I have been distracted and unable to really function online the past week or more of days. I have unfortunately been thinking / remembering / dwelling / reliving the summer of abuse I had when I was shipped off to Canada. I guess the goal was to “make a man of me”. I had a song I had recently learned and sang it to my self constantly along with “Lean on me”, “Bridge over troubled waters”, and a few others. Songs about helping hands or someone willing to help. But the song “Day is done” held a special meaning I created in my head as a small and tiny 12 year old boy desperate for help.
I sent a request to Jill asking her to play the song without mentioning why. She was kind enough to do so. I had hoped the song being given Jill’s loving treatment of songs when she posts them would stop the intrusion of the memories of that summer from invading my life. It did not. So I wrote to Jill and explained why the song meant so much to me. She was very gracious and we had conversations about it. Again I hoped it would stop the memories. It has not. They are interfering with my interactions on the computer, I can not focus on stuff. I get lost in my memories and emotions. I want to hide in videos but I can’t even remember what I am seeing / hearing.
I had mentioned to Jill that before on my other blog I use to talk a lot about my abuse when I felt the need to and that it helped me deal with it. I also mentioned that I got attacked there for sharing my abuse on my blog because a couple of complainers felt it was upsetting, disturbing, and they got too upset reading it. They complained it was turning off my readers but only a coubple said anything to me about not making the posts. I think someone on this blog commented almost something similar when I wrote about the angry hurt rape I experienced by my teenage hell spawn sibling. I asked Jill if I could share parts of the letter I wrote her detailing some of that summer. She agreed and offered me comfort but also warned me of what I had told her of the complainters. I think she did not want that to happen and upset me further.
I took her advice and gave it a lot of thought. Jill is a very smart compassionate woman who I admire. But the memories won’t stop. I even mentioned some of it to Ron in hopes that expressing that small amount would make the memories stop. I try not to tell Ron too much of my abuse. He is a wonderful loving man who knows I was abused physically, sexually, and emotionally, and he tries hard to comfort me when I have the nightmares and am in distress at night, when I thrash about, or wake screaming. But again it is something I had never planned to share with him. But when on a trip in 2007 I shared some of my childhood he had already had figured out I was abused, he just did not know how bad it was.
So in hopes it will help as my prior therapists have said it will, I will post what I shared with Jill, but I will edit it as needed. ***Warning below is the story of the physical and sexual abuse I endured the summer I spent in Canada as a child. *** If you do not want to know what I suffered, please skip the rest of this post. Hugs
———————————————————————
This is a picture of me that summer. The picture was labeled 11 or 12. But it was the summer after my 6th grade so I must have been 12 years old. My birthday is in March. I told Jill I was not sure if I was 12 or 13 but I must have been 12. The dog is three-legged, named Prince, and was one of my only other comforts of that summer. The woman watching me is the mother of my adoptive father. I was always watched I guess to see if I broke a rule so I could be further punished. To me the picture shows me still standing and being a normal boy despite what they were doing to me. Hugs
As best I can figure out, I was adopted around the age three. I don’t know if I had just turned three or how long I had been three but that is when the papers I found say I was, 3 years old when I was taken from the state of NY by bus to Vermont. I have very vague memories of the trip. The story about the song begins below.
I was 12 years old. I was about to move into the Junior high school from our local small town school where the elementary school principal knew something was wrong and did what he could to protect me, to the joint JR / SR high school for the area in a nearby large town. That summer my adoptive parents decided I should go live in Canada all summer from the end of school until start of the next, living with the adoptive father’s mother and her second husband.
The adoptive father was the oldest of 9 children. His father was an abusive drunk who died when the adoptive father was starting the 8th grade. He quit school to provide for his 8 siblings and mother. He became an extremely well-muscled arrogant bruiser who loved bar fights and was well feared. He hated the world and was very jealous of those that had an education and faired better than he did in life. It was that kind of anger at learning that caused him to ban me from having books including schoolbooks in the house for years because he felt I was not manly enough. But unlike his hell spawn boys he never showed me the secrets of the skills he did have, he was a master wood worker / carpenter with the certifications to prove it, a millwright, a skilled wielder, and other building construction related fields. He was very talented with what he did, but his arrogant angry willing to fight attitude combined with his inability to understand math (other than tape measure measurements and basic addition / subtraction) kept him from ever advancing to the place in society he felt he deserved. He also did not read very well and talked in an uneducated manner. He would be a proud maga today. He got the adoptive mother pregnant when she was 14 and, while she had very good intelligence something the adoptive father lacked, her schooling ended at that point.
