Friday 20 July 2012

Sunday 15 July 2012

Normal

I'm not normal.
I probably was once.
Then something happened.
And every shred of normalcy vanished.

It isn't normal for someone to constantly question themselves.
It isn't normal for someone to continuously find reasons to live and keep going, only to say "I wanna die today".
It isn't normal for someone to have dreams, try to fulfill them, and then just give up.

For the last week, I've had no reason to be unhappy.
Somehow, I found a reason.
It just crept up on me.

I have so many ideas, so many things I want to do.
I get so excited about them, only to tell myself to forget it, that no one will ever care, that no one will ever give a damn.

Last night, I felt as though I was convulsing.
I felt a heaviness in my chest.
I felt as though I was being hurt, although I felt no pain.
I don't know what that means; it was scary, it lasted about two minutes, I felt like someone's hands were on me.
I hope it's something, some door that's opening.

I hate myself.
I disappoint myself and everyone around me everyday.
I don't want to live.
I just can't do it.
I'd rather someone else did it for me.
I'm so tired.

Sunday 10 June 2012

Disclosure

It's so confusing. Someone does something to you and tells you not to tell anyone. And you comply.

Now I don't remember if that ever happened to me, but I'm sure someone at some point said "don't tell anyone because..." or "if you say something...will happen..." or "...or else..."

But then...you grow up with people telling you the complete opposite. "If anyone ever does anything to you, you have to say something". "Sometimes, it's okay to tell secrets, especially if someone is hurting you". "Don't keep it to yourself...talk about it".

So who do you believe?

Children are intimidated into believing the worst. That no one will believe them. That they wanted it. That something bad will happen to the people they care about. That they're crazy. It's no wonder why the "say something" band wagon never wins.

I don't know if there were any threats (I don't think there were from what little I remember). I can't say that there was any shame involved (although I feel the shame now, I'm sure I didn't mind the attention back then, even if it came in a strange way). So while I'm still working out what happened, at whose hands, when, and why (I'm sure I'll never know why), I'm also trying to figure out how this person (or people) manipulated me into keeping silent.

But things started to change. I was so troubled when things started coming to light (I was about 14 or 15), that I told anyone that would listen (even a few that I forced to listen). Here's a list of people in whom I confided:

- I told a few friends, who, in their limited capacities, provided whatever support they could. Then one person told someone else. Then that person told someone else. That fucking hurt. It was supposed to be in confidence. Plus, 99-percent of them are nowhere to be found. I realize that friends drift apart, but I feel like they stole something from me.

- I told a teacher, in writing. I told him I never wanted to speak about it, because it was too hard. He was very kind, caring, and understanding. He respected my feelings. He offered help (in writing),said that this was something that he couldn't help me with, and urged me to speak to a counsellor. I told him I had to think about it, and he worked out a deal for me. He told me it was in my best interests to tell my parents. I refused.

- I told a counsellor (referred by my teacher), which I did, but only once. I never wanted to go back to her. She was nice, but I couldn't see myself opening up to her. Now that I think about it, I remember very little about going to see her. I can't remember anything of our conversation. All that I can recall is that her office was in the hospital close to my house, that her office was bright and colourful, that I felt very uncomfortable in the chair I sat in, and that she promised to help me in any way she could. But, I can't remember anything of what I told her in those two hours (my teacher signed me out of school, and he promised to do so once a month so I could see her so as not to arouse suspicion with my parents). I remember her name, but I knew I could never go back there.

