Tag Archive: spreading child abuse



It’s hard to describe the roundhouse effects of Child Rejected One, Child Rejected Two, and Child Betrayed.  A ‘one-two-three’ punch to the child he’d loved and the child who had loved him (meaning our pedophile friend and our little one, Mikie).

Some of it I suppose was due to age.  Little Mikie had taken on some years; quite in the same way a hungry person will put on weight.  Not physically: Mikie was a trim and fit kid; able to run fast, play hard, tanned and muscular beneath a Southern humid sun.  But he’d already changed . . . big for his age; his shoulders broadened; by the time he was ten or so the other kids wouldn’t take him on – even the teenagers pretty much left him alone.

But in that ‘getting bigger’ perhaps was another clue: he’d ‘outgrown’ that teenager friend of his – or perhaps the teenager had outgrown him.  Who knows?  We haven’t got a clue.

But on the other hand . . . the teenager was covertly scheming to have us coerce and coax that little kid over … the one from another next door.  That sand blond kid; thin and with freckles – a giggly tough but kind hearted kind of kid – was only five years old.  About the same age I was when the teenager started doing me.  (Only I was about a little bit older; maybe six or seven years old.  But so innocent in all so many other ways … but not unfamiliar with terror and pain.)

So maybe it was the innocence that ‘caught him’.

All I know is what he did to me.

That first betrayal: that shoving aside … all had taken place (I think) in the period of about one year (amazing, come to think of it now: how those three events can stand out so strongly like that; they were affecting me and mine so much both then as well as now).

But examining it from the child’s side:

Mikie’s father was gone.  The closest thing he had to a father . . . who knows?  There were several men: the one next door (a massive man, good humored besides) and his side-kick (a gruff old man chewing a cigar and reclining on his sofa out in the heat of the yard).  The one across the street?  (His wife was a ‘momma’ of sorts to all of us) . . .

It takes a village to raise a kid, and we certainly did: that neighborhood was like a village all unto itself – safe from the law and violence (for the most part; what happened in stayed in; what happened out – stayed out, but came in sometimes nevertheless…)  Everyone’s ‘momma’ was the momma (with the notable exception of a few) – and everyone’s daddy to be obeyed (even the drunk ones; or the ones that made no sense).

It was the rule of the law; the lay of the land . . .

and the teenager was included within.

Only he was some kind of ‘demi-god’ – middle management, if you prefer.  Falling under control of the grownups; only slightly less in the eyes of some kids – he was the ‘demi-god’ – one of several, to be sure – but he was MY demi-god and I loved him – strong and clear and clear.

And then he threw me away; threw me aside; favoring someone ‘better’ – or at least unknown – younger looking; younger acting – more naive in his innocence; more round eyed; doe eyed . . . than me.  Perhaps that was it.  I don’t know.  All I know is he rejected me … then abused me some more.  (The twisting emotion; a sickening pain .. the one of some love betrayed.  Bitterness; anger in this thing; the betraying of emotions.)

And then love died (I’m thinking to myself; wondering what all had gone on).

We can feel that in ourselves; that love softly dying…

only it wasn’t softly at all; it was off of that first moment; when the teenager betrayed him; announcing to the crowd:

“Mikie really loves sucking some dick.”  and then the neighbors laughed.

Cruelly, mockingly; just as the teenager did that night in the tent (and some … I don’t know what, but we wanted to say “some more”.  Perhaps he mocked us again later on; I don’t know – but I feel a real deep hurt; a screaming that it did and I see my friend and he – Mikie my own kid….I think we both got insulted some of the time which is why we were so tightly bound together – B., my best friend back then.  With the handsome eyes (wide spread); curling sand brown locks on his head … he was a cute kid looking back in time; here and he and I.)

(sighing again … this pain is so hard; Mikie loved B., the teenager’s younger brother – Mikie’s own age – as such a friend…)

Both of there at the beginning; but not so much the teenager at the end.

This is going to be a long post I see.  We’re already over 800 words (the ‘proper amount’ for a ‘commercial blog’ – but this is not some commercial we’re producing.  It is I and my friends … and there’s a lot going on … a lifetime we’re trying to recover…so be patient with me dear Reader and friend … while we ramble on.)

A hatred of love … I think that’s where it began.  The seed was planted in little Mikie’s heart.  It would take more, of course – uprooted, rejected again.  Losses overseas.  But eventually it became such a thing – a source of all his pain.  Love, then lost; love and lost again.  Giving it another try – and violently yanked from its source.  Again and again this sort of thing happened – loving and losing again.

By the time we were 13, I (Matthew) was done with it.  And so (I reckon) was Mikie.   Or at least he ‘retreated’ – went inside – leaving me alone to run the farm.  Hoeing those long rows of pain; trying to undo what had been done (that’s M3 talking right there) – but for ME??  Matthew??

I couldn’t do it again.  Not for him; and not for Mikie.

Not even for myself.

And that’s when the wall began.  The inner ‘walls’ sealing ‘him’ (Mikie) inside – the ‘outer walls’ against the world.

We had been betrayed by love – for we HAD loved; DID love – and got a kick in the face (a dick in the face); and something rammed up our ass.  It resembled a bootprint for sure – but it hurt much more; going deep within . . .

just like that teenager friend.

I wish I could go ‘aaaarrrrgggghhh!!!!’ with a cry of anguish; but I can’t; I hold it in.  It wouldn’t do no good.  I know; we’ve tried it before..

When the pain gets so bad the cutting begins … we’re drinkin’ a beer, numbing my friend; and my being Mikie (so we can’t hear his whimpering … tho’ in my mind I AM trying to hold him close … but it’s like hugging a cactus; each spike brings us pain – those spikes of loves lost, betrayed – over and over again.

I wish I could get over this thing (we wish we all could heal.)  On this one thing if no other . . .
one day maybe we will….

(sighing)

We cannot even begin to scrape the surface of the damage that he’s had; Mikie and our friend (Matthew is in mind).

Those two; most precious to our hearts.
perhaps that’s where the pain began…
deep in our hearts with parents who … while taking care of us … beat us and hurt us all.

Screwing us up forever in relationships ….
driving us to these things
looking for love in the wrong places
darkening our angel’s wings…

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It was a hot summer’s day in the sand hills of Georgia.  Our teenage friend had gathered us little kids – there were about five or six of us – into our back yard to show us something.

“This here’s a pellet gun,” he solemnly announced.  He held out the long rifle with both hands for us to see; all us little kids leaned forward to take in this remarkable weapon.  Most of us had seen – and owned – BB guns – the ol’ Daisy brand, spring loaded; cocking weapon.  Most of us had been shot (multiple times) over and over again through these guns; we were actively engaging in BB gun wars.

“This ain’t no BB gun,” he commented as we took in the long barrel.  It looked like a BB gun to me.  “This things a whole bunch more powerful.”

And with that he began pumping up the thing.

Aiming at a tree (a small scrub oak kind of thing – it ‘looks’ about an inch and a half wide in my eyes; correcting for a small child’s vision .. and knowledge of our yard … yeah, an inch and a half, maybe an inch?) – he took a shot.

“Peeyow!!!”  The pellet gun barked and we kids took off to see what could be seen.  The tree he’d shot had been about twenty feet away; maybe a little bit more.

The pellet had ripped through the bark, and then through the tree, spitting out a small handful of splinters on the other side.  (I can still ‘see’ that tree perfectly, the wound on its back gaping.)

The teenager had ambled up as we oohed and awed over the ‘tremendous damage’ (we’d never seen any such thing before in our lives).

“That’s why you don’t want to make me mad,” he warned us seriously, fingering the tree’s wound (we were fingering it too) …. and I felt a great tremble of fear.  “I could kill you with this thing.   And I might . . . if you go and make me mad.”

And so there it was – the single warning we would get during our childhood; the only one I recall from him (but … I dunno; Mikie’s screaming that weren’t the only one; the only time …. visions and pictures in the darkness; the teenager’s there; we are scurrying around … the party? we are thinking? or was it a different one?  We don’t know and we aren’t sure.)

But I know from that moment on our lips were shut on this thing.  Nobody wanted to be shot with that gun.  No one wanted the teenager pissed off at them.  He was (to our baser knowledge) – the only one with a gun. If the other teenagers had them, we didn’t know – after all, THIS was the one who played with us; he was our ‘friend’.

