it (kinda) cuz’ it means he ain’t doing the dog no more; he’s doing his friend – and his friend ‘kinda loves him’ (or at least he’s hoping so) – and by doing this thing he’s hoping to make his friend love him stronger – and so he does it anyway

and he’s just not doing it right at first (he’s never done this one before: giving blow jobs before) – and so the teenager instructs him to ‘curl his lips in’ (over his teeth, ya know) – “and kinda stick your tongue out” (padding the bottom of his penis) – while he ‘rubs it in” (meaning – well, you know these kinda things)

And the thing is the teenager starts pressing so hard that it’s cutting Mikie’s lips and gums; tearing at his tongue (he’ll wake up in the next morning with a cut completely across the bottom of his tongue and stuff)- and the teenager is just stroking it in, ya know what I mean? Just rockin’ back and forth with him in Mikie’s mouth – and Mikie’s kinda kneeling on the floor . . .

Goddamn. You should’ve seen Mikies face when the teenager looked down at him the FIRST time and told him to stop doing the thing with the dog and do him.

Mikie looked up at him with a fucking ANGEL’S face and this sick, weird kinda twisted smile on his young face -sooo fucking relieved that this dog thing was over and more than fuckin relieved to be ‘making love’ with his friend and not the dog anymore. (and yup; that’s kinda how he looks at this thing: the human on human sex kinda thing: as “makin’ love” – though he picked those own words outta OUR head (he has access to a lot of information) – However, back then it wasn’t called making love; it was called “sucking our cock” or “sucking his dick” and things. You know: normal kinda kid talking. (Later on it would be “corn holing” and “fucking”, meaning the anal kinda thing.)

Then his teenage friend gets tired (I reckon) of this going on, and abandoning Mikie’s brother in the hallway, takes Mikie on down to his room, has him lay in his bed – and kinda “rapes” him – right in the ass; the ol’ “boogerhole” (Mikie speaking, quite bitterly by now!)

And then the friend gets done, gets off of him, and goes away to play – inviting him along.

Mikie is so relieved that he does this thing: pulls his ‘pants’ (they are cut off blue jean shorts; all the kids had to wear back then; that and a thin set of underwear that his dad kept pulling off of him (shuddering) for different reasons in our livelihoods; but mostly just to beat him (belt on meat seems to satisfy the old man – beating and beating and beating and beating him until his asscheeks were bloody and bruised.) No wonder Mikie prefers this kind of abuse (the sexual thing). It hurts so much less (on the outside) – and he thinks it’s a kind of love (something his parents aren’t giving him) – and he’s not getting ‘beaten’ for doing it – unless he tells his mother (and then parents, for what he tells mom goes directly to dad for beating distributions, LO bitter L’ing going on.)

So then the kid was scared to tell anyone about the ‘dog thing’ – a form of blackmail in our mind; done by the teenager to ensure this kid’s silence in time – and for ALL time – which he very nearly did.

We told a psychiatrist this one once. And you know what she did?? She fucking LAUGHED – laughed in our faces while this went on … permanently damaging us again (we’re thinking). She thought it was FUNNY – but then again, she had some ‘cult’ thing going on; probing into our own past, looking for evidence of ‘cult kind of behaviors’ in our past – being was our mom is a witch, and the neighborhood we were growing up in … well, weird, but in a wonderful kinda way – not at all the way the psychiatrist was thinking – though we have some dark suspicions about the ‘cult kind of thing’ due to some other issues we had going on. If so, it wasn’t overtly obvious or nothing; perhaps we were being drugged, but I kinda doubt it. I’m thinking it was ‘just bad dreams’.

And so: Now begins the hard part: absolution. One by fucking alter by one.

Religious Man: sad, sore, but torn between forgiving him and condemning him.

F’ing religious Man: you are a CHRISTIAN (tho we are NOT) – you are supposed to be FORGIVING HIM.

RM: Hell no; he belongs in hell for what he did I”m not going to have anything to do with that little bastard of mine (this guy is my ‘dad’ figure in a lot of way).

