Father's Feast & Pickled Beast

It's been sometime since my last post... not for an immediate purpose, just the continual suffocation that is life. Today is no exception, Father's Day... oh how I loathe this day in particular. Not so much for the thoughts of my own father, I've come to terms with that. Yes, the relationship is rocky at best, but I do love him to the best of my abilities. True, I still see his teeth gnashing in dreams, with foamy spittle flying through the gaps... screaming how he'll give me something to cry about. It was brutal. I got the every living shit kicked out of me on a regular basis... either for my sins and transgressions, or simply because my mother thought Satan needed to be knocked out of me. We live, we grow, we break, we mend. No, my hate comes for a special little place in my life... the parenting aspect, or the abusive motherfucker I was to innocent children in my life. We learn what we are taught. I'm not making excuses, there are none... not a single thing could ever be uttered to convince me that I did my best in those moments or that it was ever okay. They saw the very same monster I saw as a child, and I see him still every night in the mirror. Thankfully, I'm no longer in a position to raise children. I was too young to have that kind of responsibility. A child raising children is what the scenario actually involved. They are all grown now, some better adjusted than others... and perhaps they made peace long ago as well, forgiving me for my actions. I haven't forgiven myself, and I don't think I actually ever will... I don't deserve to be let off the hook so easily. Maybe if I ever create a child of my own, and see them growing inside a woman crazy enough to spend their life with me, perhaps then I can be a decent father. Maybe I would even bond with them and develop true feelings of untainted love and compassion. Maybe that will be the pivotal point in my diseased understanding of human emotions. There is also the risk that I just continue with the cancerous mindset and pervert another generation of youth. Either way, it's not on today's dinner plate... there is only ash and severed shit. So for now, we will continue hating this day... ignoring any gestures of forgiveness those children try to express. I know who I am, and so do they... somethings should never be forgotten.

Debbie's Little Lamb

It has become a constant struggle to remind myself that I am human, someone in the world that has valid thoughts and feelings... the obnoxious daily mantra, "I am real, I am real...". It's an awkward situation, thick and dripping with irony... absence from the world causes disassociation, yet mingling with the people induces reticule and shame resulting in, you guessed it, disassociation.I've become the town's walking freak show... "there's that guy again, fucking nut bag!". Though the worlds may differ, the sentiment is the same... the shifting glances, children pointing and starring, the egotistical, wealthy and righteous teenagers laughing. One of the downsides to living in a small town... not to mention a stuck-up, wealthy town. My economic worth is already a symbol branded in my flesh... the lowly and indigent, the cesspool of filth and muck not fitting for such delicate features. Bitter? Me? No, I'm just tired of fighting myself and society to find a wee bit of self-worth... just a fucking scrap man, let me have that at least. The few people in town that know me by name and have taken the time to look upon me with non-judging eyes, see me as a good man... this is equally disturbing I suppose. How fucked up is that? They've seen me opening doors for the elderly and for the women in general, helping people with their packages and satchels, and always using please and thank you during any exchange... always followed by "Have a nice day", in closing. What kind of person doesn't say "please" and "thank you", let alone open a door for a woman? That qualifies me as a good man? I don't get it... people confuse me. Truth be told, there is just no winning situation. If I'm shamed or shunned, I lose... if I'm looked upon as a good person, I lose. "You're a special piece of fucking shit, and God has mighty plans for your ugly, worthless ass!"... I get it, I do.

Succulent Spider-Man & Breastfed Batman

Therapy today, in a word, was intense... digging deeper to further my understandings of the monster I became and loathe. Putting aside what I may be now, or what I believe myself to be... the corner's cobwebs have mysteries unseen, when the light fails to the reach through them. I shared with him today, that I've been thinking a lot recently about my childhood and the sexual events that consumed me over the years... trying to find a place for these memories and understand the impact they had on my fragile mind and tainted innocence. It's unlikely that I will ever fully know all of the details and instances of my abuse... what lies beneath was laid to rest because the child inside needed to hide from them. It's this "not knowing" that consumes me now... not the events or the trauma. Like notebooks awaiting to be filled with lines of code, I yearn for the data... each touch, each penetration, each ejaculation. Answers I may never know need to be mourned... the ripping flesh and violent thrusts left more than mere scar tissue, it left an empty void of knowledge.