I don’t know why he felt his need to demonstrate this thing to us unless it was what in he said.  I don’t even know if it was a real threat.  He may have just been pointing out something. … I don’t know what.

But I do know this.

After that we were a little scared of him.  And scared of him all the time.

(and yet … we went on loving him … ‘making love’ with him … doing his bidding.  He was our best friend’s older brother; he had been placed ‘above’ all us kids by the neighborhood parents; he was the ONLY teenage friend in that sort of position; ALL the parents trusted him … felt he was real good with us children – because he took care of us; played almost ALL of the time only with us, his little friends; and helped us along our way … towards what, I don’t know.  But in this – the pellet gun and things … I dunno.  We’re kinda mucked up on all of that thing and this one, too…

But it wasn’t until the last two days I realized: he was always playing with us kids; no one else.  None of the other teenagers were his ‘friend’; or if they were, it was to come later when he turned about 16.  (see “the Betrayal“)   But he was the neighborhood’s ‘favorite’ babysitter; the one who was ‘always there’ when we – or the parents – needed him.  That tells ya something; I just don’t know what that something IS.

But it’s pretty damned obvious: he cowed us with this thing.  And my brain is whirling right now … filled with images of darkness; moving figures; HIM being there … and wondering …

did he ever threaten us again?  Does it matter?  We weren’t going to tell on him (I think; I dunno; we were pretty mad after the Betrayal.   We almost betrayed him.  We almost told where we’d learned (and what we’d learned) “fuck” is.  He was the one who’d taught us that thing…and we hated him for that (the betrayal.)  After that things were never the same again … and it hurt our hearts HARD in this thing; this thing we had learned as love …. and Love itself, I’m thinking … for we were betrayed in love, by love, and through love ….

No wonder we have trouble with that thing.


*Warning: Potential ‘triggers’ for Fellow Survivors & Friends* 😦

I can’t blame a single adult in our childhood community for any of the sexual abuse that went on.  It was all (to the best of our knowledge) committed by the children . . . and the children’s ‘father’, if you want to label the one who ‘started’ the abuse that went on.

It was a Children’s Conspiracy; and One of Silence as well.

None of us children told.  Not one of us; not to the best of my knowledge.  Sure – the signs must have been there (remembering limping in; piss running down my leg from where the teenager had “peed in there”.  Why didn’t mamma suspect something was going on?)

No; we all knew it was ‘something bad’ and something ‘dark’ to be hidden and done in secret corners; this ‘secret’ thing we had.  Fucking each other in the ass; sucking one another dink-um.

And the teenager was at the beginning of the herd.

So was he innocent or guilty (as I am thinking some of the times)?

This guy had a hard life ahead; hell, he had a hard one at the time.  Thirteen years old and here he is working with his father – a mason – busting his ass all of the time.  Doing a “man’s” job and a man’s day’s labor for his dad – helping to support his own family … fucking his brother in the ass … doing his own little sister (she was several years younger than I) . . .

and so was it HIS fault in doing this sort of thing?

We aren’t really knowing; not really – and yet knowing THIS sort of sick and twisted thing: he was a part and product of his own environment;  just as WE are.  And WE could have been HIM – quite easily – for he was leading ALL of us children down that merry path – having sex with him and having it with some others . . .

I remember the times …

warm summer’s day … up in the treehouse … forty feet up in the air … just me and ‘him’ (the teenager’s little brother – and my best friend) … looking at porno magazines (they were just simple black and white sort of things; catalogues I’m thinking; but enough – moving on) … and then I ask him (bored with my own pictures) to pull his pants on down …

Him and me staring at the house.  (this is why we didn’t get caught for so long; meaning NEVER).  He’s in the barn; so are we and we’re staring over the door at the house (his own one) further on …. and I’m fucking him in the ass …

so anyone who is looking will just see two little boys (dirty brown faces) peering at them over the shed’s half-door….

Staring at the house again (only this is a different one).  He (Someone else; another friend) …. is behind me on his knees … doing ‘things’ … I’m leaning on the rough concrete; elbows down; face staring; watching the windows of the house (his momma’s in there) … while he ‘has his fun’ …. waiting for my turn to come.

The grownups never KNEW ANYTHING . . .

The closest I ever got caught was in a doghouse during a great storm…my dad came out and caught us two (me and another friend) … engaged in some intimate action.  But we had saw him coming and ducked and pulled and getting our clothes on as those feet came on closer …. hearts panicking and pulsing and mouth numb from sucking … quitting and getting our clothes on ..

“What are you doing in there?!”  is all he said.
“Nothing,” was the cure.
He never asked again.

Why mom never caught on to those drawings we did … the ones of little kids fucking one another in the ass …. it was right THERE for her to see!  And yet what did she do with it?  She folded it up and put it in with our toys ….

Don’t you think a parent should think something is ‘wrong with it’ when her 8 year old kid tells the neighbor kid’s oldest daughter that he knows what her ‘thing’ looks like – and then ‘shows her’ with his hands?

Instead we got the ‘sex education talk’.  At 8 years old.  We were very much interested in all the mechanics of this thing.  Brother was not so much interested as he was into being disgusted.

He didn’t make very much as a sexually molested kid.  He wasn’t ‘into it’ like I was – really into this thing.

How GOOD it felt … not the “lovin’ ” so much as the other … feeling warm hands on my back; stroking my head; soft murmurs and things; ENCOURAGEMENT … not warning words; not them hateful glances my momma was giving me and things ….

It’s no wonder we kids kept things so silent.

It was the only way we hid.

Me and Little Mikie

Boots


Boots
(Tokoni 05/28/2009)

It’s funny sometimes how a single word or phrase can conjure up an image from the past. Sometimes, of course, it can be a smell or something you see. But with some things – well some things are strange, just like memories. And talking with my brother about our shared past is one of them.

My brother was talking one day – we were just talking in general about the old man’s behaviors when we were kids – comparing notes, I guess – and he really hates the old man a lot more than I do. Being as he was the older brother (still is by my count), he should remember more of what went on than I do – but (amazingly to me!) – he doesn’t. However, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember some, and he often remembers things I have forgotten (or just didn’t want to remember.) The mind is funny that way – it likes to play the old “cup and ball” game with memories sometimes – quick! What cup is THAT memory under? And sometimes you never know. Then along comes brother, taps a cup with his finger – and wallah! There it is!

My brother did this, oh, about a year ago. It’s not the first time he’s done it. (It’s like a magic trick to me, it really is! Poor, strange, mucked up magician.) He tossed out a cup just a couple weeks ago – and wallah! There it is: the old man holding me up by one ankle and whaling the bejeezus-come-and-save me coin. Another tap and – yes! There it is: you were RIGHT big brother, he DID take me into my room by myself and whip me until you heard me scream, scream, scream. Gee, whut fun this game is. (NOT!) But it’s good to know – and I’ve finally figured out why:

It explains why I don’t love the old fart. Why I secretly detest him. Why he sets me on edge. Why . . . I guess why I hate him in so many ways, and at least part of the reason I don’t trust him with kids. Because I know: he’s a secret ‘closet sadist’. And not just with animals, but with kids. Funny thing is: he’s such a wimp with pain. You’d think with him being so sensitive to any poke or prod, he’d of had more compassion for his kids. But . . . he don’t. Or doesn’t. Or didn’t. I don’t know: you pick the word.

But getting back to the word: Boots. My brother and I are talking about some of the stuff that went on – I’m trying to edge him towards what went on ‘over there’ – meaning between the teenager and us – but being careful. I mean – it’s easy talking about the physical and mental abuse, but the ‘other’ stuff – well, that’s a whole different ballgame. And with my brother you have to be careful. He hasn’t ‘healed’ I guess as much as I, or if so, he’s healed mad.

My brother won’t admit – or hasn’t admitted – what went on with the kid next door, the teenager. And I – well, I just don’t have the guts to directly approach him about it. Oh, I’ve beaten around the bush a bit, but I’m pretty careful about that sort of thing – if you beat around the bush too much, you’ve defined what’s hiding in it. And my brother is a staunch homo-hater. Not a homophobe, because homophobia means a ‘fear of homosexuals”. He just hates ’em. Violently so. And . . . well, I suspect he would go off in a violent rage if I said “hey, Bro, don’t you remember THIS and THIS and THIS?” Either that, or he would deny it. Or he’s thoroughly blocked it. I don’t know.

