"Be my good boy now, and I'll take you to get ice cream after..."
That's what he would tell me, he would take me to get ice cream if I didn't cry and if I never told anyone. Can you believe how lame that sounds to me now? That's what he told me when I was 10 years old and it started, to the best of my memory which is pock marked and moth eaten at best. I never got to pick my own flavor, he would always buy me a single scoop of strawberry in one of those nasty cake cup cones. To this day I will eat neither strawberry ice cream or cake cup cones. A few years ago I was offered strawberry ice cream, and it never occurred to me that I would have any adverse reaction to it. As soon as the spoon got in my mouth, I gagged and ran outside to vomit, which I did violently. I cried the whole time, realizing what that taste had come to represent to me. So no more strawberry ice cream for me, ever.
This post details more personal information than I think I have ever shared on LiveJournal before, and it will have graphic moments and might make you regret reading any further. I make this post public because I no longer care who knows about this kind of thing, keeping it to myself and the choice few who already know about it has always been part of the problem. Perhaps this might serve to help someone in the same struggle.
Here's the long and short of it. It was my Uncle on my mother's side of the family, married to her sister. I didn't ever say anything about it until I was around 17 or 18 years old, and I'm not exactly sure what I remember. I remember that he used to sneak up behind me and give me inappropriate hugs, which is why I freak out if anyone sneaks up behind me and I prefer that people never hug me from behind. He used to tickle me inappropriately, same goes for being tickled - just don't do it or I will
punch you in the neck. He would creep into my room and wake me up to come with him into the living room or kitchen while the rest of the house slept - by touching my feet under the covers at the foot of the bed. Don't touch my feet. He had the worst breath in the free world and would make me kiss him and I would gag. Don't breathe near or get in my face. He once hurt me so badly that he tore my flesh, and I probably should have had stitches or something. I spent the next three or four days being terrified to go to the bathroom because it hurt too much, and sneaking off down the street on trash days to throw my bloodied underoos in a neighbor's trashcan so no one would know. I guess I've just carried the brunt of this by myself for too fucking long.
By the time my parents found out my secret, I was in a mental facility on the cusp of a 3 month stay, inpatient and out. My mother has never spoken to me about it, but when called out on it by my sister Shay she was heard to say "We can't say anything, it would just break Aunt Kathleen's heart."
My father promised me he would "get down to the bottom of it"
, but nothing was ever said or done. Uncle Bill died when I was 20, having paid nor answering for any of his crimes. A few months later I tried heroin for the first time. It was better than cutting. About five years ago I decided to take a journey to the place where they buried him, I wanted to say a few things out loud and finally get it out of me. I tried but couldn't manage anything but angry tears. No words would come, no matter how hard I fought for them. Before leaving I pissed all over his grave and his headstone, laughing the entire time. Maybe one day I'll do it again.
Today I decided to start a new piece for my En Abstraktia series. This one actually does have a title, I have decided to call it "Good Boy". It was created in the spirit of a violently angry little boy that lives inside me, so betrayed and hurt and angry that I rarely ever see him. I never thought I could ever help him, but I decided to let him take over this particular piece. And he did. I'm much happier now that I let him do it, too.
So for anyone who has ever been hurt like this or ever felt betrayed or victimized, this is for you. Feel free to link to this entry and pass it around, post about it or whatever - I don't care. I make this post public because I think that art SHOULD imitate life and it should provoke and inspire on some level. I think it should be shared, and though I don't normally explain these pieces, this one was too personal not to. Thank salenelle
Series: En Abstraktia
Title: "Good Boy"