When I was a child, my father would have "parties" at our house... while my mother was away at school or work, he'd invite over men and women alike to indulge in drinking and other such carnal delights. I remember very little about these gatherings, but the little that remains intact is disturbing... leading me down a darkened path, with hazards unseen and void of foreknowing. It's hard to remember an age, perhaps 4 or 5, if memory serves well enough... how moments bleed without discrimination. They would gather in the den, just off the kitchen, at the end of the house and fill the walls with laughter, drinking, and stale smoke. I'd be among them, always being fondled by someone, men and women alike... I remember no direct touching or contact with my genitals, just the constant fondling of my warm, young flesh. Drunken embraces may be a more appropriate description. Always in my "underoos", my uniform of childhood, and sometimes without the top... which was always my favorite part, a badge of courage and shield of strength. My guess, is that someone else had removed it from me during the gatherings... I can't recall the details, but I wouldn't have removed such a treasure on my own. I remember being passed around, from lap to lap, each one taking time to embrace my youth and encouraging sips from their bottles of beer... I still remember the scent on their breath and the taste within my mouth, a drunken child as entertainment. The clearest event tattooed in my mind, was sitting in a women's lap, facing her as she kissed my face and rubbed my bare back... questioning me about "playing doctor" as a childhood game and pastime. I can't recall if she said, "Have you ever..." or "We are going..." ... all I remember is simply, "playing doctor" and her laughing as she fondled my skin and kissed my face. After a time, we weren't allowed to be home with my father alone anymore... when my mother was away at school or work, we would be brought with her. I remember seeing a lot of university hallways, laboratories, and countless Godzilla / King Kong movies in the staff room of the Rescue Squad.... a thousand quarters spent on Zaxxon and Frogger and endless cheese crackers. I can't remember ever being told why, all that was certain is that we were not to be left home alone with Daddy.

Why the change in routine? Why couldn't we be there anymore, sipping beer with all of those happy people? What happened behind those walls while my mother was away and did she discover something that warranted our departure? I'll never know... and that cuts the deepest. No matter the answers, part of me must know. You'd think I'd be accustomed to disappointment... it's just something I can't accept.

Medication Musical Hour

It's been a few days, the waters were high... too high, to don my crown of ash. I would like to take a moment to thank the new readers that have joined this spectacle... the horror show of neglect, abuse, and torture. Yes indeed, I'm the main attraction and the ringer leader in this twisted version of reality... I've been both victim and the tormentor. I take no pride or joy in the things I've done... the choir might perhaps in some fashion, and I know Richard enjoys ribboned flesh. I am human, regrettably, and I am prone to making mistakes... some out of grief, some out of confusion, but all riddled with disdain and guilt. As for the viciously delicious things done to me, by the hands of friends, family, and trusted adults, I am not ashamed or frightened to speak of them... some are more intense than others, we have many ways to assault the senses. It's my hope that by sharing things about my life, in some sick way I'll deserve some measure of redemption from the hideous sins and deeds of my spirit, mind, and flesh... a pound for a pound, and a sliver for a sliver.

Things have been unusual lately, although my body is still crippled with this maddening, fucking depression, my mind has been acting out... decisions have been made without my approval and several projects have been set in motion. I alone, can not stand against the Choir and Richard, and ensure these plans go unfinished... when the body sleeps, the mind creeps, and rats will have their way. Diana has been missing for a time, I have no idea what happened and the others won't confess to her disappearance... my only hope is that she returns soon and helps aide the integrity of the walls. Stone by stone, brick by fucking brick, these inhabitants are rearranging the natural order... projects and theories, inviting advances of social dignity. Tomorrow I visit with my therapist... I will be forthcoming, as always... perhaps we can stop the gears from meshing further. If Timothy loses his leg, he'll be sent to bed without supper... no soiled linens on which to dine. I must find a way to remain on center stage... it's beyond the idea of survival.

Dancing Fingertips

Again, the Monday ritual... washing off the sickness from my wilted skin and matted hair. We can scrub away the filth, but we are still known as the man with a cane, who wears the same clothes everyday, and stares at the ground instead of looking people in the eye... that creepy fellow, that looks like a Manson Family reject and smells of BO and cigarette smoke. I am the wasted space, the foul air... that pollutes the precious view of those more important than I. Stand in line, grab your rotten fruit... for here I am. The eater of children, rapist of romance, and harborer of sorrow.