Odd that we can discuss the physical abuse so much easier. Why is that? Personally I think it’s because of society’s views towards sexuality as a whole: the Americans are such prudes! Which may be part of the reason we have so much of it on TV; why they snicker at nude art, and why we are so continuously fascinated with it. It is the ‘forbidden fruit’ syndrome, I reckon. We really like sex – everyone I know does – but we hate to admit it. Blame it on our Puritan ancestors, I guess. At any rate, I think its messed up the way we tend to hide it – and then put it in plain site; gossip about OTHER’s sexual activities – but refuse to divulge our own in shame and embarrassment. I guess that’s part of being human – being weird. (Of course I have to bear in the back of my mind I wasn’t ‘raised right’ anyway. That might have something to do with it. But what IS right? – aside from what society and your own heart (influenced by society) says it is?)

But anyway – focusing back on the title of this story – to help focus my mind, I guess, because I tend to wander (shy?) away from some memories. We are talking and Bro says:

“I hated the way he would come home and start kicking us with his boots.”

Bingo. Cup is lifted. There it is: the memory coming home to roost. An image flies through my mind: us two little kids, cowering underneath the dining room table – and these big ol’ combat boots lashing out at our faces, arms, hands – anything they could connect with. Chairs scuffling away from the table, removing our last bit of protection. The old man circling around, trying to get in another kick. Bammo whammo – secrets untold, revealed with one word.

Boots.

A word that brings back some memories (like magic!, a part of my mind says, using one of those TV announcer’s voices).

Boots.

And ow. They hurt.

(And remembering still – here on May 27, 2011 . . . this shit went on until we were in our middle teens – cowering under the dining room table while he kicked and thrashed at us – circling the table like a vulture – just big enough that you could hide on one side while he kicked on the other – but woo unto the child who was too slow moving under those table legs and the chairs!  Ow, they hurt almost as bad as those boots sure did.  Getting knocks on the head from bumping the table . . . and then HIM calming down and going away somewhere – usually to his bedroom to take them boots off (his uniform, too).  Laying down on the bed for a mid-afternoon nap – probably dreaming he was in ‘Nam.  Us straightening out things around the table so mom wouldn’t get mad when she got home (she was as bad as he was in her own way – and we’d have to clean THAT mess on up, too, don’t cha’ know!)

anyhoo . . . made things sort of fun and interesting, in a dry detached sort of way.  As long as you don’t look at it too closely  . . . and see those two 8 year olds and 9 year olds (and probably even younger; we don’t remember it ALL – but brother has slowly (albeit unknowingly and oft-times accidentally) filling us in.)

Until later.

Your friend and yours.
Cruzzer & Co (meaning Elvis and Friends, LOL’ing, meaning …

see ya!


TRIGGER WARNING: DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SMALL.  OR AT ALL IF YOU ARE TRIGGERING TO BEGIN WITH.  OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT.  OKAY?  BE SAFE, MY FRIENDS!  (and enemies if I’ve got them).

We are camping in our back yard; me the teenager and I.

We’ve set up the military puptent (everything around here is military, except the outside world – and I guess that includes everything outside the house as well as in – though we are living inside the house, where things are much better – and worse at the same time.  The outside world is a civilian neighborhood.  A sandlot and stuff -that’s the neighborhood we live in; surrounded by decent neighbors (most of them) and our friends.

This family is called ‘neighborhood’ – and neighborhood is one big family – tighter than that.  Our family doesn’t have what this neighborhood does: a sense of belonging and rightousness; loving hugs and things.  A woman who teaches us piano, and treats us as if we were one of her own sons.  (She has 3 of them; and a daughter on the way.)

But its come nightfall, and I and the teenager and my best friend – or perhaps it was my little brother – I’m not sure – he left in the middle of the night to go sleep in the house, leaving me and the teenager alone.

We are surrounded by the smell of dark canvas; OD green it is called.  Olive Drab (kinda like our own life: Olive Drab is covering everything, and every thing we get in.  Olive Drab is the color of our skin; when we bleed blood it is green.  I know because our momma has told us so: we are Army within and without and in all times and things.

Olive Drab kinda describes my life in these things.

And we are in the tent, and the smell is of old canvas – Olive Drab: an Army thing.  You would have to go stand close or in an old Army tent to know this smell.  Once it hits you – once you’ve ‘been in’ – you’ll never forget this thing.  (back me up on this, old soldier friends of mine – yeah YOU out there who have been in the military.  YOU know this smell.  Tell them what it brings: the friendship and the comfort of Olive Drab – and that gentle undercurrent of fear.  Smelling it you know you are back ‘home’.  Wherever that one is.  For this time of your life.)

The teenager turns next to me.  I am a small child (but a BIG one inside!) – about 8 or 9 years of age, I’m reckoning.  Not much older than that.  (I’m thinking the teenager had this thing for younger kids; ones about half my age.  We have outgrown him and his pedophilic tastes.)

“Please fuck me in the ass,” I remember begging him.

He looks at me.  I’m curled up in my soft warm blanket.  Only its not a blanket at all.  Its this thing like a giant green worm.  Its called “Sleeping Bag, Arctic”  It will keep you warm down to -30 some odd degrees or something.  It is filled with warm douse queen warm feathers. (He means “Goose down, Army, military or something.)  It is OD green.  Just like our lives are at this time.

He rolls over and looks at me.  The flashlight is dying; a yellow beam.  It is so low – and the canvas so thick – that not a single beam escapes.

“I don’t want to,” he says.

I beg him some more.  I put my hand on his arm.  I’m praying that he will love me.

“Please cornhole me in the ass,” I’m begging him again, over and over.  There are tears in my eyes.  I want this thing, knowing in some way it is a BAD thing I am doing – the parents will KILL us if they find out – but I can’t help it.

I’m wanting this thing called “love” – the thing that’s been missing my entire life, even unto now.

And so he does it.  Rolling me on my belly, he pulls my shorts down (painfully, grasping and grabbing and yanking on them.)  Then he does my underwear.  Yanking and pulling them down to my knees.

And then he spreads my ass and rolling on top of me (there is nowhere to stand; we have done this thing standing again before I think; I know I am: he fills my ass with pee sometimes and it trickles down my leg and then I go home wondering: will my mom find out?  Will she see/smell this thing?  This dried urine on my ass and thighs and things?  But she never does.)

And then he’s doing it but it HURTS this time; he isn’t using his finger and spit this time; he’s doing it bone dry.  But I’m loving him (sort of; it HURTS this time and he’s being ROUGH with me – not slapping me around this time, but hurting me somewhere deep inside – inside in a lot of places and ways I’ve never imagined before; never expected to be hurt this way by him; never even saw this one coming.  But I should have.  I am a child of 9 years old.  I should know this thing.  There’s been subtle hints before: him pushing me away in favor of my younger brother who is  slightly older than I – but looks much younger; plus he’s pale and thin and weak in the body and mind.  Not like me who is strong and fit and a husky child with blonde hair.  Crewcut you know: military mind; father running our life – even when he’s not there.  Off to war or something; he’s always off doing something.  Even when he’s there.)

But we look adorable, that I am knowing.  Adorable enough for this thing (hoping we do, because we want to be LOVED by him, one and all and everyone about and around us.)  Silly dreams us children are having: wanting to be loved.  By anyone and everyone and getting nothing in return.

That’s the way it is I suppose sometimes: you find yourself reaching out only to have your hand slipping away – or slapped or something.

Like a slap in the face this thing is; what is coming in our futures.  And we just don’t know it yet.

Our entire life has been on giant slap in the face sometimes.  I should have saw it coming.

He rolls off.  He’s not done – but he is.  A growing sense of frustration.  We look at him sad, twisting our head to look at the head against the green canvas walls.  He looks mad at us.  We were enjoying the feeling of his skin; skin against our backs and things.  Hands on our arms; holding us down somewhat as he put this thing in; hurting us and things.

And we enjoyed it – but not that last part.  The hurting and things.

And he tells us?

“You were goddamn lousy.  You aren’t no good.  You ain’t worth doing it with.  Your ass stinks like shit.  I’m gonna be leaving you alone forever; you’re never gonna come back.  I don’t want you doing this thing with me anymore, this cornholing thing.”  And then he laughs (quite cruely, hurting, taunting)  “I want you to find more small children for me.  That kid and you next door.  I want him.”

And then he laughs some more – cruelly and mocking.  We are starting to cry those little pitiful tears of childhood lost; a childhood that never truly began.

