I loved him, and (I think), he loved me. The problem of a sexually precocious (and precious) groomed child; one who was (perhaps) loved somewhat by his abuser, and who loved him.
I’ve had problems all my life as a result of that thing – having fallen prey to another human’s ‘using’ me to meet his own needs and ends. But at the time he was giving me what I wanted: a feeling of joy and being happy (while also being used) – of being loved by someone – no matter who that someone is/was or what he’d done. It made no small part of me, resulting not in inner ‘mikie’ or some other being – but changing my outlooks and attitudes on things.
I “see too far” sometimes into things; understanding my abuser’s minds (and thereby – somewhat – forgiving them for what they’ve done). I understand their frailties and emotions; I understand what they’ve done – not to me or for me (no, much of that still remains a mystery, and I’m fighting it – somewhat). But in they themselves; how (perhaps) they feeling that they could do this thing. And I’ve understood it from a different outlook: what it’s done to me over time; how I view people and people view me.
My mother was always a free-thinker; my father a staunch stick in the mud. Both of them were abusers, and it was hard to tell if they were loving me sometimes – or just being cruel. A little bit of both sometimes, I think: my mother punishing me as best she knew how – teaching me a lesson for a lifetime to come. However her punishments often exceeded the measure of the damage that was done; creating even more damage in the process. Our father? He was just cruel – a petty cruelty that would spring from time to time, like a tiger from its lair – lashing out cruelly and at a moments notice, sometimes for nothing at all. Just ‘BAM!’ – one minute you are sitting there and the next you are on the floor. A child’s type of cruelty – I’ve come to recognize that in him, as well as a child’s selfishness and how it always is about “him” in some type of way – from the self-sabotage he’s done to the way he sucks up to folks all of the time . . .
But ‘me’ . . . and others like me . . .
Never “raped”, not in the ‘true’ sense of the word. I wasn’t held down while some other boy raped me; I was never held down at all – though sometimes he would hold me afterward – and that always felt good, deep down inside – and yet left me troubled for I knew: this stuff was ‘bad’ and we couldn’t be found out, not at all, or else the ‘punishments’ would begin. And (as stated) – the punishments were severe. (My dad used to hold me by one ankle, dangling me in the air – butt naked, except for some underwear – and beat me and beat me over and over again. My brother said he could hear me scream and scream and scream . . . until they would just dwindle away. That was my dad: couldn’t stand beating you until he – and YOU – were ‘done’. Quite literally with it.)
But we knew: to get CAUGHT would be a bad thing; it seemed my parents didn’t love me at all – no one did but this kid and some of the others – the lady next door, and the ‘other’ one . . . a father in the Hood …
But what this “kid” did (he was a teenager; I was 6 or 7 when it started – he was 13) – he gave us a sense of being accepted somewhat until I grew too old for him or him for me. There were a lot of kids he abused; I know, I helped him some (another problem for the groomed child) – or at least tried. To be quite frank, I wasn’t very good at it. So nothing really happened, or at least I don’t think it did. My ego was too busted up; about certain things I was real shy (like touching anyone ‘down there’ – without getting their permission and making sure it was okay. Even as a kid I was like that. And his little brother – my best friend – was not only molested as well, but was ‘trained’ to recruit others. He was very good at it.)
But I remember HIM telling me “get this kid”, “get that one” when I was 8, 9, and 10 years old. Usually the kids would be a few years younger than me – just a few, one, maybe two. You could almost call it ‘experimental play’ between two young boys; two young kids – but my knowledge was much closer to what had come to the adults; I knew about things I wasn’t supposed to. (Like: “you put this here in your ass” type of stuff – using some spit and things. Nasty stuff, that . . . or is it? It’s a part of me; I accept (but M3, me don’t LIKE) anal sex . . . Matthew, our Bi Alter, and “13” our ‘other one’, and perhaps Jeremy – all are “bi” or “gay” in some way . . . was it because of that kind of thing? I don’t know. I really don’t. I just know I gotta go along with The Crowd (any large group or dominating faction of “alters” within me) when they ‘go along’ with something. Not my choice . . . not by choice . . . just gotta kinda tag along, keeping an eye on things.
But knowing too much – like: Did it HARM me? The sexual thing? No . . . I can not say that it did. The shame that followed, when he betrayed me (not just once but several times) – THAT had the greatest impact on me, affecting my relationships and views about love and sex for the rest of my life – a huge impact (and that is understated) – learning about ‘trust’ and things – the breaking of the TRUST of a CHILD’s love when he has gave you so much – his entire being . . .
Now that’s the thing that really hurts . . . and it’s been hurting (so bad, so hard, so sad – our inner child crying) – for a long time . . .
I don’t know if we’ll really ever be able to shake that sort of thing. Nor our views on love; and the love of a man and our inner child . . . as screwed up as that may seem on some days. But I comfort my ‘child’, and give him my love; our Matthew has come to love him as well (they are Brothers, now, in my mind, which is good). And we all look ‘back’ unhappy and with sadness and grief . . . lost love, lost things; lost souls living in the past – and I wish I could go back and take ‘them’ into my arms, hug and comfort them . . . and so I guess I do, me and ‘him’ and ‘him’ . . . and a few others, too.