I spent some time this week reflecting on the sexual abuse I endured as a child...discussions in therapy, understanding the roots of some of my social isolation and confusion. My therapist was shocked to see it all laid out upon the table... the sexual assault from the hospital staff when I was 4 or 5, the years of molestation from my sister, the rape in the dentist office. It's a small piece of the puzzle... not including the vast amount of despicable and deviant sexual encounters done by my hand. He said it was amazing that I'm as well adjusted as I am... putting aside the spiritual, mental, and physical abuse and neglect. I told him that I can't really believe it myself... so many encounters and trauma, festering inside feeding upon life itself. It makes me wonder how people would possibly believe the story I have to tell... I was there and remember those things clearly, and I can't believe it. I wish I had the strength and drive to write everything down... to share the recipe for disaster and the making of a schizophrenic. I don't care about attention or making money from a book... all I want is to be heard. Even if everyone read it, praised it, and talked about it... I would still wonder if anyone actually heard me. Most listen and allow the words to echo in and out of their minds... never giving a place to each emotion. Hearing is different... not many can hear, it requires sacrifice and empathy. It's a Vasoline world, and the chapped skin is it's people...

The Teeth That Cling

Okay, so here it is... a long time coming. Many of you might be curious about the reference to one of my traumatic incidents, I suffered as a child... the remarks of rape, how tears tasted on cold vinyl, and the dentist. Take a seat, raise your feet, and hear my lullaby cry.

When I was a young child, my parents took my to the dentist, just as every parent does... we'd suffer the trauma to win a prize at the end of visit. A new plastic toy from the goody box... or an aftertaste, not so minty fresh. The dentist office we went to had only one room for cleaning / oral surgeries... it was a large room with chairs lining three sides of the adjoining walls. The other empty wall had the treasure chest and a little play table. The waiting room was separate and the parents would be forced to wait outside and read the old, crusty pages of last months magazines. We had been going to the same dentist for a long time, longer than I could remember... but long enough to have that treasure chest burned into my childish mind. On one visit, my parents were informed that I needed some oral surgery... the gum line on my lower, two front teeth was receding do to a birth defect. It was a relative simple surgery, they would remove some gum tissue from the roof of my mouth and graft it on to my lower gum line... giving me the needed support and protection for those new teeth. I remember being nervous, like any child would be... even though we always got a toy for behaving, it was still an unpleasant visit. The day arrived, my father took me to the dentist, and I cried when they took me into the back... my spirit new something was different this day, forever changing my life, and I wept when my father was refused to escort me back into "the room". It started like any checkup, I was helped into the over-sized, vinyl chair and had a bib attached around my neck. Today was different, I was the only child in the room, the only patient in that wide opened room... the air was stale and still, smelling of old, smoked cigarettes. Next came the shots into the roof of my mouth, followed by some gas that made me a bit dizzy. Then things changed... I'll never forget the few memories that penetrated my innocent mind and shattered the dancing child within. I remember the dentist and two assistants, a male and a female, unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down to my ankles... I can still feel the cold, damp, chair against my naked flesh. I began getting very nervous, not understanding why my pants and underwear had been pulled down and why they were surrounded me on each side. The female assistant leaned over, pressing her breasts against my face, as the dentist placed one hand on my trembling leg. I couldn't see what was happening, but I could feel it when it broke the skin without prejudice... a "needle" was pushed deep into my right thigh. The male assistant, reached over and pinned down my left leg and another "needle" was inserted deeply into my left thigh. I say "needle", because all I could see was the woman's breast pushed tightly against my face... it felt sharp like a needle and there was something definitely stuck in my thighs. I began crying and moaning, and begging for them to stop... the reply rings clearly to this very day. The dentist replied, "I'm not going to take them out until you settle down and stop crying... this is going to happen.". It seemed like hours passed, the pain was excruciating, and I began dripping urine out of my tiny, scared penis. The next thing I remember was being rolled on my left side, facing the two assistants... the woman was holding down my shoulders and cheek against the vinyl chair and the male was stationed at  my lower half, rubbing my legs gently.  I remember hearing the woman moan as she rammed my face further into the chair. I could feel the dentist at my backside, although I have no active memory after he touched my hips... the last thing I remember was the taste of the chair mixed with my tears, running down my throat. In that instant, the child disappeared, and what followed will never be fully known. After years of therapy, it has been decided that I was anally assaulted by the dentist while the assistants fondled and caressed themselves and myself. I remember going home and seeing blood in the toilet that afternoon... not understanding why I was bleeding from my bottom and my mouth. A few days later, the stitches that were holding the graft in place, fell out and the newly attached flesh died... to this day, I still have the same condition on my lower, two front teeth. All that time and money was wasted and I didn't even receive a toy from the ordeal. My "treat" from the "goody, treasure chest" lasted far longer than any cheap, plastic toy... it's still with me today, and shall be for the rest of this life. My only regret is that the procedure was a failure... that lowered gum line makes me very self-conscious about smiling. Not to mention, going to the dentist has been a nightmare filled with panic and heartaches ever since...