And he turns over and falls asleep, turning the light off (in so many freakin’ ways, and the light in our souls: this loving him) – leaving us to cry and wonder, rolling on our back and staring at this thing

This Olive Drab our life has become.  You can’t even see the stars outside.

It is too dark, this thing.

(Final note: author’s note: Imagine you are that small child.  You’ve just been rejected by this friend of yours; the one you have been loving and playing with for four and five small years.  Your dad is always gone; your mom a mean and small cruel bitch – as bitchy as they come, and even crueler sometimes: locking you in your room for hours; sometimes .. sometimes it seemed for years.  Yes, we did this thing: locking ourselves in our “rooms” for years – years and years and years without end.  sometimes we are doing it right now; hurting inside, comforting our small child crying – he gets hurt so easily and so readily … and we are crying for him

But never on the outside.  We can’t cry for him.  Not really.  Not for anyone – even you my friends, even when we see YOU twisted and tortured in pain.

But know this: we are crying within forever – for you, for us, for them – and everything that you ever went though

Including him, this small child of mine.

Rejection hurts us.  And this is but ONE small reason why.

Because we were rejected by him: the one who loves us and wants us.

Even if he was fucking us in the end.

(Tags chosen/reason:  Therapy: to help us.  Spreading Child Abuse: because we did.  Love: because we were wanting those things.  Memories: because it is, even if no one else remembers – it ws REAL this very thing – dark down to the core of our being, we know this one is true.  Child Molestation: duh.  Family: because we had none; and after this – not even our friend.  Children: because we are one, at least one of 5 within.  Child Abuse: I reckon it was, in some ways.  To this day we have a hard time telling (which leads to guilt and things – unsurity).  Child Exploitation: because he was exploiting us and other children in our neighborhood – and using us to ‘recruit’ through exploiting them on our own, bringing them to him and into his own ‘fold’ (and hold and loving  …. but the other children weren’t so willing, not as willing as I).  Experiences in Learning: because we learned something in this thing: love hurts one, VERY badly indeed (giving rise to the Matthew being in the end.)

And finally Marriage: in that in every sense of the way and word, we were married to him.  Loving him … even now (a bit; not as much as before) – and holding him and seeking his comfort

All the while pleasing him.

Even if he did pee in our ass sometimes (and I suppose THAT says something about how HE saw us children in the hood – something to be used by him – and then discarded and thrown away.)

It hurts, this thing; even NOW it friggin’ hurts so bad.

I know I’m supposed to cry but I can’t.  Matthew is stepping in; separating child from one another – sending them on to our Island Paradise – protecting us from him and one another – and protecting his own self through these dark emotions

Olive green.  And Olive Drab.  They are both the same thing in my eyes.  (and if you can’t see life and death in that – I suppose you are blinder than we are/I am) – signed Matthew and Mikie and friends.

Our Island Paradise: Me and Little Mikie


(we post this simply due to it follows logical succession.  First “Marrying the Girl Next Door“, then then this.  It makes sense.  One follows another follows another.  I would recommend reading them in proper order – and DO NOT START WITH THIS ONE.  Read them in order or else you will miss this – and the point of all this.  You can skip over “Sex In the Hood” – but it will give you some background information. )

This Was Mikie's Home for Many Years

My Child Bride
(Tokoni 05/25/2009)

The fate of my child bride has been weighing a tad heavily on my mind here lately – the girl I was “married” to when I was six in an impromptu wedding held in her back yard, conducted by her teenage brother, and attended by a lot of the kids in the ‘hood. (See “Marrying The Girl Next Door”.) What happened here happened some years after my introduction into the darker side of some of the “games”, so you gotta kinda bear that in mind. (I do.) But even still, this took place when I was about eight and she maybe seven, perhaps a little earlier for her. And to this day it still bothers me. And I imagine what I’ll say here will cause some folks to condemn me; others to exonerate me, but it really makes no difference. The only thing that ever helped was what a shrink once told me. I’ll get to that later.

It was a fine summer Georgia afternoon – hot and humid, but us kids didn’t mind. Odd how kids back then (and even now) don’t seem to feel the temperature discomforts the way us grownups do. I reckon it’s because they have other things on their mind than us stuffy old adults.

Now this is in the sand hill area of Georgia, slightly south of Augusta, where the pines grow straight and thin, and the scrawny oak trees beg comparison to mere shrubs. Ferns grew in some parts of the woods; in others those pan-shaped cactus with their long spiny leaves; also weedy growth – it comes in all shades and colors when the summer grows long and dry. “Sage” I heard one old timer call it; in some other places it’s just more dried grass, all of it surrounded by this white sand – the remnants of primordial beaches that dried up millions of years ago. Dig down far enough and you hit the ancient sea bottom – red clay and white kaolin, naturally grown and harvested. Georgia is known for it’s kaolin deposits; it’s a favorite artist’s clay worldwide. It is also, I understand, used for making paper, comes in Kaopectate, and some of the women even further down south eat it to fill some strange dietary need (see “the clay eaters”).

This particular afternoon my best friend and I are somewhere beyond his back yard – out in the scrub pines (pine barrens to some folks), along with his little sister – my little bride. I don’t know if she just came rolling up on her bicycle, or walked up there with us, and for the purposes of this story it really makes no difference. She was there; that’s all I know.

Now she and I were friends, but not much more than that despite our “marriage”, which had happened a year or so before. She was a quiet girl – very quiet – and I recall her face was usually bland and devoid of emotion. So were her eyes. She was a little bit shorter than me, with shoulder length hair; a tawny brown, with sand colored highlights, and she was wearing her eternal cotton print dress, one that stopped at her knees. My friend and I were of course dressed in our normal wear – cutoff shorts and nothing else. Bare feet were the norm; everyone wore them everywhere, even most of the grownups. After all, you didn’t want to wear out your shoes for church or school; those things were precious – plus they hurt our feet, especially when you’d get sand in them, which was a constant thing. My mom still mentions the sand – how it seemed to have an affinity for house floors, especially the cheap linoleum tile that everybody had – making ‘keeping things clean’ an almost impossible task, especially when the wind would get to blowing, or us boys would come traipsing in at the end of the day, called by the clanging of the triangular dinner bell suspended on the house.

I see I am dawdling here. Time to move on, get to the meat of the matter. (If you will excuse the pun. And no, it’s not punny.) But you’ll have to forgive me if I ramble a little bit, remembering the other things. Because this one is not good.

Me and my buddy – here we are out in the woods, when my friend turns to me (his sister is tailing behind – right behind – my ‘child bride’) – and says:

“Hey! You wanna fuck my sister?”

Now I’m kinda rocked by this. I know what ‘fucking’ is – it’s been shown to me, hell, even done to me, though among us boys it’s usually called “corn-holing”. Fuck and suck — that’s all of us, and the teenager has been leading the way. “Training” us, I reckon you’d say, or ‘teaching us’, and we do it amongst ourselves all the time. It’s just a way of life, something to ‘do’, just like some kids go and play ball. But for us – no, it’s different in some ways. I know it’s ‘bad’, not something you want the grownups to find out about – but ALL us kids seem to be doing it in some way or another. And yes – there are darker sides to that, sides when the teenage boy was involved. But we’ll save those for another story. I can only handle one hard thing at a time.

But this “fucking” thing – it’s new to me, or at least with a girl. I know how to ‘do’ boys – but girls? This is something new, something different. So . . .

“Sure!,” I say, not really knowing what to expect.

“Come here,” he says, and then he talks to her – not a long talk, mostly about, “Hey, why don’t you fuck Mike? You haven’t fucked him. Why don’t you fuck him? Come on . . .”

So he wheedles away and talks to her, and soon enough – it doesn’t take but a minute – she is laying down there in the sand between the weeds. I can still see her laying there; the sun is shining down on us; the bicycle just a few feet away – and she pulls her dress up over her chest, exposing herself to me. And waits. There are no panties; are no shoes – like I said, clothes were precious, and not something for daily wear.

I look at this thing, thinking “Hey! What do I DO?” I mean I don’t know where things go, I only know she’s built a bit different than the boys I mess with – she’s “bare”, got nothing down there – except this thin slit surrounded by swelling lips. My friend, sensing my confusion I guess, turns to me and tells me (and all the while she’s watching, her eyes growing more distant by the second), “You put your dick in there. Right there. We do it all the time. So does (teenager’s name).” He smiles broadly like a used car salesman trying to sell me a ride. I look down at her – and she’s got this sorta glazed look, but still looking at me – so I drop my shorts, pull down my underwear, and step in front of her, pecker in hand.