ME: why NOT?

RM: cusz what he did.

Jeff: did he have any fuking choice in the matter, my friend? LOOK at him: just a little kid; doing what he did; because it was TAUGHT to him (you religious freak! Comeon, get WITH it – come ON guys; he’s just a GHOST in your mind; NOT the real thing; he’s a figment of your combined imaginations; get RID of him; he’s NOT one of your own souls; you ain’t gotta take him in.)


Okay, we’ll try; he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us hes’ not one of us he’s not one of us.. can’t get rid of him? Shutting him up and ignoring him will do just fine, though! (satisfied smile somewhat grimly as we shut the door on this ‘man’, this so-called ‘religious man’ who’s quite a freak himself – and an f’ing hypocrite! We don’t NEED him anymore; we’ve got our OWN kinda religion, and it IS NOT HIS: his only value is in remembering religious FACTS; not fictions; and in his own fictions – he cannot forgive the kid – just like my own dad done. Never forgiving us for ANYTHING.

There: got to the core root of THAT thing: religious man IS a representation of my own father figure who was never forgiving; just like that ‘momma figure’ we got rid of some time ago (converting her over to Aoela; a separate (yet somewhat troubled) woman being who we let take care of our inner child last night when things were going wrong; we are kind of trusting her with him now more and more these days: it’s not my momma; its some kind of other woman in my head; a ‘real one’ for all extants and purposes, tied into the core being.

Okay, next in line: Matthew.

How do YOU feel about him – Mikie, your own friend, and the child you were supposed to take care of (not THEN, but NOW, my friend – you weren’t even AROUND back then! You didn’t appear until 1971 or ’72 or so.)

Can you see it my friend (we are asking him; Jeffery is asking; love and compassion radiating out from him for all of my own survivor friends on the inside?)

See what Matthew is harshly demanding

See that what you did to him wasn’t fair – you’ve been mistreating him. He’s YOUR kid, goddamnit! (Jeffery can be quite a bit hard when he has to be: a fair thing and a good thing IOO (in our opinion; you folks better catch onto that one; we’re gonna use it next time without all this g-d explaining to do!)

YOU have been abusing him as well (Jeffery is saying;) all of them years you were together – you kept shoving him aside and burying him – all the while being lonely as hell and denying the love he felt for YOU inside YOU

(Matthew is crying a bit now; we aren’t’ just watchin; but ..hmm yeah, wet eyes; not tears; just soggy)

You see Matthew: you always had the love of him; this Mikie friend inside. In ways he was your own son – AND your own father, if you are thinking about this one: HE created you; YOU didn’t create yourself; and that MACHINE thing was your own doing and WE understand!! We ((okay going over to him: time to cry?? we are hoping hoping hoping!! stop typing give it a shot.)

stop to go on deck and do some REAL working with Matthew now okay going…time:1248hrs


Jeff: Matthew is thinking about what we told him, which was THIS and in a way Matthew can understand:

“Mikie was a prisoner of WAR; just like a fuckin’ prisoner of WAR – and if YOU (matthew) was a prisoner of WAR (which is something Matthew trained for) – and your ‘captives’ (meaning wardens; meaning enemy) was to tell YOU to fucking go down on a fucking dog WOULDN’T YOU??” (and yes he shamefully admits he would rather than lose his own life and here’s the thing matthew my fine fucking friend no harm intended we love you too!)