Goodbye Horses

The depression seems to be worsening... infecting my sleep with images I'd rather avoid and see replaced with the nightmares. I've been thinking a lot about the verbal abuse I suffered as a child... wondering what type of person I would be if it had never happened. It's not some infected swell of bitterness swarming inside, I am truly past the anger phase... it's more like the realization that this sucking chest wound effects me deeper than I'd thought before. I suppose in a lot of ways, the verbal abuse cut deeper than the routine beatings, the social isolation, the torture and mind games, the sexual molestation, incest and rape... all of those things were hard, but in some ways not so infecting. Events came, we experienced them, they ended, and we've moved on... the same can't be said about being degraded everyday, all day, for many, many years. The more I think about it, I really think this idea about taking the daily photos could be healing... the fear encases my chest and the air thickens like bitter, pasty saliva. What if I can't handle this project? Would the end result only make things worse for me... knowing I've failed at yet another thing in my life? Would I find the courage to stomach the mocking and hurtful comments from the people that witnessed this spectacle... witnessing my disarray, lack of hygiene, and unkempt appearance? That is amusing... how someone with no self-esteem can still suffer from vanity. Life is rich. At my next therapy appointment, we will bring up this idea an see what he has to offer in opinion and advice. Richard says no, but he delights in the idea of failure. Diana is in support of the idea and wants to see some closure. The Choir is split... some just want to be left alone, others are in absolute refusal, some think it's a waste of resources and the time should be spent entertaining themselves, and the rest think it is acceptable. I wish my opinion had some merit in this discussion, I remember a simpler time when my voice had meaning... I suppose it's been so long now, that I forgot the sound of my own voice and the weight it carried. A simpler time, when no meant no and yes meant yes. It's beginning to weigh me down, all of the opinions and rules... the fear that chokes me and the dangling carrot of freedom. There is something inside that painted, black box that rests in the corner... something deeper than remembering, something stronger than fear, some purpose, a beacon of time, a vigil. Where have the horses gone, the hills, and children... the table was set, with dirty plates, and soiled panties as napkins.

Family Matters

This season, I spared the public from another beloved Christmas tale of yesteryear... messages fill the fabric of time and the envelopes of the righteous. We separate ourselves, becoming the cats of ruined buildings... winding ourselves in piles of dirty laundry sniffing for that faded comfort. The dust has been shifted, thinking over events and memories of my life... particularly about my Mother and Great-Grandfather's stories of "When He Was A Little Girl". I can't recall the tales, but they always started with that phrase... to this day, I'm still uncertain. Other than a handful of dry roasted peanuts and curiously watching the people cry at his funeral and wondering why, I have nothing to remember him by. As for my Mother, I have plenty to remember... a crooked smile flashes across my face as I relive those "precious moments". My Mother is an extremely loving, giving, and thoughtful person... one side of the dysfunction straddling on candy cane crutches. Thinking of those good qualities, leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I suppose when someone has such an extreme goodness, there must be an equal amount of wickedness... those were the days of my childhood. She has changed a lot over the years, and mellowed out significantly... now only a part-time zealot and no longer threatens to have stuffed animals murder you in your sleep. The few people in my life that are familiar with my past and have actually met her, are always expecting to see a monster, rather than a smiling, fragile looking child in an elderly shell... I lived it, so you can imagine how I feel. Mindfuck is the only world fully capable of grasping the situation. Somethings never change and some tells of her dysfunction can clearly be seen, like her lack and disgust of physical affections and still talking through the mouths of the stuffed animals she carries around with her at all times... a land of the fence post people, rigid and content in the mud and mire. I don't hate my Mother and wish her no ill will. Those moments are past and even though I don't understand the reasoning behind the severe manipulation and abuse, I'm okay with it... to the best of abilities at least, for I am a broken toy. When I was a child, the accepted behavior was laughing away your pain. I learned at a young age that crying only meant more suffering and torment to come... I'll give you a reason to cry. Do you really to cry? Perhaps that's why I laugh and smile when I remember my childhood...