- I told my brother, sister, and mother. I pretty much expected their reaction. My brother wanted to kill the "son-of-a-bitch" that did this to me. My sister cried for days, and wanted me to get counselling. My mother didn't want to hear it. I don't think she even understood what she was being told. My mother screamed, cried, then begged me not to tell anyone. She begged me to keep it to myself. Not for any other reason except that she couldn't handle it. Our culture is very "we-we-we". We never talk about our problems with the outside world. Sure, lots of people say that, but it IS true in our culture because people in our community are very judgmental. If they knew, they'd blame my parents for it. My mother, I realized after a long time,  felt guilty. She and my father worked incessantly. My father worked shift work. My mother worked in a sweat shop. I was a latch-key kid. I took care of myself. I think she blamed herself for what happened, even though there were a lot of missing pieces in my story. A LOT. I harboured a lot of resentment towards them for a long time afterwards. It took years for me to get over it, because maybe I blamed them (as well as the person/people that did this to me) for not seeing any signs, for not intervening, for not asking, for not stopping it. We still don't talk about it. But I don't blame them anymore. I realize that just like me, they were victimized too. I struggled to handle my situation, to make sense of it, and they did too, the best they could. Which is why I believe it's important for family members to be just as equipped as the child/person it happens to. To find a way to take the disclosure, and deal with it in an appropriate manner, especially when there are cultural sensitivities. And for the record, I made a solemn promise to my mother not to tell my father. He was, at that time, really very subdued, but also kind of like a ticking time bomb, ready to go off at any minute.

- I told the people where I think one of the incidents happened (because I know it happened more than once). I never told them the full story, just a few details of something I was "researching" for a "friend". I remember something about my elementary school in grade one. I had a very deep attachment to that school. I remember when we moved away, I cried for days. I pretended to be sick at my new school because I didn't want to go, because I missed my friends, teachers, and whatever else it was that made me want to stay there. The administration gave me the run around. After several attempts to contact them back, they refused to listen to me. Any attachment I had for that place vanished.

- I told a doctor. It was consuming me so badly, that I needed to get some help. As helpful as she seemed to be, I didn't think I could go back to that counsellor again because I felt that I somehow let her down by not going back to see her. I couldn't stomach the embarrassment of having to go back and hang my head in shame again. I saw a commercial on TV that suggesting talking to a family doctor. My family doctor was a woman, and I felt really uncomfortable, because she was from a similar culture, and she knew my family. I went to the male doctor at the same walk-in clinic. I asked him not to write down anything I said in my file. He agreed. After I finished telling him "I think this happened", he looked at me and asked what I wanted him to do. I told him about the commercial I saw. His response? "And?" I thanked him for his time, and for wasting mine, and walked out. I never went back to see him ever again.

- I told a police officer. A friend of mine was caught shooting her mouth off in high school that she had a gun and was going to "off" herself. What an idiot. Someone called the cops on her. She screamed at me on the phone, thinking it was me. The investigating officer called me, asking me for information about her character. He seemed very genuine, and found it interesting that someone so young (I was 17) could ask such "intelligent" questions. I sussed him out, tested him, and finally told him. I had such high hopes. He said I could ask him anything, call him for anything if I ever needed him. I remember calling him from a payphone in my high school's hallway, asking if he would help me find this person. He said there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could do because it happened so long ago. But that he was very sorry. I never met him in person, but I remember his voice. I remember the way he said he was sorry.

Professionals, self-help books, talk shows, police. They all say it's important to disclose. It's important to stop being a victim. Talking is an important step in the healing process. Really? I don't know about anyone else, but in my case, opening up has made things a lot more difficult for me. It's made me doubt myself, my memory (what little of it I have), and my sanity. It's made me want to retreat to myself. It's made me realize how difficult the process is, and how important it is to keep things to myself. I'd love to tell my partner, or my close friends why I act the way I do sometimes. Why I want to just be left alone. Why I don't want to make love. Why I don't feel like hugging. Why I get a little anti-social. Why I look like I'm carrying a four tonne weight on each shoulder. But knowing what my journey's been like so far, this is something I'm going to have to deal with myself. It's hard. It's painful. I know everyone means well, but I just know that can't talk anymore.

Friday 1 June 2012

He stopped smiling

When I was growing up, I loved looking at pictures. Pictures of myself, pictures of my family, pictures of where I grew up. I loved taking pictures. But over time, that stopped. I stopped getting pictures taken of myself, because I never really approve of what I look like. I never want to stop time for an instant, because I don't want to "cherish" a memory for that given point in time.

