Tag Archive: child abuse stories



Soon after we’d moved into the rental back in the ‘hood it became rather apparent that the old house – a slab floored stick-frame clapboard construction, which was quite weird, given the former and now deceased owner had been a mason.  The toilets kept backing up, vomiting the contents of their bowels and ours across the loose linoleum floors like bad memories of meals once eaten.*

So my dad did what he does best: he called someone in.

And here they come in their big white truck with a tanker behind – and a long, long hose for sucking the sewage up . . .

They park it behind the house, and after poking around with some shovels (I could’ve told ’em where it was at) they found the septic tank.

Digging at it most carefully, they outline the profile; then bringing in a backhoe, they go at it awhile, their ancient machine puffing and chugging like a dinosaur or dragon with a sting tail – lifting buckets of dirt, dumping them aside . . .

And then, finishing the job with the shovels, the expose the concrete lid.  It wasn’t as far down as I expected – but there they were, the workmen (or country bumpkins, from the look of it) – hooking big rusty chains with big rusty hooks to the rusty steel loops set in the concrete . . . then to the backhoe’s bucket . . .

The workmen stood back, and I, who had wisely placed himself in the bedroom, stood looking along with my tiresome brother – protection from the stench which would appear as soon as they lifted the lid.  I was quite sure my protection was futile, given the shallow aluminum framed windows and condition of the house.

Then the lid came up, looming and awesome as the backhoe’s engine gave a big chug and belched smoke, choking down as they gave it the throttle . . .

And then there it stood! it all its awesome and hideous glory: the thing we had been waiting to see: the staring open eye of the pit . . . only instead of there being sewage on top . . .

there was this thick, pink, undulating skin.  Ugly, mottled, smooth, it heaved like a living thing.

Immediately the workmen standing beyond the pit began chuckling, some of them chortling and slapping their knees and giving knowing looks at the house where my parents stood in embarrassed confusion, then comprehension . . .

And as I stood looking at that milky pinky white cloud floating in the museum of past bowel movements and desire, I realized what I was looking at:

the entire pool of the septic tank was covered in a thick floating layer . . . of condoms!

Huge it was.  In more ways than one.

And the workmen apparently thought so, too.  My brother began gagging as the stench oozed into the house despite the closed windows (the seals were no good) – and ran from the room into the interior . . .

while I stood alone, thinking.

Thinking about what HE did and our times together.

He never used a condom for that! I recall thinking.  He always rode me ‘bareback’, down on the dirt, face down in the grit . . .

But there they were: obvious evidence of the previous owners.  Maybe after too many children and not enough family or dollars to support it, they’d gotten a clue.  ‘Or,’ (the thought had occurred to me) – ‘this was from renters before, though after we’d left.’  I don’t know why I a) found it so disgusting, b) it bothered me so much, or c) it kept disturbing ‘me’ (and still does to some extant) so much later on.

But they were certainly gone, and I was here.

As I stood looking – and looking up (I remember looking at the sky a lot – so refreshing, though it was more an overcast blue and gray.)  Smelling that stench.  Reflecting on my past and theirs while relishing somewhat my mid-Western and prudish parent’s embarrassment – yet knowing they the ones, for we had just gotten there.

And yet all those facts didn’t matter, because it didn’t change anything.  My parents were still there and so was my brother (shudder).  Nothing was different.  That’s what we dealt each other.  Outside lay other lives; ones we were imitating, but not quite perfect.  We tried – and tried again.

But it was no use.

It was like I was something foreign here.  Or had come to a foreign land.  Again.

I saw my old best friend once.  I was standing in the sand driveway of the home across the street when he came riding on a motorcycle.  He stopped in front of me and we stared at each other.  I had grown fat, wore glasses – not the kid he knew.  Not a good match for his memories.  And as for him – his curly hair was wild from the wind (he wasn’t wearing any helmet) and his eyes wilder.  Like a feral cat.***

And I knew as soon as I saw him we’d have nothing in common, nothing to do together. We were no longer friends. I no longer knew him, nor he me.  He gave me a long look, a few words, and took off . . .

I saw him again, some thirty years later.  He owns a shop. He’s poor and rash. And he has (or had) a young boy. One of several . . .

and he hangs with his brother, his bigger brother, the one who ‘did’ me (and his little sister when she was four – and he 14 or so).

That thought’s kinda scary . . . but kinda sad.

The End.

(’13’)


Host Notes:
* Some part of me kept trying to connect the ‘vomiting toilets’ with the memories I kept having, only ‘I’ refused to do it (it made the sentences too long) – and it wasn’t the ‘memories’ which were bothering ‘me’ at the age of 13, it was the emotions connected with them – that along with the problems at school
** As a matter-of-fact the description of Jeff’s eyes in the when Matthew first see’s him in the book “The Boy” from when I saw him.  Feral, like a wild cat.

Young Love

I first encountered him on the playground, on the domed top of the convoluted steel grid of monkey bars. This was back in the day when all playground equipment was steel, and the middle of the bars were polished like mirrors from so many hands over the years.

The sky was gray and overcast, it was late in the afternoon. It must have been near winter, for it was almost twilight but there was no snow. I remember a crescent moon rising in the gray skies – glimpsed between the clouds somewhere between fifteen and thirty degrees. I paid attention to things like that; my training had already begun, though I didn’t know it. Things, as always, seemed normal. As normal as they could be considering I was an abused country kid from the sticks come to live in West Germany – living the the military apartments – big buildings with thick bombproof walls, and narrow windows.

The playground sat adjacent to the airport. It was a military one – a small one, but so was the base we were on. A lot of the bases we were on were small – little installations given over to the properties of spying, like the planes and electronic gear that my dad worked on. Twin turbo-propped Mohawks took off, but they were rare; mostly it was the UH-1’s – the big Bell Huey helicopters with their distinctive “Whomp! Whomp!” sound.

