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I wrote my Story*** Graphic***

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I wrote my Story*** Graphic***

Postby SoulAffect » Thu Sep 08, 2011 3:57 am

I worked on it for a long time. I need feedback, suggestions, advice, etc....

My earliest memories of my childhood begin around the age of five. At this time I was living in El Salvador where I was born. My parents had moved to the U.S. because finding work with decent pay was hard to come by. I stayed with my aunt, my father's sister, and her family from ages three to six. I would later join my parents in Long Island, New York in 1989, the year my brother was born. My aunt turned part of her home into a small convenience store. This is what she had to rely on in order to make a living. I slept in the same bedroom with a male cousin who was only a few years older than I was. My aunt's friend also owned and operated a convenience store from her home, and I was taken there one day while my aunt helped her friend out on a busy day. I was left in a bedroom with two older boys and watched television on the floor while they laid on their bunk beds. My aunt checked on me once throughout the time I was there. It was only a couple of minutes later after I had arrived that I felt someone grab me from behind and cover my mouth with his hand. He placed me on the top bed while I struggled and tried to scream. I laid on my stomach while the other one forced himself inside me, and all I remember was suffering unbearable pain. At one point I heard footsteps getting closer to the door, and that's when they immediately stopped raping me. They placed me back where I was originally sitting before my aunt left me in the room, which was back on the floor in front of the television set. I tried to act normal as much as I could. My aunt opened the door and took a quick look inside but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. She left, and as soon as she did, they continued to rape me. It's now been twenty-two years later, and I still haven't been able to recover the entire memory of the gang rape. I don't remember how it ended. What I am certain, though, is that these boys were total strangers to me. I never saw them again.

Later that same year, I went to the doctor's office for a regular physical check up. He revealed to my aunt that I had been sexually abused. She questioned me several times and demanded to know the identity of the person who had done this to me. I didn't know what exactly had been done to me. I didn't understand it, but I felt deep inside that it was wrong. I didn't feel comfortable or safe enough to talk about it, so I simply remained quiet. She misinterpreted this and thought I was trying to protect someone from getting in trouble. She thought it was her son, the cousin I shared a bedroom with. I would sleep with my other male cousin in his bedroom for a short time until she was entirely convinced that it was safe for me to go back. The next event that took place wasn't specifically responsible for the cause of another abuse that would last for several years, but it's what gave someone an opportunity to take advantage of me. I begged my aunt not write the letter to my parents telling them about the sexual abuse, but she did anyway. I arrived in New York in 1989, only a few weeks after my brother was born. I clearly remember confronting my mother for leaving me behind in Central America but never mentioned the gang rape. One winter night, a month or so after my arrival, my father insisted on taking me to the pharmacy store to pick up a medicine for my brother since he had a high temperature at the time. My mother agreed, so I went. I was a bit confused when my father parked the car on the side of the street. He took out a letter from his jacket and told me that he knew everything that had happened to me in El Salvador. He promised that he would show it to my mother if I did not allow him to touch my private area. Different emotions ran through me. I felt confused, shocked, and scared simultaneously. “Okay,” he said, “I guess I will show it to her.” And at this, I hesitated for a while but then finally gave in. “Okay,” I responded back to him. It was bad enough that he knew about the sexual abuse, even though he didn't know the specific details since I never revealed them to my aunt. I had to protect myself, keep the secret hidden from my mother. It would have been considered embarrassing to me if she ever, somehow, found out. He put his hands inside my pants and started touching me. It only lasted a few minutes. I did not know at the time that this was only the beginning of many more years of abuse to come. I was six years old, and the sexual abuse stopped when I was twelve.

I was raised in a Christian family, a Seventh Day Adventist. It was at the church where I was taught to show obedience and respect to my parents at all times. I, however, found many beliefs of this denomination a little too eccentric and extreme for me. Ordinary activities many people enjoy were considered forbidden, from dancing to attending a theater. Because of this, as a child and as a teenager, I felt as if my parents were being too overprotective. I wasn't able to experience as much freedom as I wanted to. It was not until I was in the fifth grade that I learned that what my father was doing to me in private was not only considered wrong, but also illegal. Before I knew this, I thought it was normal behavior between father and son that was meant to be kept a secret. I used to sit in back of the church and would watch church members walk up to my father, shake his hand, and smile. I, on the other hand, was looked at as being awkward, an introvert who always wore a jacket and sat in back of the church with his head down drawing. If only they knew the truth who my father really was, I used to tell myself. He wore an invisible mask in front of these people and could easily fool them with his charming personality. I was the only one aware that he was hiding behind a mask. Once a lady at church approached my mother privately and told her that she suspected that I had been sexually abused. She based her conclusion on my quiet, shy personality and also the fact that I was always using excessive amount of dark shading in my drawings. I used to shade my drawings so much that it was difficult to tell exactly what I had drawn. She wasn't a psychiatrist but was taking college courses to earn a degree in psychology. She advised my mother to take me to see a professional therapist. My mother told my father about this, and he refused.

