This is a true story. It is one of the more painful things I have ever written. I know many will find it offensive in how it is told. Much of it is graphic in nature. Sometimes life is very graphic and quite ugly.
When I was 3 or 4 years old there was an older girl around 11 or 12, maybe a little younger, named Kay who lived down the street. She would often play with me, holding onto my arms and drag me down the alley on my belly until my pants and underwear would be pulled down. She would have me get up and pull my pants up while she watched and giggled. I remember being dropped off at her parents’ house one afternoon so her mother could babysit me. During my afternoon nap she sneaked into the room – my memory is blank. From the time I was in Kindergarten through first grade I was never able to stay overnight at a friend’s house. I would go over, play, have dinner and when it was time to go to bed I would have a panic attack to the point where my dad would have to come and take me home. I am sure it freaked my friend’s parents out.
I suppose I had a fairly normal childhood. I am the youngest of three children. I have an older brother and older sister. They would often team up against me and throw me in the bedroom closet and lock the door. I would scream out and cry for them let me out of the dark closet. After a lengthy period they would finally unlock the door and let me out reassuring me that they had meant no harm. They would also often call me names repeatedly until I would start crying. These antics would always get them in trouble with my parents when caught. We are still a close family, but to this day while my brother and sister can hug each other when we get together, I pull back either from a buried sense of betrayal as a child of what they did to me with their constant teasing which causes me to have guilt that I may not have forgiven them or from an experience I have never shared with anyone before.
When I was in the sixth grade I had an afternoon paper route. In a house that was towards the end of my paper route lived a man probably in his mid-fifties. I will shorten his name to Mr. P. Mr. P. didn’t subscribe to the afternoon paper, but his next door neighbors did. Many days he would be sitting out on his porch and invite me into his house to have a cookie and milk. The first few times he invited me in he would ask me about school, my interests, sports, etc. It wasn’t long after that that he started talking about rather sexually explicit things. He would often talk about what he and his friend did in the woods when they were teens. He would use the phrase, “Beat it off.” The imagery he would paint in words would always cause me to have an erection which he would look for since I was seated on the couch across from him. He would keep talking while staring at my crotch. It was humiliating to have to sit there being stared at, but unable to get up without exposing it all. I would often hum to myself in my mind to help drown out his talk and wait for my erection to go down after 15 or 20 minutes. All of this always made the last few customers on my route get their paper late and some of them mad at me. I have brief flashbacks of a bathroom in his house and remembering him talk about some magazines with naked women in his basement. Whether anything happened in those places I don’t know or ever care to remember. As the days passed into weeks and the weeks into months, I never looked forward to delivering papers toward the end of my route. I always dreaded when I had to pass his house, but breathed a deep sigh of relief when he wasn’t sitting on the porch inviting me in. At the time I could have told my parents but they had their hands full with a serious medical condition my sister had experienced and had been at the hospital with her for several weeks. I felt like I couldn’t burden them with another problem. I don’t think they had anything set up at school to report sexual predators to your teacher in those days. I have always felt great shame and guilt for not telling someone about this at the time. I hope I was the last boy Mr. P. ever abused, but sadly I probably was not and subsequent abuses could have been prevented by my saying something. Not knowing what else to do as a boy in the sixth grade maybe seventh grade by this time, I finally quit my paper route.
There has always been a part of me that wanted to give back to Scouting. I went on to become an Eagle Scout and would have loved to help young boys as I was helped by older men in Scouting as I grew up. The one problem that kept me from becoming a Scout Leader was the abuse I experienced by Mr. P. I have always feared I would become an abuser since statistics do show that this is most often the case. Even though I have grown nieces and nephews who I love dearly and never thought of abusing when they were children, any other child I distance myself light-years from for fear I might. I have found that Mr. P.’s actions not only robbed me of a part of my childhood, part of my adulthood has been destroyed as well. In all of this I am not mad at Mr. P., but I am mad at myself for not having the courage to stand up against Mr. P., not getting out of his house, and not telling someone of what he was doing to me.
I have spent my whole life in church. I’ve tried to fit in the best I can. Please forgive me for saying this, but there are a lot of mean spirited people in churches. There are also a lot of hypocrites of which I am one. I tell everyone things are fine, but I carry this guilt and shame deep within me. I am like the wax fruit my family used to have on the dining room table. Looks real on the outside, but is empty and hollow on the inside. As I sit in church week after week, year after year, I understand what I have suffered pales in comparison to what Christ suffered for me on the cross, but there is an understanding to the end purpose of his suffering. What makes me so mad and angry is I “Yell and Scream” at God, “Why did you ever let a Mr. P. come into my life?” There is silence, a deafening silence that makes my pain worse so I scream more. I know God cares, but still I hurt – the pain being unbearable at times.
For many years I have scoured Bulletin boards, Usenet, and the Internet for pictures of young boys. There seems to be no end of sites with pictures covering everything from G-rated pictures to more explicit pictures. I never traded pictures or requested pictures – just lurked in the background. For years I have tried to figure out why I was drawn to pictures of young boys. For a long time I thought perhaps it was a sexual thing, but then I find I am attracted to women , but not adult pornography. It finally came to me this week after visiting an image board and looking at pictures of young boys that most of the boys I was always most attracted to are about the same age I was when I was in the sixth grade. So many of the pictures of the boys that I look at, I look at the smiles on their faces wishing I could go back to a time before Mr. P. and start my life all over again and have the same smile on my face that is on theirs. I have kept a few of the pictures of boys with smiling faces, but I am sure in time I will delete those off of my computer as I have done with all the rest.
I have left my e-mail address on this page. If you have been sexually abused as a male child feel free to drop me a note. I can’t really offer any great advice or any advice, but maybe a shoulder to cry on. I may not be able to reply immediately.
If you are a sexual predator reading this, you too can send me an e-mail arguing why sexually abusing children is OK. I have never been a debater – not smart enough, and you broke my spirit long ago to where I am only mad at myself. I will have to leave it to someone far stronger and smarter than myself to argue with you.
They say grown men don’t cry, but I find myself unable to stop crying right now. As I finish this, at 50 years old I find myself a small child again locked in a dark closet in a lot of pain, crying out, “Let me out, let me out, please dear God let me out.”
Time does heal wounds, but scars last a lifetime.