We had been forbidden to go to any country in which the “Red Flag” was flying. That meant no Warsaw, Poland, no East German or Hungarian trips. That meant we often had to stay behind while our dad went on some “TDY” mission. Sometimes he would be gone for days, weeks at a time. If it wasn’t a NATO nation – we weren’t supposed to go in. We weren’t supposed to go to Berlin, though eventually we did. They said it was because we would have to cross East German soil, and there was some concern ‘the enemy’ might kidnap a child as leverage against my anyone who held a high security clearance, forcing them to become a spy against the US military or giving up all their electronics secrets – or against the US Government as a source of ransom and/or trade for their own spies. It was very ‘normal’ to ‘me’, the kid I was developing into, but in some ways I was still that sexually groomed kid from deep down South . . . trying to figure out things – where in the hell he was, who ‘we’ were, where we were living (it changed all the time – we moved more than a dozen times in a few years), and what we were doing there.

There were about seven or eight boys playing on the playground, and a half dozen of us were on the monkey bars. None of us knew the other; not really. None of us had been around long enough to know anyone, and chances are, no one did. Everyone was moving around too much – us kids just sliding past each other – a quick hello, some desperate attempts to form friendships, and then a few weeks later, goodbye – maybe.  Sometimes they just disappeared.  Sometimes we did.  We got to know this kind of life too well; so well it affected all our lives for the rest of our life. No “life long friends” – people who we are still friends with that you know from your early childhood.   I mean the good kind – the kind you see every few days or so – never a week goes by without one of them calling you. I don’t have that; we moved too much. Neither does my brother. Ditto my parents to a lesser degree – they lost touch with their families (and thus we with ours) by their late teens.  “Family” to me is just a weird joke, one I don’t get.   My mom once said she vowed to stop documenting moves after her fiftieth; we were still just babes when she stopped. I think it was during this particular trip overseas that broke that barrier. We moved so much! Even she can’t tell me where we were when. It was a kaleidoscope of landscapes; a blur of apartments and streets; German towns changing (but all the same) like drops of water sliding down a window pane. Fountains and fortresses, castles grand . . . castles in ruins, tanks in the woods. I don’t know as we settled down in one particular place for more than two, three months before the Army would uproot us and send us on to some other base where my dad’s skills were needed and we were not.

“Who will suck my dick?” one boy cried out. He was an older one, and I shot him a contemptuous glance.  I had experience, I missed my friend – my lover (or lovers) back home – but I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it so casually – I had to love (or at least like a lot) the person.  It didn’t matter if it was girl or boy – I was bisexual before I was four – and I found this type of sexual innuendo deeply disturbing. Scalding memories of what the teenager had done to me – his touch, then the ultimate betrayal – were still fresh in me and hurt. I didn’t trust anyone not to betray me the way he had done, so I hung back when it came to making relationships – especially sexual ones. I had been burnt – and burnt BAD – I wasn’t going to open myself to that flame again! And yet the phrase caught my attention (the boy was just coarsely joking around – half-serious, half not, as young boys sometimes do). I looked at him from beneath hooded eyebrows – I can still see him, my head dropped to some degree, looking up at him both cautiously and with anger, though he had not done anything to me; he was just a ‘normal’ kid, crude, but normal.

“I will!” I heard a small voice pipe up. It was a little kid on the opposite side of the monkey bars. We had a game where we were trying to throw each other down through the bars, hurting someone – but we weren’t playing aggressively. The big boys were too rough – they’d win (perhaps), though none had tried their tactics on me of grabbing a boy and holding him over one of the squared opening, punching him down and through – where he’d bounce and jolt through the steel bars – hopefully breaking a bone! – before landing on the tough turf where short sparse grass grew.

“I love sucking dick!” the little boy continued, drawing my attention. This was almost the exact phrase the teenager had used when he outed me: that I loved sucking dick – “He’ll suck anyone!” the teenager had told his friends, stinging me.  While true to a point (which makes a good point about the truth stings the worst, for it stings the heart, mind, and soul). But I had to love or at least like a kid real to have sex with him; this one didn’t. He apparently didn’t even demand they be a friend – though that might have been his way of making one. He was making offers to strangers, which seemed odd and dangerous to me. I can still feel that ‘dark turning’ I felt when looking at him, hearing him make his ‘offer’. It was the same sensation you get when seeing someone dart into a busy street without looking, knowing they might get run down – and wondering whether to shout and stop them or just look away before the disaster happens.  Especially if you know you are probably powerless to prevent it.

The other kids started laughing; ridiculing him and asking questions. Would he really do it? An older kid, one about fourteen, asked him, to which he eagerly agreed. “Yeah! I like it. I love sucking dick.” My eyes narrowed as I took him in and evaluated him.

He was young, a few years younger than me. A big eight, an average nine, or a underdeveloped ten. He was short with a broad beaming face and curly brown hair. My hair was regulation short – a crisp barrage of hair standing on end in a traditional crew cut, with the sides shaved nice and close – a “high and tight”.

But his face – something about his eyes I think it was. They were brown; as I type this I can ‘see’ more and more clearly (and now the next day editing, even clearer.) – and I felt something within me as he and they got to talking about it. A sadness or a sympathy or empathy or pity or feeling sorry for him – and wanting him to be my friend – and I was interested in accepting his offer – open sex night, no strings involved. But maybe it was something about his face and eyes. Yeah – I think it was the eyes. There’s a ‘look’, you know – that ‘thousand yard stare’ kinda thing soldiers are known to get – only in kids it may more hidden, way back in the eyes. Like ghosts or clouds underneath all those emotions they are expressing – happiness, excited joy, running and playing. It makes a kid’s eyes ‘timeless’, and can make them look old. In the eyes of course. Everywhere else they look normal. Except perhaps a few scars.  I had those.  And I had “that look” I suppose.  (I know I did; I can see it in the mirror.)

I could feel it – that he was like me. More than a bit; almost exactly. The sex is what tipped me off. I wanted to go off and have sex with him right then. Let him know I was the same way – and I wouldn’t use him or mock him for doing it or wanting to do it. The other kids would. I just knew that, could sense their attitudes in their behaviors, their play, and what some of them were saying. Something about him spoke to me. I suppose now, looking back, it would have said “I’ve been abused somewhat, shown sex; I’ve learned to love it too early, and now I will do it with anyone – anyone! – simply to recapture that feeling.” Of course, that may have just been me, projecting my feelings upon him.

So I spoke up. Of all those that were there – and the only ones left who were talking to him – I think there were about three – the others having gotten disgusted by him, or repulsed by what he had said – mocking him and deriding him as they climbed down – and one of them was a teenager who I could tell was quite cruel – he’d been sort of picking on us kids, mostly verbally, while the others ran around, and now he was trying to lure the little kid in using some kind of bait.