“Do you really want to do it?” I ask her, looking down at her face. She’s . . . blank? Devoid of emotion? I don’t know, but it’s a look I know – but don’t know – and I guess I sort of knew it because I guess sometimes I must’ve had that look, or others of my kind.

“No,” she barely whispers, hiking up her dress some more. I look over at my friend. He’s scowling down at her. .

So I pull up my underwear and shorts. All I can think is he’s been doing it with her, this thing called “fuck” – and so has his older brother. The teenage one. I know because he just told me so. And . . . they do it all the time. My friend begins to berate her, asking her why she said no. It doesn’t matter to me anymore – she said no, and I’m not going to do it. No way. Not if she doesn’t want to – because if she doesn’t want to, neither do I. (Something that holds true to this day, which is why I could never be a rapist.)

She sits up; I help her; she pulls down her dress, I help her to her feet. My friend keeps on fussing at her – and now me, too, for not “doing it”. “It’s the best thing you can ever feel,” he promises – but I’m not interested. Not anymore. She doesn’t want to do it with me – and I’m fine with that. She gets on her bike and pedals away, leaving my friend and I to go play in the woods.

I really don’t remember much more than that.

For a long time, even into my adulthood — I used to wonder: should I of done it? She wouldn’t of minded; not really. She would of just lain there. She was my friend; all us friends were ‘doing it’ – and apparently she was deep into it too, courtesy of her teenage brother and my best friend. Apparently they’d been doing it for a long time. Would it of made that much of a difference in my life – or hers – if we had? I didn’t know.

Then one day I brought this up to my psychologist, who has been fighting to save me from cutting, fighting to keep me ‘happy’ – or at least ‘stable’ – without a whole lot of success. Mostly we just sit there staring at each other – she doesn’t realize she MUST ask the questions; MUST press – otherwise she won’t get any answers, any details. That’s one of the things about DID when it goes wild: other hands are holding you, restraining your voice and throat – even when you feel you must shout out the words twisting in your guts, you can’t. You just can’t get there. And it mucks with you. This is something my wife has discovered: she must ASK for me to tell; at best all I can do is say: “you should ask me about such-and-such.” But she’s gotten reluctant to ask; I am so way out of her league, and she has problems of her own in dealing with my problems – so I keep them hidden for the most part. All to myself. Just like so many of the ‘others’ want it to be.

But anyway, this shrink, she feeds me a bit of wisdom. She says:

“You were the one who said no. You were the one who didn’t. And for that little girl – it was a blessing. An empowerment. Something she probably never had.”

I suppose that is supposed to make me feel good, but it only makes me feel somewhat better. After all, I’ve carried the burden of knowing what was being done to her for all these years – her brothers screwing her, and perhaps some others, too – and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s too late, now, and it was too late then – something which saddens me.

I just hope that shrink was right, and that by me NOT doing it – allowing her to say “no” – I helped her, if only in some small way. And that’s something I’ll never know for sure.

NOTE: WE had a piece of artwork for this: it shows the little girl, dress thrown up, pussy showing – and the empty vacous look on her face …. I’ll never forget that look.  When I saw a picture of her with all of us kids in “the Hood” – all of us standing there, frozen in black and white – staring back at US – she looked just as empty and vacant.  As if all of this – all of the above and more – had broken her mind.  Poor girl, poor child.  Oh, how I WISH I could go back in time and rescue her – though she would need more help I think than we could ever give.  A victim of incest, ya know.)


Sex In the Hood
(Tokoni 06/03/2009)


(Note: I have not re-read this. I am currently working on 3 blog entries at once.  See “16 Hours” (if it is done yet.  I am very tired.  We all are.  And no, not from lack of sleep.  From … things.  Pain, grief, joy, an inability to shed tears – too F’ing much.  All in 16 hours.)

First: Pardon me if this is a rambling dissertation. The subject matter is . . . bothersome to me, full of questions and doubts which I cannot fully answer. I would go see a shrink about this stuff – but shrinks are pricey, and I don’t have medical insurance, so I have to ‘self-treat’ as best I can. Forgive me if I do it here. And I hope that it can help someone else; maybe put them on the track to the right answers, or at least let them know they aren’t the only ones who harbor these types of feelings, questions, doubts, and . . . jeez. What can I say. It gets downright messy. But then: childhood sexual abuse always is, isn’t it? (Nod your heads, shrinks – because you know you can’t understand if you haven’t been there, even if you try. And nod your heads, survivors of childhood abuse – and know that I feel for you in this – as only another childhood survivor can.) It’s a tough issue to deal with, no matter what angle you try to approach it from.

I can’t speak for all the kids in the ‘hood, only about what happened to me and what I observed happening to others. I have my suspicions – but they are only that: suspicions. No hard proof; no “I saw”. But I do know what I did see, and will draw some inferences from those observations.

For one thing, it appears it started next door, though I can not and will not lay all the blame squarely on those folks. I cannot imagine the man there, nor his wife, engaging in the activities which their eldest son, a teenager, had us engaging in. But I know that appearences can be deceiving; for all I know the father was molesting his children — though my heart cries when I think that, for I loved that big old burly man dearly, and he was always smiling and friendly. I cannot see him doing that. However, I do know that it spread from there like a forest fire across waxed timber. It was an infection, if you will, which touched many of us kids in the neighborhood to varying degrees. Some, like myself, were deeply infected; others, like my friends across the street, not so much. And like an infection, those it touched went on to infect others.

What I do know is that the teenage boy was having sex with his own brother (my age and best friend) – and we were about half the age of the teenager. I also know that he and his younger brother infected the youngest girl (See “My Child Bride” for more on that.) I know he infected my brother, and perhaps even a good friend up the street. And he infected me (“My First Time” has that truly sick and ugly story.) I also know he encouraged US to infect others, bringing them to him in play, and ending in something else. A form of play, perhaps, but one which we all knew our parents would not approve of.

I know that of us all, my best friend, my brother, and I seemed to be popular (or easy) targets for the teenager’s sexual ‘urges’, and he would sometimes encourage us to ‘play’ together before taking us on separately. We had a word for part of it: corn-holing – which was an invitation to engage in anal sex. The other (oral sex) was more simple, of course, taking place without those words sexual adults so often use (you know: “BJ”, etc.). It was, my shrink said, a sick neighborhood to grow up in, and in some ways – yes, it was. Very sick. It was sick with the disease called “child molestation”. And in a lot of ways – yeah, I guess it was – a form of STD. But an STD of the mind.

I sometimes wonder if teen on small child (we’re talking 13, 14 and up on 5, 6 and 7 year olds) is considered classic child abuse (eg molestation). My shrinks said it was. They told me that it was a betrayal of trust by an authority figure, and that I can understand because he was often set as an authority figure over us younger kids – both as a trusted babysitter and an outside playmate. I do know that the kids more susceptible to catching the ‘disease’ were in the families which expressed little love. For instance, the loving mom across the road – always generous with her hugs and kisses – her kids were only mildly infected – that is, they did not pursue it like I and the teenager’s younger brother did. (We actually asked for it, begged for it sometimes – and I think he enjoyed that aspect of us ‘begging’ for it.) I know the teenager’s father was a hard working man – very hard working – and worked his family hard as well. They were one of the poorest families in the ‘hood. I know the mother was very subservient to him – meek and mild, with her head always lowered – that was her, and was still her when I met her again about thirty years later. Soft spoken – voice almost always a whisper, even when we were kids. So maybe there was something going on there that I did not know about.

And what about sex ‘play’ between children of the same age and gender? Was that abuse? I think not, and yet the shrinks said that the depth of play – six, seven, and eight year olds engaging in oral and anal sex – was ‘sick’. Is that true? How can I answer that? I don’t know. I have no ‘references’, no way of knowing. For me it was normal – as normal as air – and I know children do play ‘doctor’. But what IS playing “doctor”? An examination of each other’s genitalia? We went far beyond that. We were taught more than that by the teenager. And so it seemed only natural to us to do to each other (even with my own brother) the things we’d been shown. So does that count as ‘abuse’? I guess if you haven’t had this sort of thing happen to you, you can’t understand the depth of confusion. It’s like being presented with two boxes: one labeled “abusive behaviors” and one labeled “normal behaviors” – and you have this puzzle piece which belongs in one or the other – and you are desperate to know which one to drop it in – but for the life of you (and your own sanity) – you can’t figure out which one it goes in. But it hurts to keep holding it in your hand. Sometimes . . . Christ. Sometimes I’d give my left arm just to know. And it hurts bad enough sometimes that yeah – even now, I wish for physical pain. (But no – I won’t cut myself. I’ve been there, done that, and it’s an addiction I refuse to give into – no matter how much it hurts to deny.)

