Hair during childhood

I have very few photos of me as a child. I only have these few. I wish I had more. I did have a small book given to me by someone who knew my adopting adults but hurricane Ian took them from me and I did not have them saved digitally. Notice that until I was 17 and in the church boarding school was I allowed to have long hair. Hair was used as a way to set me apart from other kids, to reenforce the idea that I was less than the others, I was the one to be hurt and used. As I have mentioned while the other kids could have their hair the current style I was required to have my hair as short as possible. When I was young my adopting father cut it himself and would often leave bald spots and make it as ugly as possible. Hugs

Me at 7 months

These two pictures below I do not know how old I am, but again notice the hair. In the top picture we are at the large farm my grandparents owned. It was a place the entire family gathered at holidays. I was happy to be outside because inside the big farm house with a dozen bedrooms I was constantly being raped or made to please “my” siblings, cousins, and uncles. Even at that age of 4 or 5 I was no stranger to the emotional, physical, and sexual abuse that started at age 3. The clothing was always decent when we were there, to be taken from me once we left. At the farm house I had food to eat when hungry, and grandmother was always talking to me, hugging me, and just letting me stay near her. No one yelled at me even though I was scared of some of the adult men. But when we left the good times stopped and the abuse began.

The lower one I think was taken after we have had moved to the small cow town to evade the abuse charges against the adults. I think this might have been my second grade school photo. By now the light was going from my eyes and I learned not to talk. I simply looked at everyone as possibly the next one I would have to “make happy” or perform for. It was now happening at school, by the one of the town police officers, and of course at home. My siblings would drug me and take me to parties or simply have them at the house we lived in and I would be a party favor.

In this picture below I am about 11 or 12. I am about to go to be taken somewhere to some event to be displayed. I think it might have been to church where for a while the adopting adult female and her daughters were going to hopefully to buy their way past their guilts. The pastor there was regularly abusing me, I have talked about that before. I was grateful he only wanted to play with my nude body or have me suck him, never put something in my butt as normally I would have been raped at least once before getting ready for church. By now I had no fight left in me. Notice the always long sleeves to cover the marks and bruises and the long pants to cover the welts and marks. Again notice the short hair at a time when longer flowing hair was being worn by boys my age in school. This would have been in the early 1970s. By now at this age I had accepted I was a toy to be used or displayed, moved and directed by them. I had no agency, no authority, no say in my life. My retreat was in my head, the place I lived, the dreams and stories I told myself that no one else could hear.

Below is me at 18 at the church boarding school. This is the first time in my life I was allowed to grow my hair out. The adopting adults hated it. The adopting adult female constantly bitching and insulting me over. At this point the adopting male refused to speak to me or be in any room I was in if I had to be at their home during the school year. I tried to remain at the school as much as possible.

Below is me at age 23 or early 24 when I had just gotten out of the military. I had already started to let my hair grow over my ears. This was the way I kept my hair most of my life just longer on the sides and back. Parted on the left and swept to the right. Hugs

This is me at age 23 or early 24 when I had just gotten out of the military. I had already started to let my hair grow over my ears. This was the way I kept my hair most of my life just longer on the sides and back. Parted on the left and swept to the right. Hugs

Silenced! A South Korean Film

As most know I have had a rough few days. And I decided as I worked around the house and did stuff I needed something very not news in my head. I told my computer to find me coming of age young people figuring out they were gay. There are great short movies out there by people who lived through it and while some have the same trope, some have really good takes. I never got that chance in my life so I enjoy those movies and cheer for the kids that come together and find themselves at the end. Ok it is not Picard but it is also the kind of things you don’t need to watch as you work to enjoy the story. Then life decided to kick me in the balls.

Then the trailer for the movie silenced came to my ears. I heard it, then rushed to my computers to see what was happening. I watched the trailer. Oh shit … my mind spiraled. Everything I was going through up until then crashed on me … and I clicked on the link. And watched even more screen takes.

While I was crying everything that happened next is entirely my fault. I looked up where you can watch this documentary. This documentary of kids being abused … and getting their day in court. That was what I desperately wanted to see. Them win in court. But sadly two days later I can not get there. And I doubt I ever will, not unless I can get past the abuse. Ron commented I did not seem like myself and have not seemed to be sleeping well, not like I have been for a while. The pictures in my head, the screenshots of memories repeating over and over … no I am not sleeping well.