“Yeah, we can go over to my apartment,” he was saying – but he had been one of the cruelest mockers and deriders when this thing had first started, and the kid was saying no to him; shaking his head, and the teenager suddenly got fed up and disgusted and climbed down by himself while another couple of kids climbed on.

“I’ll let you do it,” I finally said, keeping my voice kinda low and hopeful and just between me and him. “I’ll do you, too, if you do it to me,” and then I think I said (even lower): “I like doing it, too.” I had missed that feeling – that feeling of someone ‘doing it’ to me, and me doing it to them – plus this little kid had such an open air about him – open and trusting, and yet guarded in some ways. Like I said – it was kinda like de ja vu’ I was feeling – thing is, it was not. It was merely seeing a kind of reflection of the kid I am/was. And you have to remember: I had been having sex for years, nearly on a daily basis during the summer of the last three of them. Not just with boys, but with girls. You gotta remember my cousin, with whom I had fell in love with.

Just then my momma called me.

“Dinnertime!” she said, calling from the communal door of the apartment building. There were two stairwells, one on each end, and we lived on the second floor; inside one, right hand. Up two turns and you’re in the middle kind of thing. They were four stories tall, in case you were wondering, with 8 to 16 room ‘attic’ apartments above. They called them ‘transits’ because that’s where all the ‘transitory people’ lived – people who were going someplace and the Army needed their apartments because someone new was coming in – or people who were going someplace – like back overseas. We lived in ‘transits’ once that I remember; maybe twice. It was really cool.

And so ended the beginning of my very first friendship over there. The dinner bell was ringing and it was time to ‘go in’ – and eat dinner with my miserable family who never got along.

So I said “bye” to him regretfully and left him alone with two of the others. He had just started to go along with me – following me down the bars. I think he, like me, could sense something of himself in me; that’s why he wanted to be friends. So we parted there on good terms, almost beneath the monkey bars, with the helicopters thundering off and on . . . gray clouds . . . and I grew depressed . . . slogging in instead of at my usual run, head down, sad and thinking of him . . . this boy I had just met.

It was the next summer I met him. We had moved to a different base – to run across a kid you knew from before was very unusual. Unheard of for me. The rotisserie of kids and schools and bases were beginning to become familiar  – and yet not. It seems I kept changing – or something. That might explain some of these holes in my head and my memories from ‘over there’.

I’m not sure if it was at the pool (outdoors) or a playground, but I remember we took off where we had began – at the beginning, with him looking at me and me looking, puzzled at this kid, feeling the faint stirrings of memory.

“You’re him,” I think I said, or something very much like it. “We met at that other base . . .”

“Yeah,” he said, beaming and smiling. “You still want to do it?”

And simple as that, we became friends. Of course we had sex after our first encounter – nothing major, just the oral thing – him doing me, me encouraging him – ‘showing him how’ somewhat because he still needed some skills in his technique – and me ‘doing him’ just for the pleasure of making my new friend feel good, welcome, needed, and happy – which he was doing for me.

We wandered that base during those hot summer months – or at least they felt hot to me. I had acclimated to the German weather, so I felt the heat when they did, and not so much the cold as I had when we first arrived. I’d gotten used to the winter regime of clothing – and even more layers of clothing – and the summer felt so free! I could wander up to the pool in my swim shorts and a towel – flip flops flapping, though for the most part I ran around as I had in the  ‘hood back in the States – barefoot and almost . . . but not nearly enough – carefree. I wasn’t the child I am sometimes inside; I wasn’t ‘he’. I wasn’t the boy who’d left the States – though that part of me seemed to go into hiding sometimes, staring from my eyes in wonder at the castles and the land. In a way I was a jumble of ‘parts’ in me – and I could feel it. I didn’t think in terms of “I” and “me” so much as ‘us’ and ‘them’. I sometimes found myself interjecting the word “we” sometimes – and becoming confused because I meant just one: me. But it wasn’t ‘me’ all the time. There were ‘other parts’ forming – I could ‘feel’ them in my dreams, feel them taking over ‘parts’ of me: certain emotional states and emotions. I could feel myself ‘slipping away’ when one part would ‘take control’ – leading me into some kind of temptation (laughing).

And this boy and I . . .

We fell in love, we did. With him, even though he was a bit younger than me – he became more like a little brother. He shared his secrets with me and I with him – how our parents beat us (his were much worse some of the time, mine had quit the worst of the abuse – the beatings – when we had arrived in Germany – and those damned apartments where everyone would have to be so damned quiet – even if we WERE getting beaten. You couldn’t let the neighbors know those things – how ‘bad’ us kids had become; how ‘awful’ we are/were (for those were my thoughts in the day.) I knew what me and the boy were doing was ‘wrong’ by some crowd’s notice; but on the other hand – he was my ‘best friend’ at the time, and the only one I had.

I remember us going from here to there – stopping for sex once and awhile, either in the bushes or the PX bathroom one time. (I didn’t like going there; I felt cheap while I ‘did him’ with him standing on the toilet seat.) I treated him to some movies once and awhile – I was earning money from my first job.  And bought us both treats at the PX and club – ice cream perhaps, some chips to eat – nothing fancy, and he asked for nothing, ever. Just for the chance to ‘do me’ sometimes and make me feel good, be my friend.

I don’t recall ever going over to his apartment, nor him coming to mine, though he might of. I remember us mostly meeting in the parking lot by the playground, and then going together to do something. Sometimes that ‘something’ was walking the fence line – the fence that separated us from our outside neighbors, the Germans. We’d pause here and there sometimes – dropping into the grass or near some bushes – and ‘make love’ in our own kind of way, each encouraging the other. We’d hold hands, give hugs – cheek to cheek sometimes, just holding one another, eyes closed, breath coming softly in my ear while I hugged him – feeling that warm body under that skin and enjoying it. Often it would take me back to past times – times with the teenager and/or my friends back home. Then we would rise and dust ourselves off – pulling up our shorts if we needed to – and go wandering on, looking for something to do, something to keep our interests until ‘the next time’.