My own parents, of course – an oft absentee dad given to frequent sadism, and what I still think was an insane mother – her marrying him to escape her own abusive step-father – a loveless life (I never remember her ever hugging us, nor saying the words “I love you”) – set us up to seek affection elsewhere. See the piece I wrote called “Harlow’s Monkeys” for more on how that sets children up to become willing targets for sexual abuse. And while my dad did show us affection when he was around – he wasn’t around very much, being gone for one and two years at a time due to military demands – I told him to stop hugging me when I was seven. It felt too much like something else – something wrong. I don’t know if it was because of him, or me, or what was happening in the ‘hood. But I still remember that evening, telling him that I didn’t want him to hug me anymore when he came to tuck us in. And it hurts, knowing that – and not knowing the reasons why, when this was the proper form of parental affection. Weird, isn’t it?

But of all the kids I knew, me and my best friend were the ones the teenager seemed to find easy – eager – targets (to the best of my knowledge that is – there were probably others). And of us two, I was always – always! – more than willing. I wanted it. Loved it – or at least liked it to the point I condemn that ‘inner child’ of mine. Like I said; there were times I begged him to “do it”. I have trouble saying the words I used to use. Ones like ‘cornhole’ – god, that’s a sickening word for me to even SEE. And yet I type it – trying, I guess, to become immune to its effects. And yet – its so friggin’ useless. It’s a distasteful subject for me, even if I do have bisexual tendencies, which I believe, may have been due to that door being opened to me at such a young age. I started off pretty much with ‘same-sex’ sex; therefore, even if I was born heterosexual, I learned there was nothing ‘wrong’ or ‘strange’ or ‘off’ in homosexual behaviors. Go figure. I’m still trying to, and probably never will completely figure it out. Another question with no clear answer – and one that will be with me for life.

This behavior; this sexual ‘abuse’ if you will, went on for about six years, minus a one year hiatus when I ‘escaped’ from the ‘hood for a year, courtesy of my father’s endless travels. I came back, of course – hungry for more (a sad thing to say). I find some things bothersome, such as the fact that the teenager, when he would ‘finish’, would often urinate into my rectum, and I would have to ‘hold it’ to keep it from leaking out – a rather fruitless task sometimes – and I wonder why my mom never suspected anything was going on when I would come home with dried urine down my legs. To this day I find anything sticky – even, say, sea water – on the insides of my thighs to be highly . . . bothersome in that it always reminds me of what he would do. Why did he do that? I don’t know, unless it was for some kind of weird or perverted thrill. I suppose the shrinks would say it was a “power display”, and Lord knows I’ve studied enough psychology to concur. Ditto with me begging for his ‘affections’ – it gave him a sense of power, I suppose, and no doubt was a powerful turn-on for him. As for me, I hate – and refuse to use – any type of ‘power’ over a sexual partner (or anyone I love.) And why didn’t us kids tell? For one thing — we knew what we were doing was ‘wrong’. How did we know that? I don’t know. And perhaps the incident mentioned in “BB Gun Wars” regarding the teenager demonstrating his power had something to do with it. I don’t know. Which just — well, it ties my head up in knots, my heart in . . . something more than sadness. I don’t even know how to describe how it feels.

The weird thing – and this is something for you parents to remember – is that this stuff spread among us kids. I’ve called it a disease – the shrinks called it a ‘disease’ – and I guess it was. An STD – sexually transmitted disease – but of the mind and soul. Why is that? What possessed us kids to pass it on from one to another? To this day I don’t know. Why did I, at ten years old, try to seduce the younger kid across the street? (He was about six.) Was it that I just didn’t know any better? I hadn’t ever heard of the words “sexual abuse” until I was in my teens; I never even knew I was abused until I was in my early twenties. And yet . . . I know the suspicions were forming in my mind by the time I was sixteen or so – or at least about the sexual abuse – if for no other reason than my peers seemed so damned ignorant (and fascinated) about sex – whereas for me it was ‘old hat’. Not to say I wasn’t your ‘normal’ (or at least somewhat abnormal) hormone driven teen. But I wasn’t into playing the ‘games’ that they played. They all seemed so childish to me. Why was that? I often feel like huge parts of my childhood – and normal ‘teenhood’ – went missing. For some reason it’s like . . . I don’t know. I skipped (sexually) from being a child at six to thirteen, then from thirteen to twenty-something. Things got turned around; it’s all topsy-turvy. Screwed up and backwards in some obscure way that still evades definition. And it has had such a drastic effect on my life and relationships – in so many ways, and so many of them painful, regarding loss and lack and . . . well, like I say, it defies words. It cuts at the base of emotions. It’s almost impossible to describe – or at least impossible enough that I can’t find the words to define it in a clearcut way (hence this rambling dialogue).

It is odd. I sit here, preparing to post this – and I find my lack of references bothersome as well. Is this 18+ material here? Or not? How can I possibly know? The sexual acts described in this dissertation are nothing I did not know by the time I was six. So . . . would this material be appropriate for, say, a thirteen year old? A twelve year old? A kid who has already been abused? One who hasn’t? It’s very confusing to me, as you can probably tell. I really need someone else to rate this; I can’t do it myself, but I’m going to set it to 18+ to be on the safe side – but at the same time – am I doing some poor kid a disservice by NOT letting them read this, if what happened to me is happening to them, or happening in “their ‘hood”? If YOU have any insights on this, feel free to let me know. Because – really – I can’t judge it. And that’s a bad, screwed up feeling, if you haven’t gotten that impression from me by now.

I don’t know. Questions, questions, questions. And damn few answers.

I’ll tell you. This ‘survivor’ stuff – and I ‘think’ the “S-word” when I type ‘stuff’ – is a really mixed bag of tricks. And I hope that for those who don’t understand what it’s like, this has given you a glimpse – trust me, a mere skimming – of the types of internal questioning us survivors face. And it only gets harder the more you look, because every question asked raises so many others.

Thats enough for now, LOL. Whut can I say. The impulse to just start pulling your hair out – or doing worse; the confusion – emotional crap – can get overwhelming, and leave your head spinning for hours. Or days.

Or even, perhaps, a lifetime.


CAUTION: TRIGGERS!!

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)

okay

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.)

Okay.

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.)

(sighing)

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

1300hrs:

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!”


4/21/11: Finished – Note: this isn’t for you.  It’s for me.  But feel free to hang around; read, whatever.  part of my own ‘therapy’ session with me in attendence (m3) and some of my ‘alters’. (yeah, you guys.)

(4/19/11 pm?)*  This is the story of how the groomed child was betrayed and rejected by the guy whom he thought loved him – a rejection of his, that child’s innocent love turned to lust; mistaking the real thing for something much more … physical and intimate.

The ‘child’ had been ‘making love’ to the adult – a mere teenager, mind you, about 6 or 7 years older than the child – in return for something that felt like love and affection; qualities that child had been missing at home (along with what has been described as ‘horrible and horrendous abuses’ at the hands of his parents by various psychologists, therapists, psychiatrists and counselors.)  Abuse is of course a perceived betrayal of trust systems, along with many other inhibiting qualities.

In this case it started during one of the parties that the teenager often (sometimes?) threw.  (We can’t figure it out; too much information missing.)  *(Elvis: I’m asking questions as we go along with this child of mine and ours . . . so precious to us now.) – (M2/3: 2 on ‘top’, standing by; we are monitoring the emotions / thoughts / images of this child: what ‘he’ feels, ‘we’ feel, you see: what ‘he’ remembers with vivid clarity – ‘we’ remember – and see.  This goes ‘down’ to the ‘Scientist’ side and the ‘Recorder’ side for further analysis.  This, BTW, is a ‘for the record’ on how the system works; we take notes; perhaps some of you do, too.)  Now we are letting the child speak for himself.  We will ‘back’ out; let the ‘editing’ side take over, and let this thing be done.  It is in the interest of healing, understanding better the child’s emotions; reduce his sense of the betrayals done, etc. ad infinitum in an effort to aid the child we’ve come to first: understand his motivations, b) emphathize with his emotions; c) explain to him his physical state, d) give him reason to both love and trust ‘us’, e) reduce the tensions between Matthew, the teenage controller emerging after him (whose behaviors were in fact determined by this child’s emotions and his conclusions – as Matthew’s come to realize in this ongoing on-line ‘therapy’ session – and whose behaviors were passed on to us (among us would be a better term; not all parts share the same ‘sessions’ or similar effects from this abuse).