I don't really look at myself anymore. I'd go through pictures of myself as a young kid and smile. Now, when I think of some of those pictures, I don't even know who that was anymore. There's something so deep, so hidden in those expressions. In some of them, I'm smiling, but I know deep down inside, that it was forced. Other times, you can see just how forced that smile is. Most, though, have a rather lost expression. I don't quite know what I was thinking, what was going through my head. I know that there's been a degree of unhappiness in my life from a very early time. No child should ever feel that way.

I'd really like to meet that boy. I remember a few things about him. A few things that really make me smile. But there are a lot of things about him that make me very sad...that make me really want to cry. Sometimes, some vague smell, or a little flicker of sunlight, or the way the wind blows, reminds me of him, and I start to convulse, to choke and gag, to panic.

That boy...what can I say? He had such dreams. He wanted to dance, to sing, to act. He wanted to be funny and have lots of friends. He wanted to explore the world, to learn about new cultures, and to meet new people. He loved to cook and experiment with new tastes. He loved to draw and paint. He was fascinated with science and religion. All of that curiosity, those dreams, those aspirations, gone.

He was afraid of people. He couldn't talk to anyone. He played by himself, or with kids who were "weaker" than him. He was constantly picked on. He stopped nurturing any means of "talent" that he had. He stopped dreaming, instead, he started criticizing himself. He didn't have many friends at all. He kept to himself. He started to sabotage himself; if he were ever curious about something, or if he ever started to do something that he enjoyed or thought had merit, he'd destroy it, or stop in the middle altogether. He became self-destructive. He lashed out and fought with those close to him. Most of all, he stopped smiling.


Thursday 24 May 2012

Crazy

Sometimes I really think I'm going insane. Or that I've already gotten there.

Sometimes I get these strange feelings. I can't describe them. It's like something's churning in my gut. I don't know why that is. After that, I feel as if I'm choking up, can't speak, can't breathe. My body gets all tense. That happened last week, as I was lying in bed on my stomach. My hands were stretched out in front of me, underneath the pillow. My head was turned to the left, my eyes closed. I felt like I was being pressed down. The feeling lasted about a minute or two. When I opened my eyes, it was like I was slapped in the face, and I was coming out of the shock.

I tried to recreate the moment, physically and mentally, even trying to rethink what I was thinking that night, in the hopes that maybe I'd remember something. But I haven't been able to.

This is really consuming me.

Thursday 17 May 2012

Facades

I put myself out there every single day. You might say I'm successful. Getting to this point wasn't easy. I won't doubt that. But there's something in the back of my head that won't let me feel proud of myself.

Last night, while I was working, and all I kept thinking was, you're gonna fuck up. I can never let myself be happy. I can never let myself revel in what hurdles I've conquered to get to where I am. That's because there's still one hurdle I'm trying to overcome.

This started a long time ago...so this feeling isn't new. I've always felt as though I'm not deserving of success, of happiness...of anything "good" for that matter. My teens were spent in a huge depressive funk. None of my friends knew what to do with me (I'm surprised they even stayed my friends). I was a ticking time bomb. If someone said the littlest thing, I'd snap. I'd stop talking. I'd sit by myself. I remember my best friend in high school would just sit with me. We'd smoke, in silence, sitting beside each other. She never said anything when she knew I was in one of my moods (I think she was afraid I'd cut her head off). She'd just sit there with me. She knew what was going on inside me. I told her. I didn't want her to leave me. I just needed her to know that there were things in my head, inside me, that I was trying to figure out...that perhaps those things were making me feel as if I was going to explode. I also ended up doing a really huge bunch of shit to myself that I truly regret. I once drank bleach. I threw up like crazy for hours. I slit my wrists, only not deep enough. I swallowed a lot of pills, twice, and both times I ended up in the hospital. I can't say that I really felt through any of that. I just know that to wake up and know that I was alive was the most horrifying feeling. To have to face another day of not knowing, of having to bear the brunt of the pain. It became really unbearable.

That need to hurt myself has died somewhat, but I can't say that I don't think about it. In an earlier post, I described the need to have someone else hurt me. I had that then, and I still have that need now.