Like I said: we grew to be close friends, closer than even brothers in some ways. We each commiserated in each others misery and pain; we shared our loneliness by sharing in our ‘game’ – a shameful game to the world, perhaps, but not to us. To us it was a simple thing – a joy. We couldn’t understand why all the other kids and grownups seemed so dead hard set against this sort of thing, but we knew to keep it a secret between us.

Eventually the game came to an end. The time came when I went out to the parking lot looking for him; on the playground, all our usual stomping spots, and then all our usual stopping spots – and then I went to his apartment, heart sinking, sick to heart from suspicion, thinking I knew what happened. Knocking on his door, I braced myself to prepare for his parents. I had heard they were quite mean.

The face that greeted me when the door opened was a younger woman – a short one, almost my height – and she said something that was to change my life.  Bring that sudden realization a little closer to my heart like the sharp knife it was.

“He isn’t here anymore. They moved on.”

And that’s when I began to realize: No one is permanent. Nothing remains the same. My friends would just keep on being yanked away – every time I made one it would happen as sure as night follows day. Time and time and time again – as soon as I would hold out my hands for love, they would get slapped away, or else the people I was craving would turn their backs and reject me. That little boy – he had no friends, none besides me. I think that was because of his sexual orientation and the way he advertised so honestly his willingness. I think now, looking back, that it was only in desperation that he would do those things – offering a blow job first, friendship later. I wasn’t like that – too shy, too self-inhibited, and demanding from my own self that I love them (or at least like them) first.  And even that – that had taken a hit, some damage, from what the teenager had done.  To this day, I find it hard to trust anyone with my love, especially the sexual kind.  They always hurt me.  Always.

But it saddened me – hit me hard, hurt me hard, to see that neighbor open the door and it wasn’t who I had expected. To find your friend – your lover – is gone, yanked right out from under you, and you hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. You never saw it coming. And so like a fist in the face, a blow to the head (and heart) . . . I stumbled away, thanking the girl, and trying to stop the tears from coming into my eyes . . .

Lonely again, wandering another base without a friend, I soon made another. He was mean and bullying, older than me – and he simply used me as I used him. Under buildings, behind bushes – it wasn’t even about being friends. It was about a part of me mourning and separating from ‘him’, trying to recapture that hidden feeling, which I never did. Not with him, anyway. And so slowly, a part of me went into hiding and died.

For a long long time afterwards.

And I think that part was ‘little Michael’ or ‘little Mikie’ . . . the boy ‘he’ wanted to be.


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.

(shhhh!!!)

Secrets have been told.

(big smile).


Warning:  This Story may contain ‘triggers’ for child abuse / molestation survivors.
Be Safe.


Backfire

It was shortly after “he” had betrayed me, telling the whole ‘hood (or at least all the teenagers and my closest friends) that I “sucked cock”, “liked sucking cock” and would suck off anyone (which I wouldn’t – I had to love them or at least like them first). I don’t know what was wrong with me – I can feel the child’s rage that was growing within me; a simmering subconscious anger, a smoldering burn. In retrospect I can understand the source of this sea of anger, but at the time I did not know what to do with it, where it had come from. Like a rogue wave which hints of a storm over the horizon, I would feel that wave of anger wash over me, flushing my face, tightening my child’s fists, filling me with electric tension. It was a strange anger because it was not “anger” so much as a hidden rage – a raging inside I could not ‘feel’, but it was there. I knew it was there – constantly, an ever-present demon – and it was a rage at HIM. For telling, for “outing” me – making me feel ashamed. For there being a bit of truth in his words: I would suck dick; I loved giving pleasure, and feeling pleasure. I especially loved that feeling of ‘control’ it gave me over him – ‘controlling’ by controlling the pleasure I gave to him. It was the only sense of control I knew, come to think about it – awesome as a little kid – but entirely wrong, and I knew that, too. I could not put my finger on the causes of all these mixed emotions, or else as a child I would of tried to solve it. I was used to solving things on my own. But being of a calm demeanor and a normally pleasant attitude, I would sometimes stand frozen in a state of anger and rage, wondering what was bothering me. Perhaps that is what led me to do what I did.

One autumn day, not long after that betrayal, I was standing by the side of the house, along the outside wall of the laundry room which abutted the open carport. I don’t know if it was premeditated – but it there was a pencil in my hand – one of those big fat children’s pencils with the thick lead. This is one of the areas where my brain goes faulty – I must of went into the house, gotten the pencil, planning this thing – and yet I have no memory of that. All I know – all I can remember – is that suddenly I was standing there next to the house, staring at the redwood siding.

An electric meter was mounted there, a round glass blister that gleamed in the sun. I can see this fairly well – the events after I got the pencil seemed to be etched into my mind. The little wheel was turning, the round eyes of the dial staring out at me. And going up to the meter, I began to write the same word, over and over again all around the meter.

I wrote it large and small, pressing the pencil into the soft grain of the siding. Why I wrote it – well I can only suspect. Perhaps it was the reason for my anger, the source of my anger: what the word meant to me. After all, if you’ve read my stories, you know what was happening to me.

“FUCK.” I wrote. “FUCK” and “FUCK” again. I could feel my anger and rage against the teenager burning in me; flowing out through those words. “FUCK” (with a silent exclamation point behind each one). Over and over again I wrote it. I can see it now – the words tilted at angles, the letters running across the grain. The redwood siding was hard to write on – the letters didn’t show up good, and the grain kept throwing my pencil off, making my writing jagged and spiky. I wrote ‘fuck’ a dozen times, maybe more, retracing the letters, pressing hard. It was hard writing on that wood. And all the while the white hot anger burned, with me not knowing why.

Later that afternoon – perhaps it was the next day – my mother and father came bursting into my bedroom.

“Did you write on the wall?” they demanded. “Did you write those nasty words?”

I felt a cold fear.

“No,” I lied. “What words?”

They stood staring at me for a long moment, then jerking me up by one arm, they trotted me outside.

“That!” my mom hissed, her voice angry and bitter. “Those words? Do you see them?”

I looked at the wall, trying to bring it into focus. I didn’t want to see those words I wrote. Finally I lied again.

“No,” I said. “HE wrote them.” ‘He’ was the teenager. He was the one who had taught us not only the meaning of the word, but had been performing it on us, with us sometimes – and having us (the other little kids of the neighborhood) do the same thing to each other.