Back to the summer I was sent off to Canada because the adoptive father did not want me around. Please remember he had taken his anger and frustrations on me all my life to this point. To say I was mistreated would be a huge understatement. I was physically and sexually assaulted not only by him, but he made it clear to his hell spawn of two girls and two boys, all older than me by at least five years, they were free to use me or do to what they wished to me. I knew not to complain. But when I was in 1st grade as a very bruised slight boy in torn clothes who would put his head down on my desk and get some much needed sleep, the school investigated and the adoptive parents were accused of child abuse. A story I will tell you if you wish, but not important to the song. It caused the adoptive parents to move us three times in less than half a year to another state, back then to the same state, then again but a much smaller town. The moved caused the charges to never be followed up on. After that the beatings grew less and less severe, but the sexual abuse got much worse.
So at first I looked at the trip as an escape, not realizing what was instore for me. The adoptive fathers mother married a man with a farm, it was a good farm but not great. He had a married son that will become central to this. After the adoptive parents left, I was sat down and explained the rules. I was to do as I was told, no argument or back talk, speak only to ask a question or when addressed, but otherwise keep my mouth shut, I would work as long as told, I would rest when given permission, I would obey all the time. They explained that they were going to make a man of me. I can only think that was the adoptive father’s directions, as it would happen outside the US so I would not have any help. At first I thought it would be ok, I was used to mistreatment. I figured I just needed to be good and work hard and it would be OK. After all this was only for the summer. It got farther than I imagined very fast.
I will fast forward through most of the daily routine, the early morning being pulled out of bed, the working until I couldn’t stand up in the evening. But here comes the point of this email and the song. Sorry but to understand why it is so important to me I had to give you the background.
*** trigger warnings the worst of the abuse there ***
Almost every afternoon I would be ordered to the barn. The worst part may have been I knew why and what was coming. The son and wife of the adoptive fathers mother’s second husband would have canes. Sometimes to be extra cruel they would make me pick them up and hand them to them. Remember these people controlled my life so there was no way not to go or to disobey. The barn doors were closed and locked as I stood there shaking. I was positioned facing a wall only inches from it. Then when they were ready and positioned, I was told to “Run you little fucking bastard”! As I turned and tried to run to find safety, they started to hit me with the wooden canes they used on the cattle. (one reason I refuse to use or have simple wooden crooked handle canes) They would chase me around until they had little slight tiny me cornered and beat me until I was on the ground. I was ordered to my knees, ordered to undo Carl’s pants. Open his belt, undo his pants button, pull the zipper down, and pull down his pants and underwear. Then I was ordered to either lick his balls or take his penis into my mouth. He was almost always hard by now but sometimes not. I would suck him, give him oral sex, occasionally being directed by him or his watching wife to stop and suck or lick his balls, then return to giving him oral sex until he finished in my mouth. When he came, I was to swallow and keep sucking his cock so that I got every drop. If any drippled out of my mouth I would be beaten more with the canes, if I stopped before told I could, I would be hit with the canes. During all the sex act part if they felt I was not trying hard enough to please him or for any reason she, the wife, would hit me with her cane. During all this sex act time they both would be insulting me, calling me degrading names, threatening me with more beatings if I did not do better. The worst was the times when after I had made him finish in my mouth and swallowed as commanded, pulled back up his underwear and pants, closed them up, sometimes I would be ordered to remain on my knees and not move. By then my knees hurt so bad from kneeling on the concrete floor of the barn. They would leave or move around the barn doing stuff, sometimes they would order me to follow them which was better for me as I could get off my knees. Soon they would return or order me to get back on my knees, always with the threat of cane hits. After the first couple times I knew what was to follow and I hated it more than all the rest. I would be ordered to unzip Carl and take out his penis. Then put it in my mouth. Then he would pee. He would piss in my mouth. I would be ordered repeatedly to swallow more, do it more quickly as it swelled out of my mouth as I franticly gulped down his pee. If I did not drink as much as they thought I should I after I again put his cock back in his pants and zipped him up I would be beaten with the canes. During all this time I would be told that I was a cum swallowing piss drinking worthless bastard and so much worse. After they had their fun I was given free time until it was evening milking time when I was required to work again. I often begged just to give him a blow job to avoid the beatings and the pissing but that would have denied them a lot of their fun I guess. Sorry to put you through this but most people have no idea of what my damned childhood was like. Ron says it is an incredible miracle I am as sane or mentally, emotionally, physically stable as I am. And he doesn’t know this fuller account of that summer nor a lot of my childhood abuse, I cannot bring myself to tell him. It is enough he must hear me screaming in pain or fear at night and try to help me, without burdening him with this knowledge. And I struggle every day, and at night the nightmares come.
