Please be aware, the story may contain triggers. Please stop reading if you feel you've had enough. I need to write and share this, but there is no need for you to suffer from what I wrote.
Today I feel strong. Usually I use those days to be merry and happy, but today I feel I must use it to get this story over here. Because it needs to be told, I need to get it out, and I feel I can today without any backlash.
Just so you know, I know that some remarks may be seen as unfitting, but sarcasm and cynicism have become such a modus to survive, that I won't let it out.
My family was big. My parents obviously had issues with birth control, and they managed to get six children in this world. We came in two batches, I am the oldest of the second batch. My earliest memories are those of moving house. I was three at the time, and I was allowed to ride in the truck the movers used. That made a lasting impression. It is also one of the few fond memories I have of home.
The next memory is the birth of my youngest brother, my mother delivered in the hospital, and my father thought this was a good reason to celebrate. Celebrations usually meant the drinking of huge amounts of alcohol, although I learned that afterwards. What makes the memory noteworthy is that is the first time I remember being violated by my father. Oral penetration. I was four and a half. Strangely enough, I remember what happened, but not how it made me feel. The repulsion and fear are emotions I remember from about eight years old.
Something must have changed with the birth of my youngest brother, or maybe my awareness of being somehow intensified. But after that happening, I know I've been beaten. A lot, on a daily basis. Often without any any warning, or any reason why. Admittedly, I could an angry, obstructive little lad, and that got me beatings as well. To be sure, there is no excuse for beating a child up, but getting beaten for something I did, at least gave the illusion of control. It also made a nice change for being beaten for something my siblings did. I did not really understand that part, but there comes a point where understanding is not an issue anymore.
Before you now start to really hate my father, I need to point out, the beatings were not his exclusive domain, my mother had no problems at all with doing her bit in that respect. It was the sexual abuse that was exclusively my fathers domain.
Not surprisingly, I was a little scared lad, not only at home, but also in school. Which had the added effect of being bullied at school, which became a home from home so to speak. Being forced into a loner, the good part of it all was I read, a lot, a whole lot. I know that saved me from going totally berserk.
Beating a kid up sometimes result in unwanted damage, the type of damage others can see. Or worse, that gets me in hospital. Which did happen. I was nine or ten, and in the spring I got admitted to hospital, with a ruptured spleen, and liver damage. I don't remember what happened, that I got in hospital. Even the stay in hospital is wrong in my memory. Not the 5 days I remember, but six weeks. Records of GP's are a huge source of information, it's a shame my GP never used this information. After the hospital episode, I had a blissful life. I got presents, on other days then my birthday or Santa Claus, and the summer was one of very few beatings. The sexual abuse, however, just continued.
The beating pattern however picked up again.
When I became pubescent, the sexual abuse changed in nature, from passive to active. No need for details here.
When I was thirteen, I ran away. With no real plan, I went to a local youth centre. There I met the first, and only, adult who did something for me. She got me in a temporary foster family, went to the police, and in general tried to make my life better. That was easy, worse it couldn't get.
In the seventies, child abuse was looked upon as something that happened rarely, only in families with uneducated parents, and sexual child abuse, let alone from a boy, didn't exist. The police investigated, and found no criminal behaviour on the part of my parents. Also a child psychologist was mobilised. He talked with me, gave me tests, and concluded, I was not as severely abused as I stated. He was right, I left out most of it, but that little fact totally opposed his conclusion. ba
Meanwhile, in the foster family I had made friends, older than me, but friends.. Until today I still do not know whether it was pity on me, or they really liked me, but they did take me in their circle. Which was good. They had a band, and I became the youngest member.
Somehow something else had changed, I got more freedom at home. This meant that I could really be in the band. It was a great period of my life. I even started to make friends at school.
The beatings stopped on my sixteenth birthday. I hit back. Once. It got my father in hospital.
Later, years later, when in my first hospitalization for depression, I found out this sobering fact about me, which explained why I was the one who got all the **** at home. I was an unwanted child. My mother became pregnant of my, by a member of my fathers family. It was the final insult.
Would you believe I still feel good. And I am real proud of myself. It is the first time since the foster family I opened up about the sexual abuse. And it didn't bring me down.
Thank you for your attention.