My parents looked at me sternly, doubtful, angry, and highly suspicious. Seeing it now, in my own mind, I don’t blame them. The words were scrawled in a childish scrawl, with none of the finesse’ a teenager might give them. They led me back to my room.

“You stay here,” they commanded, leaving the room.

I sat there motionless for what seemed hours, though I’m sure it didn’t take that long. Of course I know there is no way to for me to know exactly what transpired, but being a parent myself, I can suspect. My parents probably went over to the neighbor’s house, where the teenager lived, and asked him about it. They probably went out and looked at the words. They may even had the teenager write the word, and compare what was on the wall against his own handwriting. At any rate they came back into my bedroom later, their minds made up, conviction held.

“Did you write those words on the wall, Michael?” I remember them asking me. Writhing with misery, I denied it again.

They kept on pressuring me. I kept on denying it. Finally they either broke me down, or decided that they had had enough.

“We know you wrote those words on the wall,” they firmly declared. “And you are going to remove them.”

I don’t recall much of what happened after that, so I think the beating came first. A good first rate pounding – not just for writing those words, but knowing them at all. I reckon they wanted to beat the knowledge out of me – and I doubt they knew how much I knew about the function of the word: fuck. Not as in just cussing but having sex. Nor did they know about that thing: us fucking each other all the time.

But I do remember in the end standing at that wall, my backside hurting – hurting all over, from thigh to shoulder – scrubbing at those words with an eraser – but the words wouldn’t come off. I’d bore down too hard, sinking the end of the pencil into the redwood siding. Try as I might, I kept seeing those words. There’s almost something symbolic in that thing: those words were burned into my soul, like those dark nights we’d kept silent about; like those days we kept silent – like those times we’d come in limping and go to the bathroom, cleaning ourself off. I kept on scrubbing at those words until late in the evening, until my hands were sore and blistered and I finally gave up. No matter what I could do, nothing would erase them; like the effects of the molestation, humiliation and rejection, they were there to stay. In a sense I was being punished – abused – for having given in; for having been molested – so often a tale told by childhood abuse survivors.

And in my heart a fear and an anger began to blossom. In mind’s eye I saw the gun.

What would the teenager do.

No More Hugs


No More Hugs

Harlow's Monkeys

When I was seven years old I did something for reasons I can only guess at, and about which I harbor certain regrets – but in some ways don’t regret at all. It is hard to explain.


I remember the day, the time, this scattering of moments with crystal clear clarity. I can clearly see the bedroom, lit by the overhead light; I can feel myself in the bed, the covers pulled halfway to my chest; see their rumpled billows embracing me. I can even orientate myself; my head is to the north, my feet toward the south; the doorway is to my left and down, and the hall light is on. It is bedtime.

My dad comes in. Despite his cruel ways, his hidden sadism, he is smiling, almost laughing as he bee-bops through the doorway and across the linoleum tile floor. He was always fond and affectionate when it came time to put us to bed – though he has a rude way of awakening us – coming in in the morning, jumping on the bed and roughly tickling us, and sometimes even worse – grabbing us by one heel and snatching us up and dangling us upside down. That’s the way he used to beat us sometimes – holding us up with one hand by one foot, and lashing as hard as he could with a thick leather belt with the other. I don’t remember those times real well, but my brother recently told me, triggering flickers of memory and pain; of squirming like a tortured frog within his grasp. I guess I am fortunate I cannot remember those times as well as my brother, for my brother has told me he could hear me scream and scream and scream. To me they are just blackness; a time buried and lost in my memory, or within the memory of my inner child.

He comes to my bed; places a knee on the bed. I feel uneasy, uncomfortable. I don’t know why – just a general uneasiness. He bends over, scooping my thin shoulders – broad for a child, but thin as a kid – in his arms. The warmth of his closeness, the feel of his closeness, his bristled chin scraping my face. He hugs me tightly, goes to kiss me – a parent’s kiss, nothing more. And when he releases me I tell him.

“Dad? I don’t want you to hug me anymore.” I feel odd telling him him this, but my uneasiness is forcing me. I don’t know why I am uneasy; just that it’s there, the feeling of some undefinable something wrong.

“What?” he asks kindly, his face a few inches from mine.

“I don’t want you to hug me anymore,” I say – a bit more forcefully, a bit more sure. “I’m a big boy. I don’t want hugs.”

He leans back and looks at me, confusion clear upon his face.

“Why – okay,” he says, taking his knee from the bed and rising. His face is clouded, then clears. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say. My uneasiness is leaving, and yet I am troubled – there is a deep churning I cannot describe, even now. A dark thing within me. A bothersome feeling I cannot pin down.

“Well. Okay.” His face is now unreadable, a slate hiding his emotions. He goes to the door, pauses with his hand on the light switch.

“Good night,” he says, flicking off the switch. The room plunges into darkness. I can see him, a dark featureless shadow framed in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light.

“Good night, dad,” I say, turning over as is my wont, towards the crevice between the bed and the wall. That’s how I often slept – my nose stuck in that crevice, breathing in the cool air from beneath the bed.

Over the years I have replayed that scene in my mind, wondering. My mom was devoid of physical affection – I don’t remember her ever hugging us. During my childhood and teenage years, I don’t remember them ever saying they loved us, except as a tool, such as “We are doing this (a punishment) because we love you.” That was the only time love was ever mentioned – as a reason for a punishment. Why would I suddenly decide to put an end to the only source of parental affection available to me? Why did I do that – and yet seek an even more intimate form of affection from my peers and the teenager next door?

I suspect I know why. I guess I write this as a warning something to look for in your child, though I cannot be sure this was the reason, nor do I wish to raise undue suspicions. But I think – and this is just a thought – that my uneasiness arose from what was happening between the teenager and I. That I was afraid my dad would go further, as the teenager did. That that kiss would turn into something else; something more adult and demanding. The press of his body against mine – I guess it subconsciously reminded me of something, what was happening to me two or three times a week during the summer; a little less during the school year.

My brother and I both discussed this in a sidelong sort of fashion. We never admit the sexual abuse that happened. But we both agree: dad never touched us “like that”. He never did anything sexual to or towards us. He never (to the best of our faulty recollections) – touched us inappropriately. There was only one time he ‘touched’ me in a way that was bad, but that was for a medical procedure, and if it hadn’t been for the sexual abuse by the teenager, it wouldn’t still stick out in my mind. I’ll write about that sometime later.