MIKIE WASN’T GIVEN THE OPPORTUNITY TO SAY NO! He was told and he’d been taught that to SAY that thing (the word “NO” to any of his parent or ANY of the authority figures in his lifetime) – “HE WOULD BE BEATEN!! and beaten and beaten and beaten again!!!! We KNOW that fucking thing because he was beaten BEFORE and as a small child (younger than 10 or 7 or 8 again; even further behind; back when he was a small child experimenting with the word “no” again and again like any fine young toddler will be doing sometimes –

and he was BEATEN with a fucking WARBELT you SOB (thinking of father; religious man again); yeah, YOU know that thing; we ALL know of that fucking thing; the belt with the HOOKS and things that hurt you some kinda bad

and that’s where one of the ‘breaking points’ came in, being BEATEN by that belt and seeing his own brother BEATEN in that bag of his (the old man’s laundry fucking bag rubberized thing smelling of army and men)

And to say NO this time would have gotten him BEATEN again; he knows in his own mind this kinda shit goes on; goes on all the TIME and on and on and on IN HIS OWN LIFETIME JUST A FUCKIN SERIES OF BEATINGS almost every day sometimes twice and 3X at a time during the day; beaten and beaten until he was fucking animal inside and fucking bloody without.

THAT’s the reason he didn’t tell: he was afraid of being BEATEN again; beaten into a young animal again; fracturing his young mind how DARE he tell how COULD he tell? He knew this was a bad fuckin thing; not just him and the dog but him and his friend and how DARE can you not LOVE him he needs your love and things MATTHEW my own man can’t you find it in your heart to forgive HIM???

You fucking understand; quit shaking your head in there; I can SEE you doing this thing you KNNOW I fucking can; come ON man; can’t you SEE it: you made him made you made HIM???/ Goddamn I’m almost crying now in goddmanfcking frustration can’t you SEE it, man???

Loving him; that’s what you are supposed to be doing; he was SAVING you by being him and hiding some of the time; hiding himself AWAY from you after him; creating you for his own peace of mind; trying to put some distance between us and his own pain and hiding then for such a long fucking time; poor kid my god can’t you fucking see this poor kid of mine?? he’s standing there crying awaiting you to come HOLD him Matthew; WE’re not going to be doing this thing YOU gotta do it this time (hardening the heart; don’t WANT to see my own f’ing kid crying like this so pitiful and sooo fucking sad sometimes can’t you HELP HIM OUT with this thing, Matthew?

Going on deck to resolve this thing. Time Out: 1310


And it was at this point (about 1318) that the phone call came, and my dad said he was coming over. (sad sad sigh sigh and so f’ing mad in some ways that this process was interrupted and a ‘new one’ started – the confronting of the dad thing-a-fucking-jing)  IMPORTANT TO NOTE:  WE did NOT read the thing up above before posting; though I suppose we should.  It will tell us something in how much progress we’ve been making I am guessing wondering if I wrote something about that one (use of blog entries for ???)  Damn.  Like I said: Time slipping: other alters are doing things of which I am just barely, barely aware: like looking at someone’s actions through a fog.  (scratching my head wondering if it’s my arse racking my brains and someone else is hiding in their chuckling and things.  LO L’ing going on; soft or sad and perhaps the bitter one is my own?)

We’ll see in time.  It’s 0600 and we are (sick?  tired?  upsetting?) and switching all over all the time.

Promises to be another in “NOT a Good Day!”

This is in preparation for an upcoming post; part of the on-line analysis we are doing.  Forgive us if this becomes redundant; this isn’t about you; it’s about healing.  We’re going to backtrack to see where we were when we last analyzed this.  Lately, we’ve become aware and have realized there were several critical and life/emotionally altering experiences which had profound and lasting effects on our’s, and other’s lives.

Why here? Why not?  Let someone else see the process; what we’re doing; trying to grow into a better, happier person in our pursuit of life, and this thing: ‘happiness‘.  Maybe some get a kick out of it (see what the nut is doing); for others it may help.  At the least, it’s an on-going documentary of one person’s life going through the journey of DID, healing from child abuse, and many other things.

Just a bit of forewarning – because of the intensity of the effects of this whole time period: we’re going to look at it hard, in detail.  After all; this is the beginning of M2 (the next controller) being created.  This, and some following events, were the seed of extreme damage being planted in a child’s mind, and in his psyche – one that would affect his relationships from here on; indeed, for his entire lifetime.  Nuff’ about that.  TRIGGER WARNING, okay?  Be careful and be safe with yourself.