I'm in a relationship right now (he doesn't know any of this...NONE of this). But when I've been single, I've put myself into situations...sexual situations where I've asked my partner to completely degrade and humiliate me. Some were men I had just met, whose names I didn't even know. Others were men that I'd seen more than once. I had a dream last night where a younger me was being seduced. It was so intense, that I could almost feel it physically. I can't explain it. But there looked like a face in there that was very familiar - I just couldn't place it when I woke up.

Sometimes when I think about how it that I got to where I am today, I ask myself if I really wasn't someone else. Does that make any sense? I think there was part of me that died a number of years ago, and took all that away with it. As much as I'd like to thank it if that's true, I can't help but feel some loathing, because for the last ten years or so, I've felt as though I've been going crazy. That these thoughts, these feelings, are my own, and haven't been influenced by things that happened to me.

When I get up in front of that camera everyday, though, I have to ask myself. Can anyone see it in my face? Does anyone watching know what a fake I am? That I'm hiding these horrible secrets?









Monday 14 May 2012

Identity

I have to put up a disclaimer. John Doe is not my real name (obviously). There are a few reasons why I've chosen to stay anonymous. First, there's still a sense of shame that surrounds this whole thing. I did want to keep my identity hidden (for now). Also, it might be very hard for a lot of people to understand, but I come from a background where families keep things to themselves, or else they face criticism from others. As much as I try to resist that (with that "no one's gonna keep me down" attitude), I can't do that to my parents or my siblings. I just won't explain...because I always end up over-explaining...and because I end up arguing with people.

Friday 11 May 2012

Identification

I'm sure I made it pretty clear that I'm gay. Sometimes I wonder why that is. Sure, it's likely natural, but I'm sure that getting all messed up has some hand in it too. Though it's a little hard to imagine why I'd swing that way, since it was that way that got me into this mess. I know that I've always had this thing for men.

When I was a kid, I found men very alluring, very attractive. There was a neighbour across the street. I can't remember how old he was, but I'm guessing he was older than 20. He would sit on the front porch, drinking (beer). There's one clear picture in my head of him. He had a very lean body, very beautiful. He sat, on this particularly hot day, in the shadows on his porch, in a chair, with his bare feet up on the railing. He had short, thick, brown, curly hair. A trail of curly brown hair on his pecs, trailing down to his stomach. I was so in awe of this man, wearing those red shorts with the white stripes (you know, the ones men wore in the 80s). He kept smiling, as he sipped his beer. There was a glint coming off his body, apparently from the sweat. I stared at him. I'm not sure if he knew I was watching. Was it him?

There was a man at the grocery store my parents went to that completely entranced me. He had such a beautiful smile. He was tall, muscular, wore t-shirts that were way too tight for him, and this thick mop of dirty blond hair. He made me actually want to grocery shop with my parents. Was it him?

My grade six teacher was dubbed "Chuck Norris", because he bore a slight resemblance to him. I don't know what it was about him (I didn't even know who Chuck Norris was), but it was like I instantly fell in love with him. I spent as much time with him as possible. I would go to school early, 90 minutes early, just so I could sit in the portable with him alone (as I played video games). I would also find ways to keep myself late after school, just to spend time with him. Was it him? He's one of the only ones I have a name for, and I've tried to find him. I have a lot of questions for him. Even if it wasn't him...maybe he knew who.

I've basically gone through a list of people. I know it was a man. I smell a man's smell every now and then. I feel a rough man's hands. I hear a man's voice. I've gone through my family, and can conclusively say it wasn't anyone in my family. My brother's six years older than me, and he'd never spend any time with me at all. My father was basically an absentee father, who worked a lot (just like my mother). The only time I was ever alone with him was if I was home for lunch, and he'd always take me out. My grandpa lived with us before my grandmother came to Canada. But even he worked. And when they found their own apartment, I'd see them with my parents every weekend. My uncle didn't live in the same city, and we only saw him once a year, and even then, him and his family stayed with my grandparents.

So who the hell was it? Sometimes I think it was more than one man. But who? How do I find out? I really want to know.