The majority of my ‘selves’ regret that day, my decision – but the little child inside still doesn’t. I don’t know why. To this day I can feel his firm resolution on the issue. (In my mind I can see him shaking his head “no”, still stubbornly refusing to change his mind.) Strange. This is one of the problems with my kind of madness. Having these ‘beings’ within you, some fighting other parts of your mind.

But I think – and this is the warning, the admonition – that when a small child suddenly, out of the blue, refuses or no longer wants a parent’s affection – when it suddenly becomes uncomfortable to the child, makes them uneasy – it may indicate . . . something.

Just a thought. Perhaps a warning,. I don’t know. Like I said: I’m still not sure why I felt so uneasy about my dad hugging me anymore – but I have my suspicions.

And sometimes suspicions are grounded in fact.


Note: This story deals with issues of child abuse / molestation and is not for everyone. Warning: May contain “triggers”.

The “F” Word

One day when I was eight or so, my brother and I were in his bedroom playing with our building blocks. Now these were sort of like Legos, but mostly not. They were much finer, for one thing.  The building set consisted of red plastic bricks with tiny scored sides and eight pegged bottoms that snapped together – thin, long, rectangular – along with windows, doors, triangular blocks for building roof eaves – and the roofs themselves, which were made from pasteboard printed to resemble shingles, with a single fold down the center so you could set them on the ‘house’ you built.

We had been building awhile – not much, just a bit, for my brother and I couldn’t play long together – we were more enemies than friends, and only reluctantly family members. And I decided that sex would be more fun than building houses.

Now don’t be shocked – my brother and I had been encouraged into incestuous sex years before by the teen. But of us two, my brother was usually a reluctant partner. I, on the other hand, embraced the sensuous, sexual part of the world wholeheartedly, and with eager passion. I loved the closeness of the bodies, the feel of their skin on mine – it was the closest thing to a hug we ever got once I told my dad to quit hugging me back when I was seven. (I don’t know why – it just felt WRONG with him – while feeling so right with all my friends. And no, he never molested us.) To me sex felt like love, and love was something I craved. Still do. But back then – back then it was different. I was more open and expressive of my sexual desires. The fact that I begged the teenager to molest me several times, if not many, still bothers me and many parts of me. Strange, I know, for a kid eight years old, but then again, we’d been molested for several years now.

Anyway, we are sitting there, and I have learned a new word for this thing we’ve been doing. It’s called “fuck”, not “cornhole” or “cornholing” as the teenager had originally taught us to refer to it. And I wanted to fuck, or at least get fucked. Or better yet, a little bit of both. After all – it beat building blocks.

So I try to talk my brother into this thing. Only he hasn’t learned the meaning of the word yet. He doesn’t know what “fuck” means. So I show him.

Taking one of the pasteboard roofs, I flip it over to the unprinted side, and begin drawing stick figures. I can still see them now. One bent over, the other behind him, a stick penis sticking out. I draw several renditions – more or less a stick figure rendition of each step – approaching, sticking it in, and all of that. I can still see those drawings in my mind. (I have a near photographic memory of the things I write or draw – especially the ‘important’ ones.) And I explain it to my brother, step by step.

Now, knowing what I do NOW, I realize he knew what I was talking about, but he just didn’t want to do it. I also knew that then, because suddenly, as loud as he can yell, he screams:

“I don’t WANT to FUCK!”

It didn’t take but an instant, with that word ringing through the house, that we hear my mother scream:

WHAT did you SAY???!!!” and there’s the rapid patter of feet approaching.

I quickly folded the roof up, somehow knowing it was “bad” and that I didn’t want to be caught knowing this knowledge, or depicting this thing. Our eyes round with terror, we both look up to see my mom storming down the hallway towards us.

“WHAT did you SAY?!!” she screams again, coming into the bedroom. I’m rapidly shuffling the roof in with all the others. “Did you say FUCK?!”

Well, I don’t recall exactly what happened after that – I think we were dragged from the room. The fact that I don’t recall what happened tells me that it must’ve been bad. I think somewhere along the line I told her the teenager had taught me the word – but maybe not. I do know I never said what he was DOING, or that I knew what the word really meant.

 

Now the strangest thing is that we kept that building set for years. I remember playing with it often – and my mom often put the blocks and roofs up. How she missed seeing that graphic – or seeing it, not understanding it – is beyond me. Even as a young kid I was a decent little artist; the meaning was clear, the stick figures proposed actions obvious. I know that because I can still see them (and hear that word my brother screamed ringing through the house.) We had those building blocks for at least six more years – and I know, I just KNOW she had to have seen the crude but accurate drawings.

 

 

 

 

Given the preceding tale, I can’t help but wonder how my mom couldn’t of known something was “going on” between us (the little kids of the ‘hood) and the teenager next door, who had quite an appetite for children. He was the classic “child molester” – trusted by the parents and often set in charge over his victims. I don’t recall him ever directly threatening us “not to tell”, unless you count the incident referenced in the story “The Warning”. I have some vague early memories – too vague to count as “fact” – of him telling us not to tell when he first “did” me (“My ‘First’ Time”). But I tend to view some of what happened then with a suspicious eye, hoping (wishing?) that everything I remember about that isn’t true.

I can not help but wonder how mom couldn’t of known, and if knowing, why she didn’t DO something about it (though it would’ve been too late – the damage had already been done). Perhaps she didn’t care (see stories about HER for more on that!), perhaps she regarded such things as “normal play”, or perhaps (most likely) she just refused to SEE what was going on, denying it to herself.

 

So I ask myself (more wondering than anything) – why didn’t she ever approach us about them? Why didn’t she at least mention them, or say something? Was it a parent’s denial of the obvious? Or was it (more likely) that she didn’t care? Or ????