Spare The Rod & Spoil The Child

When I was in the 6th grade, I asked my parents if I could change schools... I was being severely bullied and just wanted to be somewhere safe. My choice of course was to enroll into the Christian Academy across the street. The people seemed so nice and friendly... surely Jesus would protect me as well. After all, the school was held inside of a church... nothing bad happens when Jesus is around. Children are so gullible and naive. Rules, rules, rules... don't break the rules! Easier said than done. We had desks that faced the wall, each separated by long wooden planks... so you couldn't see the person beside you or anything in your peripheral vision. Two flags decorated the desk... one American Flag and one Christian Flag. If you needed to speak to a "teacher", you would remove the Christian Flag and place it on top the desk, where it meets the wall, on a little shelf. If you needed to grade your work, you removed the American Flag and placed it again in the same place. A "teacher" would come by and either talk to you about your question or touch you lightly on the shoulder informing you it is safe to get out of your seat to grade your work. I say "teacher" because they didn't teach you a fucking thing... my teacher was a book filled with Christian cartoon characters telling me how to do the work. We had a little booklet for each subject matter and when we finished it, we would get a new booklet with more and more lessons. This was called the P.A.C.E. program. Marks were handed out for infractions... marks meant trouble. Here are a few conditions for receiving a mark. A mistake in grading your work... one mark of each mistake. Turning around at your desk... mark. Speaking during school... mark. Standing without permission... mark. Leaving your desk without permission... mark. Finished with all of your work and NOT reading the Bible to occupy yourself... mark. Three to five marks in one day meant detention after school... 30, 45 or 60 minutes depending on how many marks. Six marks earned in one day meant a "paddling"... it wasn't a fucking "paddling"! You would have to go into the principle's office, lean against his desk and close your eyes. He would breathe heavily in your ear while one hand slowly wrapped itself tight against your pelvic area and then he would beat your ass with great precision with a wooden plank. The "paddle" was around 20-24 inches long, 8 inches wide, 1.5 inches thick, shellacked and had holes drilled into it.... Jesus approved, to be sure. Don't break the rules and you won't get marks.

I remember this girl... she used to smile at me during lunch. One day, I decided to write her a little note saying, "I like you."... innocent kid stuff really. After she read it, she blushed and giggled... I remember feeling so happy, because she liked me too. This joy lasted about 2 minutes... she was dragged back inside the church and interrogated. A few minutes later they came for me... I saw her crying and her face swollen red with anger and shame. I was taken into the office and beaten severely for writing that little note... not just once, but twice and every day for the next week. After I got home from school, beaten once more by my father and my mother had properly cast the demon of lust out of me... I learned what I did that was so wrong. You see, when a man comes of age and is ready to associate with women, Jesus will tell you which woman to approach and court. Then all the things you need to know about relationships, marriage and sex are magically imprinted inside your brain. It is a terrible sin for a 12 yr old boy to "like" a girl and unforgivable for him to express that statement in a note. Just imagine how my life would have turned out, if I hadn't learned that valuable lesson?