Moving on: Tokoni: May 27, 2009.  (Not the first time we’ve examined this series of events, the emotions that it caused . . . feeling a sickening shudder; and realizing who it is, I gently embrace our inner child with love).

Time? Approximately 1969.  Hard to determine; as many of these things are, these disturbing things that went on in “the ‘hood“. My fault, of course. I should of kept better track, I reckon. But how was I to know? (How COULD I know? Did I know? I don’t know. All I know is that I knew it was ‘bad’ — meaning the grownups would not approve, and this was something to be kept hidden.) I do know it was around the time of the Apollo landing, for the camper in this tale of sexual abuse existed on the night man landed on the moon. You have to forgive me, and I hope you understand, if on some the ‘dates’ are fuzzy. After all, I was a little kid.

On with the story.

There were times when the teenager next door would invite some of us little kids to “go camping”. We called it “camping” though it was a night in one of our ‘forts’, our itty bitty Army pup tent, or in this instance, the back of his dad’s old truck. In reality they weren’t camp-outs – they were sex orgies for the him and us little kids.

In this one instance when I was about eight the teenager had built a two-room “fort” like a little camper on the back of his father’s dead truck. It was made from discarded plywood, and had a wall about 1/3rd of the way in towards the cab with a hole cut in it as a ‘door’. There was a roof on this thing; again, constructed from old plywood and shingles, perhaps a little tin, though the entire structure was flimsy. That didn’t matter to us, nor the teenager, I guess, because we used it a often for play and other things.  (Once we built a giant underground fort in his backyard – same purpose, different design, and another story altogether.)

This one particular night my brother, I, and my best friend (the teenager’s younger brother) had gotten ‘invited’ to go ‘camping’ with the teenager in the back of the truck. Most of our ‘forts’ were shabby affairs, constructed underground, and because the grownups considered underground forts too dangerous, we weren’t supposed to be digging one, much less existing in them. So that made this fort more unique, and a desirable place to hang out. Unlike dirt forts, it didn’t leak when it rained; but like the dirt ones, it had no windows for anyone to ‘peep in’, thereby lessening the risk of chance exposure and/or discovery.  It also made it hot as hell in the sun, which is why we preferred our forts underground, no matter how dangerous it was.  We just didn’t realize.  Later one of my friends & I did, to our horror..

On this night – I really remember it good — it was very hot and muggy in that plywood and metal ‘bin’. It had to have been summer, hence the muggy heat, and our parent’s permission to ‘camp out”. The ‘front’ room, nearest the cab, was the teenager’s “room”.  The rest of us were told we could sleep near the tailgate. It seemed as soon as we got in the teenager had us begin to have sex with each other, then we went to ‘compete’ for his ‘affections’.

You can imagine what the competition was: who could perform the ‘best’ oral sex on him. He’d have my brother, then I, then his brother come in – ‘work’ for awhile, doing our best to PROVE we were the best – the youngest and the most eager, and loving it – then he would dismissing that kid and call the next in to see if he was any or worse than the previous one. Whoever was left in the ‘outer’ room had to have sex with whoever was there (the losers). Needless to say, given young boy’s highly competitive natures, and my own drive for something resembling love, affection, and acceptance, I did my best with all that entails. I didn’t care if I choked.  I swallowed him with pride, going as deep as I dared to, until my throat hurt and my lips felt chapped and raw. If you’ve ever performed oral sex with a guy, you know what I mean. But here’s the thing: I was thrilled to be there, glad to be there, and would do anything he wanted as far as I could. And unless you’ve been there you have no idea what that really means in a little child.