(4/21/11 0730 hrs) *Note: We wrote most of this before we re-read and posted “The Party” – and after reading “The Party” we confirmed: so many details are the same: this memory (as I and we know and knew) – is entirely accurate; captured on the VHS recorder of the child’s mind; entered into the notebooks of time (the Scholar/Notekeeping recording device) in our mind.  🙂  Now we know why we are being so cautiously redundant in this thing: checking facts, again and again, not willing to overlook even the smallest detail – because in those details we are finding some understanding of the child in us; ourselves, our motivations for the things we’ve done and do; and discovering the qualities of richness and interconnection within our life.

4/21/11 done: – Note: we don’t care about any typos in the message below; this was between me (M3) and my child (m1).  We are trying to get to grips with issues affecting M2 about this child’s behavior and emotional patterns; reduce frictions between M2 and self.  anyway: done.

(4/19/11 pm)  So why ask why?  In order to understand and heal this child – and to understand ourselves better; our motivations and the whys and hows of things that were done; burnt bridges, to be sure, but their skeletal remains affected our paths, much as a downed bridge would affect your own.

(start of child’s ‘testimony’, as we referred to it in the olden days of Trial and Punishment – yes, there’s still a hard heart of anger there; we can feel it … Matthew, perhaps; he is in hiding.)

We were in the truck; it was an old truck, very heavy, with a camper built on the back of it.  It was a two room camper; small made mostly of plywood and with no windows.  Very hot and stuffy in there.

Anyway we got invited to a ‘party’ that meant we could spend the night over there; it was all right then there was his little brother approximately my age and my older brother would be there too.

But when we got inside it was dark and it was hot and stuffy hard to breath and there wasn’t a lot of room in there.  So this teenager friend gets the room ‘upstairs’ I’m meaning the first room which was the second room; the one closer to the cab than the back where you got in and

then this teenager he has us coming up to him; yeah, we all kinda did it one at a time and yeah he had us competing to see who in there was good enough (to finish him off) and he’d call me up to scuk on his thing then well sometimes someone else and then I wasn’t good enough so he had my friend his brother ya know and we both held him and he sent us away.

Then we were doing it my friend and I while he (the teenager) did it with my brother cuz’ I wanted to do it for him but I lost and I was really sad cuz he didn’t want me.

(Okay, he’s quit talking)

Elvis’s (creative side’s) Interpretation:

Mikie had gotten invited to a ‘party’.  At least that was what it was whispered to be among the little children involved; information given out in hints by the teenager.

Mikie was approximately 10; the teenager at least 16 or so (+/- 1 yr).  The teenager had built a ‘camper shell’ out of plywood; a long low thing in the Southern heat; sat out in the back yard of the teenager’s house.  The truck was indeed old; I’ve just come to realize we’ve modeled that truck in OUR truck in that story we’ve written, “The Boy”.  Yup indeed: that was the truck, minus the camper (which didn’t last long; his dad tore it down in a few days; needed the thing – the truck that is.)

He and his brother are invited to come along; there, too, is Mikie’s best friend, the teenager’s younger brother – and yes, there were incestual relationships going on; some of them very bad ones (the teenager ‘pegged’ (Matthew’s word) the teenager’s youngest sister – Mikie’s ‘girl friend’ and sometime later, ‘wife’ friend – when she was only 6 years old.)

So they showed up that evening – about twilight time (I’m seeing it: sand lot back yard; some scrub oak and pines, rambling building in the  background – more on that one day) – and clamber into this truck.

Well, the heat of the day is trapped inside, and the teenager takes the ‘front’ room – the one nearest the cab.  The height of this thing isn’t much more than 3 or 4 feet; it is indeed very stuffy and hot; something which makes an impression on Mikie because what is going to happen later.

The teenager begins calling them one-by-one up to him; pants pulled down; they’re orally sodomizing him (okay, kinda weird and backwards; think ‘sex orgy’ sort of: loser goes down on the other).  And hot sweaty skin; hot confines; heat and more heat – and of course this is a kid and it’s almost a man sodomizing him; yeah it hurts and tears some and makes him leak tears onto the guy’s dick.  But he does it anyway; this thing, like that one (okay, we’re gonna have to figure that out later) – and it hurts him and chokes him

and then the teenager sends him away.  He’s stuck there with his brother in the ‘back room’, but there’s nothing to do; him and his brother aren’t on the best of terms ya know anyway.

And so then this teenager sticks his head in and announces he wants Mikie’s brother, and then so slowly his brother reluctantly moves forward (unlike Mikie and Mikie’s best friend, Bro was never one to do these sort of things willingly) – and Bro and Mikie’s best friend are doing the teenager – and then something happens (?? we don’t know) – a fight of some sort perhaps; it becomes ‘hotter’.

Then best friend is ‘sent back’ to the ‘back room’ where he and Mikie begin ‘doing things’.  But in Mikie’s heart he’s hurting; he wanted to do it with his friend – and yet the teenager as well (acceptance by the both of them, we can feel this thing: two brothers ‘lovin’ ” on him, okay, him on them as well: can you say “using” perhaps even double penetration? Happened sometimes; not bad; he just sort of ‘went away’ on a soft white cloud of ‘loving’: that’s his words, not mine; no matter what we’re remembering – or what’s forgotten, lost in that ‘white cloud of love’ — Mikie was happiest then sometimes . . . and yet sometimes deeply troubled, suspecting perhaps we know: suspecting that what was happening to him wasn’t right sometimes; sometimes they’d fight with him, hurting him: these were kids, ya know

(sigh!  literally wiping the sweat off my brow: yeah, it’s already hot down here in the south, and this was in the middle of summer).

Analysis:

Rejection number 1.  Age?  9? 10?  But he’s perceiving it as a rejection; and he’s picked up on OUR thoughts that “hey, he was growing; the teenager showed a propensity towards younger children; approximately between the ages of 6 and 8? Tapering off at 10? – and trying to explain to him (and he’s slowly coming to accept this, we thing: it’s not your fault.  It’s his.  The teenager’s.  Yeah, maybe he loved you some – but maybe he was also using you.  (This brings a lightbulb on in child’s mind: he knows what comes next, in the ‘next’ story in this blog entry.)

And then there was that “competing” thing; asked (no, forced by his desire to feel accepted and wanted by the teenager; something that felt ‘kinda like’ love.)  The feeling of being used as a ‘pawn in a game’ (yeah, this little kid could play chess, BTW: his father had taught him; never letting him win, and always soundly beating him: but this kid kept on, stoic and stubbornly: never say ‘quit’ seeming to be his motto sometimes, LOL  HE says “until the past part was gone” meaning the last piece, but then again, he’s talking the ‘lost part’ now … something we need to be looking into.) (<- end this section done 4/19/11)

4/21/11 0830 hrs:

We have realized: we’re gonna have to talk to Mikie some.  TRIGGER WARNINGS: Do not attempt if you aren’t ready to ‘go here’.  We have a strong feeling that for those of you who ‘hate’ or ‘dislike’ or are even ashamed of your ‘inner child’ and the actions ‘they’ve done’ – don’t even go here.  It will cause system disorder and chaos, since YOUR own system may begin to rebel; begin asking these same sort of questions of YOUR inner children; causing you potential harm and damage.  So be safe, okay?  (We are having a hard time typing w/o typos, LOL, this things to the bursting point; the fact that ‘bursting point’ contains a hard pun for us isn’t a joke, BTW … okay, going there: scientist/analyst mind pushing; little boy coming thru’)

S) Mikie.  (shhh .. .. sit down with me a minute; then you can go run off on the beach … yeah, I know it’s gonna be hard, little one, but you gotta sit still and tell me what you know are knowing you know?)  M1 nodding head; tousled sand blond hair today; cropped kinda short: yeah, these children’s appearances can change .. moving on