The sexual abuse began only with molestation during the first years and later to other sexual acts, which included oral and intercourse. The molestation was done when my mother wasn't home or when she wasn't in the same room we were in. The other sexual acts took place in a very wealthy home in Oyster Bay, New York, at my father's work. It was located only a few minutes away from former President Theodore Roosevelt's Summer White House. These mansions were spread far apart from each other and surrounded by nature for privacy. It was here where my father used to take me on Sundays. His bosses, an Italian couple, were never home on this day. My father did a variety of jobs which included mowing the lawn, tending the garden, and other labor and maintenance work. The sexual abuse began as a game. An upstairs room with a couple of couches, a screen TV, and a video game console system is where the abuse took place most of the time. On one side of the room were sliding glass doors that led to a balcony. It had a good view of the swimming pool, the flowers, and trees that surrounded it. All of the curtains were closed before the sexual abuse began. My father would start off by making a deal with me. He would allow me to play video games if I agreed to let him perform sexual acts on me. Excited as any child would be when given the opportunity to play one of his favorite games, I easily gave in.

One of the worst memories I have of the sexual abuse is being taken to the attic when I was around ten years old. It was very dark inside, and I kept having thoughts in my head that I wasn't going to make it out back alive. Sometimes he became aggressive when I didn't let him have his way, but he never physically abused me while having sex. If he kills me, I thought to myself, I would no longer exist. I do not remember exactly what I was thinking about during the abuse. It was like my mind wasn't there. It was painful, and I cried just like many other times, but he never stopped. I managed to withstand the physical pain, and was glad once I left the attic. He took a picture of me once, right after he had finished abusing me and I got dressed. He was talking to my mother on the phone only a few seconds ago when I sat on the couch in the living room downstairs. He took out a disposable camera, told me to smile, and took the picture. It was this picture that remained in the family photo album for many years to come. There were a few other incidents that were as horrifying as my experience in the attic or even worse. He even sexually abused me in his bosses' bedroom upstairs a few times. What I found very disturbing and annoying was that sometimes he would have perverted conversations while abusing me. He would ask me questions about other boys' genitals, if they had grown hair around that area yet or if I knew what a girl's private area looked like. I wasn't mentally prepared for these kinds of questions at this age.

The abuse would have continued pass the age of twelve if he didn't have a life threatening experience. He was a soldier in the Salvadoran Civil War. He had been shot in the leg and in the back of the neck. Throughout the years, without him ever suspecting, the bullet from the back of his neck was slowly traveling upwards. It caused him severe headaches that used to last for several of hours. He was prescribed medication after the doctors discovered the bullet. A risky surgical operation had to be performed in order to remove it. The doctors explained to him the procedure in detail and the fact that he might not survive the operation. This is when the abuse suddenly stopped. We never discussed it. It was almost as if it never happened. A few years later as a teenager, I still had the memories, but I questioned myself if they really did occur. I didn't want to wrongly accuse my father of something he never did. I never had the guts at the time to tell anyone about these memories, but deep inside I felt like they really did happen. I remember my father having several conversations with church members at their homes or at church about his time in the Civil War. He claimed that he had a couple of dreams as a soldier where God revealed to him about what was about to occur. A dream he had, he said, would reveal that a number of soldiers from his unit would die, but that he didn't have to worry because he would be protected. He awoke only to find out that the dream had come true. It was many dreams like this one, he told the church members as they looked at him with amazement, that were responsible for saving his life. He considered these dreams as a blessing from God. After listening to these stories many times, I started to wonder if God knew that this same man would one day have a son, a son he would later on end up sexually abusing. I always ask myself, even to this day, if that was part of God's plan all along.
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Re: I wrote my Story*** Graphic***

Postby JuliaC » Thu Sep 08, 2011 4:35 am

I know you said in your other thread that you don't want people to be sympathetic toward you and that you would rather us treat you with hatred and disgust, but again I am sorry because I can't do that. I don't think anyone here can read your post and have hatred toward you. Again you will have to deal with sympathy, because that's just how it is.

My dad also wore a mask. Everyone thought he was this wonderful business man who had a beautiful family. He was well respected by so many people. I often wondered how it is that they can't see him for the monster he was.

