I wrote this two years ago after creating a piece of artwork that I was afraid would kill me if I ever tried to do it. It proved just the opposite, it made me better for the pain of its labor. I got a random comment to that original post last night from someone claiming to be an old friend of mine that has been looking for me and was sad when I disappeared from her life. I've reached out to her to see if it really is me she's looking for, went back through some of the comments to that post, and in doing so have realized the power of this thing - the story, the artwork, and how it all resonates with people. I have made several new LJ friends since this was originally posted, and decided to repost it for two reasons. First, it is a good way to really get to know and understand part of who and why and what I am. Second, I know what my worth is and I know that I am a good man who never does anything to hurt anyone, and if exposing this much vulnerability will be a catalyst for someone else to help heal themselves up or at the very least feel less isolated and alone in the world, then it is worth it.
I realize that there are going to be those people who will look at all of this and think "Comment Whore" or "Attention Whore", which is fine. Think what you want to think about me, I support your right to think whatever you choose to - but fuck you just the same. Actually, motherfuck you. This isn't about you and it certainly isn't for you, it's for the person who reads this and is moved enough to try and complete their own journey of suffering and try to put it to bed. It's for anyone who knows anyone that went through something similar, to help make them a more understanding and better friend. It is for anyone who thinks it is important enough to point out to others and say "here, I want you to read this" - and provoke others who may not ever hear this story otherwise into closing the circle on all of the isolation people like us are cursed to live in. Link to this post, email links to everyone you know, post links in communities and on message boards, and wherever people will be encouraged to read it. For the record, I don't mind the comments and I DO want the attention paid to this post - but only so it can be a healing thing for someone else.
Here is the original post, (dated May 28, 2005):
"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 ____'s heart." My father promised me he would "get down to the bottom of it", but nothing was ever said or done. That Uncle died a few years later, having never paid for nor answering for any of his crimes - for that matter never ever being confronted by anyone for it. He lived a full life, destroyed significant parts of me I can never get back, and fucking got away with it. A few months later I tried heroin for the first time. It was better than cutting and seemed a reasonable idea at the time. 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. That having been said, let me reiterate: my abuser lived a full life and died with his loving family at his side, having answered for none of his crimes against me or those other children like me. I know that like I know all these years later that if I were able to defend myself, not only would I but I'd KILL that motherfucker. I'd kill him, end his life, his entire existence. I'm admitting that I would absolutely, undeniably be able to end his life, KILL-THAT-MOTHERFUCKER. No matter what I do, I have to live with that fact, that knowledge, FOREVER - which is partly why I don't believe in forgiveness for some people, and also why his grave has been soaked in my piss. That was his trial, he got away with it and some angry nephew comes a pees on his grave. That's all I got, seriously - not even so much as an "I'm sorry your Uncle raped you for years" from Mom & Dad. And people wonder why I don't believe in God?
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. If you are the parent of a child, let this be your wake-up call for an opportunity to have discussions with your children. It is estimated that 70% of abusers are someone that both the child and parents know well. 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 for that.
Series: En Abstraktia
Title: "Good Boy"