 

Just another one of those puzzling leftovers from my childhood. It bothers a few parts of me badly. The teen part of me gets angry that he didn’t know we were abused for such a long time, that she didn’t know, didn’t recognize — just furious — and the child from ‘then’ very sad (but he is often sad) that she didn’t know and put a stop to it — and of course the emotions of those parts ‘bleed over’, which infects me with ‘their’ feelings, which can get bad sometimes until I get stern with them (or sometimes comfort the child part, little Mikie). As for the rest of “us”, we’re okay with it – I know > I < am. After all, the past is the past, and there’s no changing it, and even if she ‘discovered’ the truth at that moment, the damage was already done. But sometimes I hear the voices whispering, wondering, asking those questions: How could she not of known?, why didn’t she know? and why didn’t she do anything about it?  Or did she? Did she see the evidence there and deny the knowledge before her eyes? This and other things?  I don’t know.  

It really doesn’t matter. The fact is: it happened. But that was then and this is now, and all I can do is bemusedly puzzle over it, comfort my inner child that he did no wrong, and ignore certain aspects of this issue.

 

Weird, huh?


This is what working with ‘alters’ gets you . . . memories of things you knew and had never forgotten, just lost in the shuffle somewhere.  Since this one belongs to the small child, we have placed it here: in the Small’s journal, where such things belong . . .
and so we begin our tale.)

Elephant Ears

Whenever I’ve done my laundry, I’ve seen them sticking out – those pants with the inverted pockets, hanging white outside.

“Elephant ears.”

The phrase would whisper in my ears – my mental ones for inside; the ones tuned to those ‘voices’ that talk to me all the time.

“Elephant ears.”  And there would be a small child’s amusement; a lightening in my mind; a recognition of something for which I had no clue.  Just that phrase ‘elephant ears’.   And a sense of giggles.

A ‘good’ kind of thing; a good kind of feeling – not one I’d bothered probing into. After all: “who” cares? It was not bothering me.  Heck, I didn’t even know what ‘they’ were referring to. It was just some private joke to some of my insiders.  All I knew was that whenever I’d see a pair of pants or shorts with the pockets inverted, I’d think “elephant ears”.

Not a problem.  As a matter of fact, it felt rather good – kind of like when you see an old treasured toy from your childhood that you had forgotten that you had – that little sense of joy shared by the child in you.

But not anymore.  Now I know what “elephant ears” stands for.

Today as I was grabbing some jeans I noticed the pockets were hanging out.

“Elephant ears.” The giggling came to mind.  Now I’ve been busy working with my alters, trying to sort things out.  Trying to find the missing pieces, missing time, missing emotions, missing things.  And it’s real important to a DID person to know where those voices are coming from: who is talking, why, what they are referring to – and the emotions that you feel.

So hearing ‘elephant ears’ I began inquiring. I knew it was a childhood self; I could tell by the ‘feel’.  Perhaps it’s a particularly DID thing: that ability to “feel” like a small child – and I mean really ‘feel’ it, setting your adult parts aside – and experience that innocent laughter, that ‘feeling’. It is exactly the same feeling (or set of feelings) that one would have as a small child. Yeah, I can ‘dip’ into them, sampling of my ‘crew’ – and see and feel who is saying and feeling what, what’s up with this inner ‘you’.  And that’s one of the wonderful things about being DID: being able to ‘feel’ – and in some ways BE – that child mind.

And it came to me: this was from a joke – a childhood one. One that had been played on me.

And I remembered the punchline.

It goes like this:

“Hey? Wanna see an elephant?” (the guy says. And we can ‘see’ him in our memory; he is quite tall; our nose comes even with his navel; he is standing in the sunshine on – perhaps those are overalls he is wearing – he is either an older teenager than *the One* (who molested me all the time) – or some other adult – we get the feeling almost that this is some guy in his 20’s.)

“Yeah!” we all say (are there more of these kids? I get the feeling this happened more than one time. But I think it was only one of us.  Meaning ‘me’ – meaning broken Michael with his broken mind at such a young age.)

“Okay!” he says, pulling his pockets out – inverting them as I had seen in the laundry so many times.  We lean forward, eager-er.  “Here’s his ears!”

And then pulling down his zipper his whips out his penis and holds it in his fork of fingers, says:

“And here’s the trunk!”

Uproarious laughter – yeah ‘we’ think it’s a funny; what a joke: Elephant ears and then the ‘trunk’ comes out . . .  except

something darker occurs.  Or occurred.

We’re pretty sure we went on to suck that elephant’s trunk. We’re pretty sure this was a MAN – (he was … ’21’ rings in our mind, meaning 20-something, since that is the age we associate with persons in their early twenties) – who molested us.

It was in the forest by the way … (we’re ‘remembering on the run’ here – just impressions in our mind) . . . and yes, there WAS some running, but it was just in play – perhaps part of the molestation ‘game’ (where he’d chase us or us chase him – either way the game of tag ended with the same thing: us “doing” him (orally not sodomity in the behind).

A funny thing happened on the way to the park, because

It was while we were on the way to the wife to show her this thing, this joke (yeah, we’re kinda inappropriate that way – but not in public) – that I remembered what was going on: this joke – I was going to see if she wanted to “see the Elephant” (for that’s what it was called: “seeing the Elephant” meant you went to suck the old man) – but I had forgotten the end of the story; where the sex comes in . . .

And that’s what comes with working with alters.
Sometimes such troubling friends.

But I love them anyway (small child – BIG hugs for him; brave child for reminding me; no, 13 ‘whispered’ in his ear telling him to remind ‘me‘ – since this was on my mind:

“Elephant Ears”.

A phrase from across the years; a phrase caught in time: and now I know the source of the thing. (But not who did it; not yet . . . his body: yes – but like a cutoff photo, it ends at his neck. Barefoot and all, though, which tells me something . . . we’ll see.)

This is called ‘progress’ for a DID mind.

The Beast


Need we say more?  This is what – and who – it says.  Done back in 1995 or so with a regular school pencil on a piece of Xerox (copy) paper . . . then scanned in about ’98 or so . . .


Below is “The Dragon” (aka “Our Beast”) patrolling his own “World” (our underworld) . . . at this time I think he was hunting Mikie – trying to kill him or hurt him some more.

It was done by taking the above scanned image and ‘colorizing’ it using Corel Photopaint along with some fractals (KPT).

Please feel free to copy and use these images – HOWEVER, DO so “not-for-profit” – AND give credit (a link will do) where credit belongs: to our teenager self and/or this ‘web site’ . . . Thank you.