Wednesday 9 May 2012

Diseased

One of the things this "condition" (I call this that because it's kind of like having a disease. It's like there's a tumour that develops somewhere inside your body. After some time, that tumour starts to get bigger. Then it spreads. It creates a cancer, and eventually pollutes everything around you) does, is that it makes you a bit crazy. But not in a good way. It can't be good when you go out looking for someone to rape you. It hasn't been easy admitting that.

Just like I knowingly put myself into relationships that I knew were bad for me, I also put myself into some pretty dangerous situations. But I never really understood why. Why did I go out walking at night (sometimes sneaking out of the house late at night) in dark areas that were sparsely populated?

I started smoking when I was 14, and that became an easy out. I'm going for a quick walk, I'd tell everyone. But I'd be gone for hours. I'd walk in areas that I'd think had prowling men, ready to jump me. The thought of that happening, for whatever reason, got my blood racing. I'd walk through unlit parks, down deserted paths, or cross through empty parking lots, hoping someone would attack me. If I heard a sound, I'd jump, and even though the voice in the back of my head cried foul, I'd still push through. But it wasn't all I wanted. Secretly, I wanted this man to eventually kill me too. Not only did I want him to just fuck me against my will, I wanted him to wrap his hands around my neck and drain the life out of me.

But that never happened. No matter how hard I tried to find someone to do that to me, it never happened. Gladly. But I have to wonder. Why the hell would I (or anyone for that matter) ever want that to happen to me? I never believed I was any good for anyone in this world. I believed that it was up to a complete stranger take from me the only thing of value I had (my sex) and do the world a favour and rid it of me.

I'd love to say that that feeling died a long time ago. Sometimes it still finds its way back into my mind though. This tumour hasn't quite gone away just yet. It's still spreading its poison through my body...into my brain...

Monday 7 May 2012

Truth alone will prevail

I've read articles, blogs, books that provide insight for people like me. Their prescription is simple: there's no need to remember, seek the help you need, and just go on with your life. How can you do that? How can I be helped when all I have are a few fuzzy details?

They also say that minds like mine have blocked it out for a reason. (I should qualify that by saying if something did happen. I'm still on the fence, because on the one hand, if I can't remember, did it really happen? But on the flipside, I can't say I'd want the stigma of anything like this attached to me, so I couldn't have imagined it). They say that forcing yourself to remember horrible, heinous acts like being violated as a child isn't a good idea. That a potential floodgate of memories will only hurt you even more. Because you're not ready to remember or to deal with the memories. Really? There's a saying in Sanskrit: satyamev jayate, which means "the truth alone will prevail". So why shouldn't I seek the truth? Especially when this has all caused such problems for me in my life.

I had horrible dreams as a kid. Sometimes one of them still pops up when I'm least expecting it. In one of them, I would be in a world that was a hundred times larger than it normally was. Or was it me that was just smaller? Everyone and everything seemed to tower over me. The audio in that dream was so loud, that it felt as though my eardrums would burst. In my dream, I was so frightened, so scared, even of people that I have no reason to be scared of like my sister, my mother, my grandparents, who I always felt safe with. The dream would carry on though, as painful as it was, where I felt such a heaviness by everyone's shadow, that I felt like I couldn't breathe. That it would cover me so much, that I'd eventually die. My only solace was trying to get away. Sometimes I would, but most of the time, I'd be stuck in that one spot.

I had other dreams. I occasionally have this dream to this day, but I'm still a kid when I have it now. That I'd be in one situation or another. And I'd have to escape. The only way to escape was to concentrate on one little part of my gut, which would propel me so high into the sky, I'd leave whatever was troubling me on the ground. I have a fear of heights, which somehow manifested/manifests itself into my dream. I'd physically feel sick from being so high in the sky, but I'd concentrate, and go even higher. Voices of people would call out to me from the ground, they'd echo as high as I got, but I never cared. It was all about getting away. I never got to a point in my dream where I'd land.