The Price Of Heaven

When I was a little boy, around the age of 5-6, my parents began giving us gifts quite frequently... we were quite spoiled to be honest. My father had a very good job working for a major cigarette company as a supervisor so money was the least of our concerns. I would come home from school with my book fair slip and instead of only being allowed to order 1 or 2 books, I could order as many as I wanted. Every Saturday morning we would go to Toys R Us and he would buy me a new G.I. Joe, He-Man or Transformers... often times we could even get two of them. Christmas was a gluttonous feast of presents, as well as birthdays or any occasion one could have to get a gift of some type. By the time I was 7 or 8, between my brother and I, we had the complete G.I.Joe, He-Man and Transformers collections... I also had the Choose Your Own Adventure books, not complete but something like volumes 1-102, it is hard to recall. Well, around that time my Father found Jesus on an old, rugged cross on Sunday morning. He was saved, instantly forgiven for his mortal sins, cured of his alcoholism and guaranteed a mansion in Heaven.. all for the small price of saying I'm sorry and please forgive me, Jesus. What a wonderfully generous opportunity, Hallelujah! Needless to say, things were going to change very quickly in our home and there would be a heavier price to pay for the non-sinner, non alcoholic children in the home... my Mother couldn't have been more pleased. Jesus came to visit her in her room a few nights later and told her that we, the children, were going to suffer a horrible fate and burn in the eternal pits of Hell if we too didn't repent of our evil ways... we needed a purge of our mortal coils. So the following Sunday, after a radical church service, we went home and were instructed to bring all of our worldly possessions out into the backyard. This was a direct order from my Mother and Jesus, so there was no arguing or questioning such a bizarre request. So I gathered all of my toys, books and records and brought them into the backyard... minus the stuffed animals of course, she needed those to torture me for years to come. My Father and Mother were gathered at our sandbox praying... speaking directly with Jesus I assume. They told us to place everything into the sandbox, so we did... don't question your Mother and Jesus! My Mother then told us how Jesus said that the only way we could go to Heaven was to purge ourselves of our worldly possessions. She went on for sometime about us burning in Hell forever and how we could never have peace and would gnash our teeth in torment begging for a peace that would never come. Then my Father handed us, one at a time, a bottle of lighter fluid and my Mother simply said, "Do you want to burn in Hell forever?". At this point we were terrified, all of us screaming and crying, "NO!". She smiled and replied, "Then you must destroy these things of the world, least you destroy your very soul.". So, we sprayed our worldly possessions with lighter fluid and each tossed a match on to the massive pile of sin. We watched our belongs and dirty souls burn in a fiery passion of Christ, thus ensuring our mansions in Heaven... what a glorious day! Oddly enough, that next Christmas we began to receive presents again, basically of the same type... except for He-Man. I guess those new toys were Jesus approved or something or maybe we just deserved the right to sin openly and just ask for forgiveness like the adults do... seeing how we had previously paid our debt. There were new rules to be learned and new prices to pay for our souls... but they didn't come until a little bit later. However, that is another story for another time...

All Along The Watchtower

"There must be some way out of here" said the joker to the thief.
"There's too much confusion", I can't get no relief.

So much to say and so very little voice. Here again, I find myself writing on these pages... this is a sanctuary. I can allow the insanity to spew with no reprisal... an empty house full of broken windows and no one to pass the spectacle. My rock now covered in moss and sea foam rejects my grip... the waves toss me around. Beaten with a fiery passion... I crash to and fro, smashing my face against that which I used to cling. There is music, there is always music... strumming and singing their lovely lullaby. The constant reminder of how safe and warm it will feel... no remorse, just stop fighting. Is it really warm and tingling when you experience love... like the sun breaking through stormy skies? Perhaps, but their honesty is two sided... there is a cost for everything. They say the most painful experience a human goes through is breathing for the very first time... precious, life giving air... with a cost. The price is letting go... in exchange, that peace I have yearned. Even by the trusted tongues, I have been informed this life, my prison, will only intensify. In the end, perhaps rotting in a hospital like my dear uncle... no one sees him and his keepers allow him no peace or memory. Good-bye horses, I'm flying over you. Searching for that warmth has been my one desire... someday, we'll never come back.

