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.