Sometimes, when I'd have these dreams, I'd be sick. Or I'd sweat. Sweat profusely. There would be times where I'd wake up, try to scream. I'd be crying, but nothing would come out of my mouth. Was that real? Or was that part of the dream too? I still don't know. I'd be so upset (I'm feeling a wave of emotion run through me as I type this), so distraught, that I'd try to call out for my mother through my panting, heavy breathing, and cries. But I couldn't. It was almost like I had no voice. No matter how hard I tried to scream out for my mother (she always knew how to comfort me when I was sick, or when I was having a bad dream), I couldn't emit any sound. And then I'd try to get up. And to my horror, it was almost as if the lower half of my body was completely paralyzed. I couldn't move. I couldn't escape.

I don't know how long that lasted. I just know that that was how I grew up. I remember telling my mother once about my legs. They took me to the doctor (I think I was nine or so). I remember her doing a check-up, asking me why I felt like that. I told her I didn't know. She did a thorough examination, and told my parents that there seemed to be nothing wrong with me physically. On the way home, my mother still seemed a bit perplexed, but did say that it all probably a bad dream, and that it would all go away. I think it was a few years before it did go away.

This is why I believe that something did happen. Why would I dream of these things? Why would small little pockets of memories (hands, smells, voices) still haunt me to this day? I can't even pinpoint when I had my first "memory". I was probably around 14 or so. Does the fact that I can't remember mean that I wanted something like this to happen and that my mind just made it up? I don't think so. I'd be a pretty fucked up person. I'm so confused. This is why I want to remember. I get worried that someone might make me remember something that didn't happen (all these problems with repressed memories and them being fake - I can't fathom someone looking at me thinking "phony"), or that no one will believe me. Isn't it better to know the truth? When will my truth prevail?

Satyamev jayate...satyamev jayate...satyamev jayate...

Sunday 6 May 2012

Sometimes I feel

I remember doing stupid things when I was a kid. Stupid things to hurt myself. Some clinical experts might suggest that I was doing these things in order to draw attention to myself. Maybe that's true. It is a little difficult to draw attention to yourself when your parents were never around. Plus, being immigrants, they were far too busy trying to raise three kids in a new country, that they were always at work. As early as I can remember, I've always had my own key to the house. Even when I was in kindergarten. I was a very mature, very responsible kid. I'd call my mother at lunch to tell her I got home. And then I'd call my grandparents to tell them I got home okay after school. But there was no one to take care of me...except me. I don't blame anyone; my parents worked hard to get me where I am today. But that's probably why I was such an easy target.

When I was a kid, I'd do things to hurt myself physically. It's hard to imagine doing them to myself now, especially knowing what it would feel like. I have to wonder though, didn't I know what pain was like? I knew that cock sucking could be pleasing. And that fucking could cause orgasm. But that as pleasing as it is to the one with the cock, that the other would have to suffer through physical pain. So why did I do it? I don't know. I don't want to try to psychoanalyze my actions.

My mother told me to turn the stove off and move the pot of rice off the hot burner. I was probably six or seven at the time. I did, but something about the stove's element, those bright rings, entranced me. And I barely thought about what I did next. I lifted my forearm and put it down on the element. I can't remember if I cried at all. All I remember is the smell of searing flesh. My mother walked in at that point and screamed. She grabbed me and pulled me away. Her first instinct was to yell at me, "what did you do? Why did you do that?", but I had no answer. But that wasn't the only time. Remember those old frozen juice cans? The ones you'd need a can opener for? It was so shiny, so jagged, something inside me, maybe a voice, told me to run my entire thumb along it. I swear, it didn't hurt, but I could see the bone underneath, even as the blood flowed down my arm. I remember walking outside to the front of the house, thumb dripping, opening the door, and hearing my sister and mother's startled voices. My sister ran me into the house and put my hand under water, while my mother got the bandages. A few years before, I distinctly remember hearing a voice in my head telling me to, while I was sitting on my bike, throw (or roll) myself  down a set of concrete stairs. My father says I woke up laughing when I finally revived.