At any rate both my best friend and I ‘lost’.  My brother had the enviable luxury of spending the night with with the teenager. Of course my friend and I made up for this as best we could – we did for each other what we’d done for the teenager, because the teenager, hearing our pleas to come in and be allowed to take part in the party, had ordered us to ‘do each other’. Which we then did. But my heart wasn’t really in it; I wanted to be in the other room, with the teenager, feeling him, being with him, and having that feeling of love and acceptance it brought (even if it was, in reality, just being used — something I have trouble accepting, with parts of me calling that child of the past “stupid” and “dumb” — even though I know logically that it was due to lack of love in my ‘real’ life, meaning “at home”. (Update, Aug. 29, 2017: It’s no longer true: we love him. It still makes us sad, but we’ve come to love him, and forgive the teenager a good bit.)

To this day I feel that sense of rejection he made when he chose my brother – my usually sexually reluctant brother – while I performed oral sex with my friend. It was the first of several sexual, mental, and emotional cruelties the teenager was to inflict.  In a way it’s kind of weird in I was still having sex – I just wasn’t having sex with the one I wanted. Odd, I think, that to this day I still resent my brother getting the ‘favored’ position of ‘treating’ the teenager that night; how I kept looking towards that ‘door’ hoping he would call me in to participate – while ‘going down’ on my best friend. It made me feel bad, unworthy at best — and hurt me emotionally. But on the other hand — I cursed myself for wanting it. While on the other hand I now know why I wanted it (love). While on the other hand it makes me sick to think I wanted it that bad. But on the other hand (running out of hands yet?), I wasn’t ‘good’ enough for my ‘friend’, the teen I so admired and wanted to be like. But on the other hand — I tried my heart out to be good enough. And yet on the other hand . . . well, I ran out of hands a few hands ago, but you get the picture — a very confused and sexually – and in terms of love, abused – child, faced with all this crap.  I hope you can see how this can kind of mess a child up. It wasn’t so much society’s views on sex as a child – or how ‘bad’ it might be.  It was that sense of betrayal and rejection by one you loved, and who you thought loved you . . . but then you had proved not to be good enough for them, or at least not for this most intimate of things, and times, and possible closeness.  (Sometimes he just used us, like a rubber or a balloon. Then again sometimes he would be nice & hold you afterwards, especially when he’d got done having anal sex with you.  It felt nice having him on your back, butt burning.)

You’d think that rejection would of lost some of its sting by now. (Update 4/29/’16): and it has.)  But that wasn’t the worst of what was in store later. I would find there was something that could cut and hurt even worse. But we’ll save that for another time. I can only take so much at a time. The thing to remember is: it wasn’t always ‘one-on-one’. Sometimes it was a ‘party’. Only it wasn’t a ‘party’. It was a kid orgy. And the kids weren’t reluctant to participate – indeed, we all were VERY willing, compliant, eager little subjects. And like a disease this disease was transmitted from one kid to another, to another, to another – eventually infecting almost every kid in the ‘hood.

Enough for now. I’m saddened and disgusted with my younger self, the so-called “child within”. It’s things like this which make it very hard for me to accept ‘him’ – no matter what the shrinks said I should do. And I hope you can kind of understand this — because I’m still trying to get some handles on it. (must of ran out of hands . . . some time back, I reckon.) Oh well, so be it. Sometimes life screws you up — and you never DO get a hand on it. (Okay, I’ve got a few bitter chuckles now, sorta mean to myself, but hey . . . that’s life, too, I reckon.)

Note the ending: WE ARE SURPRISED!  This is NOT how we are feeling NOW towards that child; Jeffery showed us the way: through love and understanding we feel compassion towards him; yes, a fringe of disgust; but that again appears to be from M2 (hates his moniker right now; though he agreed: system agreed: it would do this to protect him and his identity.)

But we find it of interest to note: THIS WAS OUR ATTITUDE THREE YEARS AGO: “ . . . saddened and disgusted with my younger self . . . make it very hard for me to accept ‘him’ . . .”  NOT our attitude today!

I think it a remarkable improvement that we have changed our attitude towards him (our inner child, sweetly misled inner one; so tender and cute and full of love that was denied – and thrown back in his face …. shhh, little one; we’ll talk about that one later, my  love and my child; the one I once was inside.)