*** abuse part over ****
Now to the part about, the song. Why it is an important part of my childhood and especially during what I just revealed to you. See my adoptive mother revealed to me just before I left (as she laid on top of me … another story you might not want to know …) that my real father was alive and in NY state. She described him or what she claimed he looked like and gave me a few small tantalizing things I was desperate for. She gave me very little more than that but promised if I was a good boy while gone and pleased her more when I got home, she would tell me who he was. I so badly wanted to know more, but she told me I had to earn that information. I knew what that meant. But if … the hope …! I had recently learned the Day is Done song lyrics and music. I could sing it from memory. Every line seemed to be my unknown dad talking to me. As I cried in the barn, in my bed, and all the time I was in Canada I dreamed of my unknown dad. I knew if I thought of him hard enough he would know I was being hurt, that I needed him, and he would come to rescue me. In my head I created so many dreams of him showing up, defeating everyone hurting me, saving me and taking me to a wonderful new life with him, my dad. Every day many times a day, especially after the afternoon abuse, I sang that song to myself and dreamed of my savior dad coming to get me.
Sadly as an abused kid, I did not stop to think why I was up for adoption in the first place. It did not occur to me that my dad simply gave me up because he was a man who couldn’t stop fucking every woman he met and already had a bunch of kids at home and more elsewhere. From what I have found out much later he may have been paid to do so by the adoptive mother’s father for some reason, at least the adoptive mother’s father paid for the adoption costs. The adoptive parents never came clean with me and as you can imagine I long ago stopped believing anything they told me.
So that is the story of why the song is so important to me. During that summer of abuse it was the lifeline I clung to thinking it was something my dad was asking me, thinking if I believed hard enough my real dad would save me. Like all such beliefs without facts to back them up, it was a lie and false hope. No one showed up to save me. At one point I was allowed to call my adoptive parents while the adoptive grandparents sat there and listened, and I begged to be allowed to come back home. I promised to be a good boy, promised to everything asked of me, promised to never complain … but they already knew what was happening to me and felt it was good for me I guess, would make me more compliant as a teenager in their home.
During the email conversations with Jill, I shared some more of the physical abuse I suffered. Below is some of that, again edited. Hugs
As a 4 or 5 year old I was taken to have my leg bone put back in the hip socket due to being “tossed to see how far I could fly” down the stairs for an afternoon. The doctors think that one of the reasons I have hip and spine damage so bad relates to those … fun times by the hell spawn siblings. I remember my adoptive mother once laughing with friends as she described how my hell spawn sisters were holding me by the arms and legs throwing me into the air to let me land … sometimes on their bed. But they suddenly went out to play and after a while she went to their room where she found me unconscious crumpled up on the floor and couldn’t wake me up. Seems the hell spawn had thrown me into a closed closet door. But no, I was not taken to any medical place to be examined and no the hell spawn did not get into trouble. When you described me as something they could take out and play with and throw me into a closet when they were done you were more correct than you could know. For the first nearly 7 years I slept in a hallway as they did not feel the need to provide me with a bed or even a room. When my older hell spawn siblings would take me into their beds I would enjoy the comfort, after paying the price for it.
If dear readers you made it this I thank you, and you have a far better understanding of me and my childhood than you did before. Now friends I must, I really have to go do something, watch something, a funny video or a m ovie I can totally immerse myself in. I so desperatly need to get the things in this letter out of my mind. Hugs
Scottie's Playtime 