I spent years, from 14 into my early 20s trying to find a way to kill myself. And I don't even know why. All I know is that I felt like there was a big huge cloud hanging over me that I couldn't escape. And that the only way to get rid of it was to get rid of myself. I drank bleach. I took pills. I stole my brother's car one night and drove into an abandoned parking lot in the middle of the night and tried to gas myself. I tried slitting my wrists. And even though I don't try anymore, I still think the world would be a better place without me sometimes.

As I grew older, I put myself into positions where I'd know I'd be hurt emotionally. Whether it was friends or one night stands (and I've had quite a few) or relationships with men or family, I always made sure I was hurt. I became friends with people who'd use me, and then I'd complain about it later, and lament over why they weren't friends with me anymore. I'd chase after men that wanted nothing to do with me. I'd sleep with men who didn't even want to know my name. I'd date men that treated me like shit. Just anything to get myself hurt. Maybe that was because I didn't think I deserved any better. I have a lot to be thankful for now. But I still don't know if I do deserve any of it.

Friday 4 May 2012

Anyone reading?

This is my first post. It took a long time for me to be able to start writing about all this. I promised myself I wouldn't even let myself edit any of this, even if there are any typos. I don't even know if anyone will read this, although I'd like someone to.

I've never really ever fit in. I am successful to some degree, educated, with great friends and family. But deep down inside, I really hate and really loathe myself. That's because, as this blog is aptly named, I have survivor's remorse.

When I was about 14 or so, I started feeling really strange, as though I never really fit in, as though I was some sort of phony. I remember days when I felt like the person staring back at me in the mirror was an imposter who was taking over my body without my control. But I couldn't understand why I was feeling like this. Slowly, my confusion took over me, and my personality started to change. I knew I was different. I knew, in the back of my mind, that I was a faggot. Secretly, at night, I'd fantasize about men. Big men. Men who would force me to do things that I never really wanted to do. Men who, after getting me to do dirty things, made me feel as if it was me that asked for it. And secretly, I did. It took years for me to realize what this was all about. Was I a product of nature? Or was this all because I was conditioned? I will never be able to fully answer that question, because I know that I was molested.

Writing that word, "molested", has taken me years. I still refuse to say it, to verbalize it. There's something in me that doesn't ever want to categorize myself as a victim. But, in some strange way, at least seeing it written by me (or in this case, typed) helps me admit that there's a problem.

I don't know who it was. I know that there are things about me as a child that I either can't remember, or that are far too horrible to want to remember. I remember hands. Big, burly hands on my body, undressing me, touching me, playing with me. I hear a voice in my head, a soothing male voice, perhaps trying to distract me from what was happening with very simple questions. Cold hands. A draft. My pants are on the ground. My shirt is hiked up. I feel so good. He's making me feel really good. But through it all, I can't see a face. I have no idea who the fuck he was. All I know is, he wasn't the only one. This wasn't the first or only time.

How can a child of only four or five years know that men's cocks are supposed to go into someone's mouth? I remember "forcing" my stuffed animals to "tickle" me with their mouths. I remember doing things to them that no child would ever dream of doing unless something like that happened to him. Where do I begin? Problem is, I've never been able to remember any of the abuse - that took me a few minutes to type too - "abuse". I never, in a long time, ever felt "abused" because I could never remember it. Does that mean it didn't happen? I've questioned that too. There were times when I thought maybe I wanted it to happen to me, and that's why I couldn't come up with a name or a face. But does any child really want to feel like that? Would anyone have such horrible thoughts about themselves like killing themselves, or have such difficulties growing up, like sleeping around, over trusting or mistrusting people, relationship problems? I've had such fear in my life, yet at the same time, I've told myself it's time for me to be strong, at various points in my life, that I'd never let this beat me. It didn't. But the fact that I'm so desperate to know. To know who. And to know what exactly happened. That it's killing me inside.

There was a time when I looked suspiciously at everyone in my life, family, family friends, teachers. But nothing.

I'm hoping that by writing this, by taking this journey, that I'll be able to finally come to terms with what happened - whatever happened. That I'll be as honest as possible. By recounting some of the things that have happened. That I can remember. And that someone will care.