My Childhood Companion

When I was a child, one Christmas, I received a puppet from my parents. He had a velvety nose, long shiny brown ears and dark black eyes... he was a precious puppy and soon to become my best friend and nightmare. I named him Browser. No, there is nothing special about the name, just birthed from an excited child's imagination. Browser and I went everywhere together and had several wonderful adventures... life couldn't get any more perfect. Soon, Browser learned to talk and was given a personality by my mother. He was quite the trouble maker and a tad bit rebellious. My mother would talk through him for what seemed like hours... he made us all laugh, for awhile. Soon, my mother began to talk through him more and more and often said how much he loved his Grams... that was the name she had given herself. Over time, my precious friend and companion no longer wanted to spend any time with me... he wanted to spend his time with Grams reading the Bible and praying. I was often times condemned by Browser and labeled a sinner for not praying enough and that my life was to be spent burning in the pits of Hell, if I didn't mend my ways. It wasn't much longer till even more hateful words would spew from Browser's mouth and within a short amount of time it had become a daily ritual. "I hate you Daddy! Your breath stinks! You're Ugly! You're Fat! You're Stupid! You're Worthless! I'm going to slit your throat when you sleep tonight!". For several years this abuse continued, every day, several times a day. I began to hate back. It was hard enough to listen to these words coming from my once best friends mouth... I remember laughing along with them, because it was safer than crying. I wanted to return the pain unto those that had hurt me, so I began kidnapping Browser from my mother's room and hurting him. I would place him in the sink and drown him with water and then place him into the freezer. My mother would become frantic looking for him and then screaming sharply as she found him frozen. Her eyes would begin to tear up and she would scream like an injured animal. I would watch and smile... enjoying the comfort that came from her heart wrenching cries. Sometimes, I would just run into her room and grab him and swing his face violently against the counter tops... his once velvety nose shattering upon impact and flying through the air like ashes from a crematorium. Her reaction was always the same and I always found so much pleasure in tormenting her and listening to those screams, "Stop! Please, I am begging you! Please!". Even to this day, when I hear someone scream on television or a movie... my eyes glaze over and a crooked smile forms upon my face. I laugh to myself and out loud... comforted by the pain, fear and terror. Browser now lives with me and for the most part is silent. However once and awhile I pick him up and dust him off and offer him a hug and some love. He stares back at me and opens his mouth... "I hate you Daddy!". I smile at him and say, "I know Browser, I do too... I do too.".

A Life Without Love

Although it was over 25 years ago, I remember like it was yesterday... it was my first impression of "love". She called me to her room and invited me inside. We used to spend hours in there playing school... a complete setting equipped with a chalkboard, books, ruler and even fellow classmates of the stuffed and fluffy variety. Everything was in place, as usual, but today's lesson and the ones to follow for years were "special" and performed behind locked doors. Instead of a chair or a makeshift school bench... the lesson was to be taught on the floor or sometimes the bed. She would remove her clothing, lay down and with a smile, invite me to join her there where she lay. She would direct me to lay upon her and showed me how to touch her and kiss her... "love" her. In those moments, while my innocence was stripped away from me, I played both roles in this lesson of "love". Not only was I the victim, but I had become the abuser... the molester and the molested. It wasn't the act that forever warped my understanding and definition of love and intimacy... I remember those times as a pleasurable, comfortable and safe environment. It wasn't violent, scary or awkward... it was "love" in my childish mind. A "special" time for me and my big sister...something I looked forward to and greatly enjoyed. It was years later, while on vacation, that the trauma sunk in and the damage done manifested itself, causing the confusion that I still battle with to this very day. She told me that we had to stop sharing these "special" moments together... that it was wrong and evil. I remember that day well... my heart broke and I had felt abandoned, rejected, unwanted and unloved. My inner child was screaming, "How can this be wrong, when it felt so special and safe? Why are you taking this away from me? How could you hurt me like this?". The circle was now complete... it was the beginning of the end. For the next 5 years, I buried all of those memories and returned to the "normalcy" of childhood. When my body began to change and started the process of maturing... I started to remember. I hated her for hurting me like that... taking away the "love" we shared. I wished her dead for all the heartache and I wanted revenge desperately. By the time I turned 15, she started to become physically ill and continued to become increasingly sicker. My hate, fury and confusion grew with her afflictions and soon the feeling of vindication settled upon me. For the past 10 years, she has been bedridden and unable to leave her house... sick with everything from auto-immune disorders, chemical sensitivity and now cancer. Looking back, I can see clearly that it wasn't just her that became ill, but I too had become sick... only mine is a mental sickness and dysfunction. I don't know what love is or how it is supposed to feel. I am unable to feel people's love they claim to have for me. I don't know or understand where the boundaries for relationships stand... the difference between a friend, family or romantic interests emotional ties. Everything is mixed and bleeds into each other, ultimately causing me to separate myself from all relationships in my life by the means of sabotage. Do I hate my sister now, years later... no. I hate that child, my younger self, for feeling the way he did during those "special" moments. It is just one example of the many things I have endured... just one reason why I hate myself.