Last night I had gone to bed earlier than Ron, my husband as is normal. I slept on my side of the bed and Tupac slept on Ron’s side against Ron’s pillows. We have two small car type pillows and we normally put one down against Ron’s pillows with a towel over them for Tupac to lay on. He sometimes has incontinence of his bladder and at the end of the time length of his drops he tends to get drips from his anus. We are not sure if he just gets into something outside that causes it or it is his drops preventing it as Ron is not great at keeping track of the drops or his spotting.
So when Ron came to bed he started to pull back his blanket and sheets only to realize Tupac had urinated a lot. Again not his fault, he does this when deep asleep sometimes. He is old and badly injured on his lower back end. We think he got hit by a golf cart because he is terrified by them. So Ron and I changed the bed at 10 pm last night.
Ron has gone out to visit with a nurse he worked with and I started washing the sheet and blankets from last night. As I lifted the bedding up to put it in the washer the smell and sight of a pee soaked circle right in my face triggered first one and then more memories. I lost track of time, I was that boy having been peed on while on my mat in the hallway, I was the boy so proud of his first bed to be forced to beg to drink a teen male’s urine rather than have it on my first bed at age 8 … only to have them do it to me anyway. To have to kneel or stand as the males peed on my pants or in them knowing I would be given public punishment by the adopting parents for peeing myself. Forced to accept them doing to me something I had no way to stop, too small and too weak to stop to do anything, and then suffering the public punishment in front of them as they laughed and mocked me with the approval of the adopting parents.
I went to the bathroom next to the washer / dryer and threw up in the toilet. Once done with that I just sat there on the floor and cried. A damned 62 year old man, once a decorated enlisted military man who served in two branches of the service, sitting on the bathroom floor with my back to the sink cabinet sobbing for remembered past pains, hurts, and emotions I can never seem to make stay away but resurface again and again and again into eternity. They tear at me, destroy me it seems like every time.
Finally I was able to calm down. Ron was gone so I had to deal with no support. Yes I could have called Randy but I did not have my phone and even the thought to find it was something I couldn’t manage. Damn even as I try to type this I keep breaking out in tears. I sometimes wonder if the living abusers ever feel bad over what they did to me? But I know not, they were too well schooled and inducted into hate by their parents. So I finished putting stuff in the laundry, kept drying my eyes and blowing my nose.
When I got back to my Pink Palace office … which I will be leaving soon for a grand better brighter room, I took the dry up nasal spray and sat down to write this. I struggled as always … should I burden my friends with it … Well they did not do this it is not their fault. Hey they are really good people I shouldn’t throw this dirt on them and soil them with my own past it is not their fault!
These people don’t deserve to have these thoughts in their head like you do, give them a fuck break from your whining you piece of damaged shit the voice of my adoptive father screams in my head! It rings so loud along with the other names called me. The worst were when he was angry or during the abuse. But his general feeling about me he beat into me. Now I am so tired. I want to quit. I want it all to end. I want to give up.
But there is joy in my life I force myself to remember. I have my wonderful husband of nearly 35 year. I have a home, and enough income to survive. I have good things in my life. But they only cover the screams of the abused child I was, even raped after I came home from the military by them until I was able to escape to my own home and then to the safety of Ron’s protection from them.
Thank you for letting me write this. As always it is a horrible fight to do it, it is like being abused all over again to describe it. But the process of doing that, of voicing the hurt makes is so much less, drives it back into the holes it hides into. I need to write to get it out of me. I am so grateful there are people who understand this and willing to listen as I do, taking unto themselves their own memories my writing may trigger. I am so sorry I might do that to others, to hurt them. But it is the only way I know to get some relief myself. So I thank you all greatly. Hugs.
Scottie's Playtime 