I am so sorry for all you have been through. Accepting sympathy doesn't make you weak, it's one of the things that makes you a survivor. Image
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Re: I wrote my Story*** Graphic***

Postby SoulAffect » Thu Sep 08, 2011 4:49 am

JuliaC wrote:I know you said in your other thread that you don't want people to be sympathetic toward you and that you would rather us treat you with hatred and disgust, but again I am sorry because I can't do that. I don't think anyone here can read your post and have hatred toward you. Again you will have to deal with sympathy, because that's just how it is.

My dad also wore a mask. Everyone thought he was this wonderful business man who had a beautiful family. He was well respected by so many people. I often wondered how it is that they can't see him for the monster he was.

I am so sorry for all you have been through. Accepting sympathy doesn't make you weak, it's one of the things that makes you a survivor. Image


I don't like that word, "survivor." It only means that I wasn't killed during the process of the abuse. It simply means that I'm still alive. But the word survivor almost implies that I endured hardships that many don't, like I should be proud of it. It's just a way for victims of sexual abuse to try to turn their negative experience into something positive. Victim sounds weak. Survivor sounds strong. How long does the abuse have to stop in order for someone to turned from a victim to a survivor? Hours? A day? A month? A year? I consider myself always a victim because there is nothing I can do to change what happened. There is nothing that will ever satisfy me to make up for what has been done. It's done, and I will always be angry about it. I don't want to turn my experience into something positive. Unlike many "survivors" or victims, my experience is not to be used to help others. I'm not going to try to help other victims, that's not my job or responsibility. They created a law after a girl that was raped and murdered, Jessica Lunsford, Jessica's Law. If I was killed after being sexually abused and they passed a law after me, I would find that disrespectful. Who gave them permission to do so? Did I agree with this? How dare they use my name without my permission. If I was killed and remained a ghost trapped where I died, I would want revenge.
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Re: I wrote my Story*** Graphic***

Postby CrackedGirl » Thu Sep 08, 2011 12:41 pm

Thank you for sharing your experiences with us and for being so honest. I wont mention survivors as I get the feeling that is not something you want to hear. You say you want revenge - have you ever written down what you want to do for revenge as this can be very therapeutic. What your father did was wrong and the blame rests solely on him, as was the gang rape. Are you seeing nayone to help deal with all of this? Thinking of you and keep posting.

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Re: I wrote my Story*** Graphic***

Postby evanessence » Fri Sep 09, 2011 1:12 am

MobiusX wrote:[II don't like that word, "survivor." It only means that I wasn't killed during the process of the abuse. It simply means that I'm still alive. But the word survivor almost implies that I endured hardships that many don't, like I should be proud of it. It's just a way for victims of sexual abuse to try to turn their negative experience into something positive. Victim sounds weak. Survivor sounds strong. How long does the abuse have to stop in order for someone to turned from a victim to a survivor? Hours? A day? A month? A year? I consider myself always a victim because [color=#FF0040]there is nothing I can do to change what happened. There is nothing that will ever satisfy me to make up for what has been done. It's done, and I will always be angry about it.[/color] I don't want to turn my experience into something positive. Unlike many "survivors" or victims, my experience is not to be used to help others. I'm not going to try to help other victims, that's not my job or responsibility. They created a law after a girl that was raped and murdered, Jessica Lunsford, Jessica's Law. If I was killed after being sexually abused and they passed a law after me, I would find that disrespectful. Who gave them permission to do so? Did I agree with this? How dare they use my name without my permission. If I was killed and remained a ghost trapped where I died, I would want revenge.



there is another step i think ,while the abuse is happening your a victim ,living through the abuse makes you a survivor ,for many the abuse was life threatning ,so it's like surviving a plane crash . i think the last stage is being a thriver, going on with life and not letting those bastards win by screwing up our entire life .am i there ? no but i plan to be one day.i will heal and hopefully raise a family where the kids will be safe and loved . in lots of ways i'm proud to say i'm a survivor .in my case anything else would be disrespectfull to the little boy that lived through the abuse. i think most people with our experience feel compassion for others that have been there . saying i'm sorry it happened to you changes nothing ,but most times it's all we can say and it's true. if they created a law named for me and it stopped one abuser it would be way worth it . i can say i know what it's like to be abused by a family member and that adds a whole new set of problems aside from the abuse it's self. also being male when the abuser is male has a lot of baggage too . i do agree that we can't change what happened and the day i'm not angry about it will be at my funeral ,i won't forgive ,but i will live .to me the best revenge is having a good life free from what those bastards did to me,or should i say in spite of what they did . if i told my story a thousand times and it helped one person it would be worth it .people like us can educate others as to how to better protect and help their kids if abuse does happen.i now things about child molesters that the avarage person will never know ,i feel obligated to help if i can
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