S) Mikie.  Tell me.  Going back.  I want you to remember when you were in that truck.

remembering

Okay, tell me; FEEL me this one:

How did you feel when you were sucking that guy’s dick (Mikie flinches a bit/ we all feel his anxiety and confusions .. and he feels

this: we felt sick and afraid but we were lonely and wanting him looking up at him with his dick in our mouht and it felt good knowing him and loving him like that but I was wanting him to love on me some TOO and he (that son-of-a bitch) didn’t wanna love me BACK none and then it was so fucking hot in there sweat sweat mvoing around and I’m gonna be sick and then he says ‘move on’ moving me away and then my friend (my best friend – S) his age) is there and we’re both doing this ting tongues touching tryiing to please him and my freind laughs and its no good he’s teasing me tickling me DOWN THERE my friend is and the teenager he doesn’t care and then he shoved us OFF of him says come in my freind to my little* (big) brother but theres twoo many in there so he shoves me off with him foot and shoves me out the door into the back then ..my freidn comes in too a littel while laters and we are doing it shoving little dicks in each others mouths meaningwhile THEY are humping it up in THERE and i’m listening to him while I’m doing it with my freind I’m JEALOUS dna I”M MAD at him cuz’ he doen’st want me up in there just him and my little brother who’s not so small he’s kinda big my own brother; yeah and thats cuz I reckon he’s my big brother and I HATE HIM, the fucking both of them for not making me feel good instead of him mother fucker didn’t make love to me at all

Mikie: enough.  We got it.  You felt hate and anger and jealousy; you had to listen to ‘them’ making love while you were relegated to making love with your friend which we can feel was okay by YOU but NOT as good as making love with your friend’s bigger (oh so much and bigger we know we KNOW we can FEEL it dogdammit!)

Jeez; I reallywe really HATE those body sensations: but recording for posterity: choking sensation like lumps in the throat; too much salivia in mouth; hurting aching feeling way deep down in chest; a little bit of (no … not anxiety; but? – – sadness, a great pooling lake of some kind of sweet sadness and sense of losing – loss?)

Okay (christ i hate that kinda stuff; ALL of us do – M3)

gonna go mow grass; let DA and Sarge fight my kind of battles (Mr. Fixer Upper here) – while Iandwe go and ponder this thing. (end entry 4/21/11 0900 hrs)

(4/21/11 1600 hrs)

Okay, Mikie, we’re gonna start again (Elvis typing, Mikie sitting here with me on comfy (NOT!) old piano bench; dusty auditorium as usually (sighing, dusting off the keys here), M3 sitting ‘in the background, Mr. Monitor).

(M3): Mikie: remembering what you were doing – how’d you feel the very next day?

(common little fella, remembering: yes, it was a bright and sunny morning for us, too, in there)

Okay, he’s coming out.

Here’s the deal:

Mikie:  I don’t understand.

M3: (soft sigh; knowing he didn’t explain things right; this is a child man: yes he can read your mind; but he’s BALKING)

you know (m3)

Okay I’m gonna tell.  I’m coming out the truck; got my bedroll moms blankets and things and we’re coming out the truck down the tailgate and all and walking (my feet are bare cool sand feels squishy nice underneath ) towards my house its right there the red one but gotta walk around the fence its to keep the dogs in (1 dog; BAD memory yuck yuck yuckkkk!)

Okay; (JEEZUS!) that’s a bad one I understand; we’re not going there today, M1, o’tay (soft gently okay stroking his hair m3 is)

O’tay, I want you to tell me aboutt your feelings: about how you felt about your friends when you got outta the truck; how’d you feel/

Come on mikie you can tell me.

fucking telephoneoj;asawoweajg@!11!!!!

M3) take the phone off the fucking hook.  (done by system)

o’tay, back where we are.

Mikie sorry about that how were you feeling?   (okay)

Okay, here goes: Tell me: on that wonder beautiful morning (yes we can feel this in his heart he is enjoying the morning sooo! much after being trapped in that damned truckall night long)

okay, here we go: Mikie, tell me something: how did you feel about your friend – your best friend B…. after this: how do you feel about him now?

okay

I love him i lve him i’ve alwasy loved him he is so good to me we fight sometimes but he is my bestest ever friedn and he and i’m been doing thing thing and its okay tho’ sometimes he pissed in my mouth but its okay I stopped him he’s laughing now; thats how I knwe it didn’t taste good b

Mikie: How did the incident in the truck affect you?  How can you see him now?

I love him he is  my best freind and I love him more cuz’ him and me were doin it and not the teenager he’d done kicked me out an then him so then we were togeather and ti felt real good beng with him.

So you loved him more for doing this: why?

Cuz he was with me insdie and out and he was another losing child like me we both lost in this game me and my brother won; he did, my brother won but B… didn’t so he ahd to come join me just like I knew he wuld the teenager was after my brother not him and I so my brother won and I HATE HIM SO FUCKING MUCH!

O’tay little mikie its okay; so you hated your brother for winnng in the sexual game

Yes i hated him always sometimes he made me do kissing and things with his fuckin tongue and i don’t LIKE it make me sick

Okay, little mikie: I wanna ask you something: how did you feel about the teenager?

(this is hard he wants to answer as soon as I think the question; that is our normal mode of operation; but wanna get this down: further research into things we gotta keep track; mind getting crowded; 3 TOPS ON TOP AT MOST you guys  jeeezus backing off there; they know, they realise (sighing – ol’ Elvis sighing here; wiping virtual ‘sweat’ off my fucking brow with the — oooo, nice – they’ve given me ‘his’ (the real Elvis’s) white sequined jacket those damn sequines hurt! I’m telling ya, LOL, going on time for mikie)

Okay: about the damned teenager: your friend; I didn’t mean to hurt you I know you love him (loved him?)  a lot okay my little man it’s okay go on (sorry I didn’t mean to call you little man sorry forgotten right there it’s okay: about this teenager? my friend?)

we don’t feel so good about him it was hot and muggy in that truck and WE LOST (crying crying sad sad crying okay ‘that day’ isn’t looking so good right now; beauty is gone/ ignored; bad thing) – it’s okay Mikie: tell me: what are you feeling about him?

He betrayed us (translation of what he is feeling; no child has these kinds of words).  Hurt hurt goes way deep down inside; not as bad as what is coming (he knows what is coming; it is our future shared; therefore we ALL know the next step down the line, the really bad one, not the one before, the one where we did it the first time THAT was a bad one too already written going to be posted in blog ‘my first time’ btw there so  you know folks (sigh)

Enough for now.  We can’t do this thing long.  it hurts going inside like that.  And we have to process the information: but –

4/19/11 (pm?)
Incident Number Two: (note: 4/21/11: we realize: we need to ‘start’ another ‘blog entry’ for the upcoming; this one is up to 3500+ words; too long.  Need a ‘fresh start on the next one – but we’ll leave what we started below)

4/19/11 (pm?)

So this little kid begs him; teenager does his thing; rolls off, mocking and laughing.
Two weeks later, the teenager ‘outs’ him in front of all his friends and neighbors (the teenager’s friends, not the ‘real’ ones, the people who lived in the houses)

You wanna talk shame? And embarrassment? Little kid vehemently denies, then runs away crying.

End of relationship, but not quite.

Anyway, what does this do to a child’s outlook on sex? And the whole wide world of ‘loving’ and ‘love’ and affection.

For one thing, he makes him not want to reach out to people. He’s tried that in the past – and figuratively, got his arm bit off and heart ripped out, and betrayed – publically speaking.

Makes him kinda shy, don’t you think? Always seeing some kind of harm in a loved one’s eye and / or in their embrace?

That fear of being mocked and used again (that damn kid; we wish he didn’t have access to OUR own memories; HE compares himself to a ‘dirty rubber’ and a ‘used condom’. Not with hate, but lonely sadness. Our special child (inside hug).

*once we realized that this was going to span several days – and that we were adding notes as we ‘discovered’ or realized something – it became more important to us (and perhaps some researcher out there) – to document the dates when ‘what’ happened.  Make sense?  It does to us: satisfies that intensive and thorough ‘scientist and researcher’ mind of ours: record ALL data in hopes that it will give us some ‘survival benefit’ (insights) later on.

This Was Mikie's Home in Our Mind for Many Years


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.)