The Armageddon Child


We think we finally ‘know’ (somewhat) what happened to our little one, Mikie.  “They” (society, the military, and to some extant our parents) ‘trained’ Mikie to be an Armageddon Child.

And we (or he) is not the only one.  I am certain there are literally thousands of us – tens of thousands, if not more – children who were brought up in the warfare environment – whether through military training, or just the horrors of being exposed to war and what war means – especially for the “End Times” – those “End Times” being (in the Nuclear Age) the disposal of our nuclear weapons – by using them.  Not just us, but ‘one and all’ . . . leading us into Armageddon.

Think about it some.  I don’t know about you; but for US, the ‘war time’ children – those raised during the “Nuclear Age” when Kennedy was president and it seemed that the world was going to go to war, using its nuclear arsenal rather than fists and clubs . . .

Those “army brats” and “navy brats” – the Marines, Air Force, and then some – WE were raised with the threat of the nuclear umbrella closing over us – engaging us in a wintery darkness (and radiation fallout – we mustn’t forget about that thing!) – the Russians poised right over the German border; thirty thousand tanks against our ten; nuclear arms race is going on (as well as the SALT treaties – we mustn’t forget about those!) . . . on and on and on again; this pressure from behind and above and from our ‘secret enemies’ (who, we are sure, in this day and age, must have been equally as scared as us) . . .

So they took this child – this Artist and Sensitive Child – a Child of Love and Nature – one who felt within himself only the desire to “do good” and “do right” and “do good and right by others” – a child who felt LOVE so tenderly and yet had none in his life – this child who would do ANYTHING – literally anything – to save someone he loved (even if, sometimes, that saving was himself) – they took this Sweet and Honest child . . .

and twisted his mind (or tried to) – and Made a Warrior out of him . . .

And hence Matthew was born (to some degree.  There is one other – during that transition period – which suffered a LOT for us – we feel secret anguish and tears over what he’s done) . . .

But that – that cruelty of the world – that’s what changed him the most.

and things haven’t changed a great deal since then.

The nuclear weapons are still ‘poised’ above us (ask the Russians; ask the Americans: yes, Virginia: there are nuclear bombs pointed at your head.)  While arms reduction has reduced the number of weapons available – we used to have enough to wipe out the world five times over – the fact remains we still have enough to do it twice again – more than enough for the job – if someone gets a nervous finger (or tic in his face) – and decides its time for the end to begin . . .

and that’s what “we’re” here for . . . to survive that end . . . and begin again, if necessary, if we can – if we are alive by then.  For it is certainly a fact: they don’t call it ‘Armageddon’ for nothing.  Chances are none of us will survive, though a few might . . .

And people trained like me (with little Mike at the core; the helm of things – with Matthew and the Soldier to protect him) – people who were raised to be self-sufficient; to learn to ‘do’ anything they needed to be a survivor – to survive to ‘move on’ and ‘carry on’ .  .  . that’s me, that’s them, that’s the thousands of ‘them’ that are out there (both on ‘our’ side and on ‘theirs’) – we learned something.

The human race doesn’t have to hate to survive – that’s not what little Mikie’s about.  He’s the one; the ‘strength’ in us; the compassion, the sweetness, and the sweetheart.  He’s the one who can love (we can’t? or can we? we don’t know . . .) with an endless pure desire – not us.  We’re contaminated by those ‘things’; the reality of the situation – the ones who despite him must fight on – and with him, find we can, though we have had to do terrible things to him (and others) to get there . . . hurting ‘him’ inside while hurting others outside (often for their – or someone else’s – own good) . . .

He’s the one who will pick up the gun; but not the one to use it.  He’s the one with ‘training’ – but his is of a different kind: no longer the ‘vengeful’ training of Matthew; nor the exactitude training of the man and soldier; but he’s the one who will hold our finger on the trigger – while we decide whether or not to depress it – with him calling on to us “Hold On.  Just give them one more second (to behave).  One more chance to do the right thing . . . let’s go over and help them” – while the rest of ‘us’ are knowing that the only thing that awaits us ‘out there’ (on the endless battlefield) is death and things . . . horrible things; things we don’t want to see . . .

Mikie is our dreamer, our lover, our companion; he is the one who, like a dog, is eternally forgiving.  (“Go ahead and strike me if you dare . . . I will still love you nonetheless…”).  That’s him.  Brave child; eternal child; face lifted to the horizon, eyes defiant – and filled with a bold love . . .

They took that child there and gave him . . .

us.

 

sweet and precious child of mine, destroyed – yet not destroyed!
before your precious time . . .
Taught the things you must be taught to survive the end of time
seeing the things that must be seen . . .
the hurt, the killing unkind . . .
nothing is ever worth it
this loss of love
and so Mikie constantly gives birth to it
while Someone watches from above . . .

gently nodding . . .
see “The Tree“.

 


Waking Up


you are eight or nine years old and you are asleep . . .

It is early morning, about five or so . . .

The door opens.
You do not hear it.
Footfalls across cheap linoleum . . .

You do not see.

You dream again
caught in an endless dream
of nightmares and battles,
of being beaten, or

loss of love; your friends ripped away and gone.
Your dog dead.
Trapped in your dream, you squirm,
nose twisted up against the wallboard
smelling paint and the cool odors
of the air beneath the bed.

Sheets rustle.
You do not feel them.
You do not hear them.
You are trapped within this dream

and suddenly!

oh so suddenly!

A hard hand like a muddy fist grasps you around the ankle
swings you into the air
and you are left gasping out of your dream
like a fish yanked, jerking, from the water
as the hammering comes on down . . .

Down, down, goes the fist
down comes the hand
you squirm in the darkness, not yet screaming
the hand comes down again
against your back and your buttocks
something is streaming
is it blood?
No, it is simply tears
tears of your own making
as you simply dissolve away
hanging upside down in the darkness
as the beating goes on . . .

Waking up.

It’s such a usual thing.

and a wonderful way to start the day.

(“Wake up bright eyes!  Bushy tailed and beaten and abused!  Are you ready for work today?”)

and the hands gently guiding you
towards the breakfast table where awaits you
is the hatefilled eyes of your brother
the tired eyes of your mother
while the hawklike shrouded eyes of your father looks on
hand in fist
eyeing you.

and you shudder.

remembering this morning

and what went on . . .