See the movie beginning details the death of a 5 / 6 year old boy who walks out in front of a moving train, which if you watch long enough you find that the boy had watched his brother beaten for trying to protect him from rape, been repeatedly raped, then his brother raped. The movie makes it even worse because the bath the younger boy got while nude … I got that same damn bath. The soap, the hands, the attention paid … it is all too damn real to me.

And then goes on to mix the new teacher with flashbacks to the rape of a 6 yr girl he interrupted not knowing he had. He witnesses the repeated beatings of a boy that turns out to be the brother that killed himself and he was repeatedly being raped that the teacher finally stops using violence himself. Totally against their societal norms. The reasons for the beatings become clear. The boy tries to resist being repeatedly sexually abused.

At that point I checked out. Lost in time and space in my own mind. I came back to my own mind with the computer player paused and Ron knocking on my office door asking if I wanted supper. I told him no and did not tell him about the video. Then two nights of bad sleep, still have not told him.

I want to finish the movie, I want to see these kids win. But the court part of it which is next will have to include their abuse, the rapes, forced oral sex. Right now I can’t do that. I can’t. I am sorry I know it is a movie but it is a documentary and these kids did go through this. I went through this. So I closed the player a few minutes ago and won’t be opening it for a while. Back to listening to podcasts of news and watching videos of what tRump is doing. As weird as it is to say … it is far less stressful to me than that movie. Sadly now my YouTube feed has a few abuse videos so I have to ignore the suggested and only watch the ones on my subscribed listed. Now you know why the last few days have been a struggle for me. Hugs

As I was checking this Ron knocked on my closed office door. He came over and held his arms out and slowly reached around me to hug me. He asked me if I was OK, that I had been a bit strange lately. I told him I was fine and loved him, just a bit tired. He replied he couldn’t have done the work the last few days without me … which is weird as I can’t help much other than fetch needed tools and parts and the occasional flashlight. But when he came in the room I quickly turned this page to another tab. That means he knows something is wrong and I am not hiding it well enough. So I have to forget the documentary and everything in my past again as best I can.

What I wanted this post to be about was why the hell do I even read this stuff, watch these things. I have to know they will trigger me. Yet it is like a moth to a flame. It is why I had to leave the Male Survivor site. Every story I read and replied to became somehow ingrained in me because some aspect of what they wrote I went through. I started to describe the many ways those posts are me and what I went through … I got five or six sentences in when I realized I was spiraling down again. Let just say it was too many who had parts of my abuse and added together it becomes a whole, and I couldn’t keep putting myself there even to help others. I can not help others if I am wallowing in my own suffering. It was destroying me.

It is why I could listen to Kamyk and help him night after night after night, because our abuse was so different. He was a kidnaped victim for three months for ritualistic abuse. Mine was a long slog from when I was 3 until the last time one of the hell spawn raped me repeatedly at 24. So 21 years of violence and physical abuse. Anyway. I am tired. I am going to answer comments until Ron is ready for bed. Lately he has wanted to cuddle a lot which I really like. Be safe everyone. Hugs

During everything trying to do still struggling.

So today I have been having a very full day. I have been helping Ron with the bathroom stuff as well as I could. Did our morning walk. I talked to Ron a bought evening meals. I have been watching videos. I have been answering comments which always makes me happy even though I am getting tired. I am working on a post right now on the blogging computer how Ron and I redesigned the hallway bathroom. But even during all that old issues come up. I am so tired of it, and I am sorry to again hit you with it. But two videos showed up in my YouTube feed and I clicked on them. I have to say I shouldn’t have clicked on them, my own damn fault. Ok I admit that. But like a moth to a flame sometimes. What do I say? I should run, and keep running. But far too often I click. And I watch. And I hurt. But each of them tried to send me into the void. Luckily I have strong friends who keep that void from me. Here are the two videos below. I am not opening any more YouTube links for now except for those from those I know and respect. Hugs.

Unlike the story of the teen above I was shared willingly by my older hell spawn female siblings with their boyfriends / future husband. I was way to please the boyfriend without them having to do the work. When the oldest one’s second husband moved into our home and started raping me and her really young kids she laughed to my adopting mother saying it was so cute her soon to be husband thought he was sleeping with a girl. A year later her soon to be 8 years old son came to me saying he wished he had been born a girl so he could be a better girlfriend. I was so entrapped in my own abuse I couldn’t help him. Hell at that time I couldn’t even understand what he was saying, none of my abusers had told me I needed to be the girl, I just was. I regret that to this day. All I could do then was hold him and say please be glad of your man parts and don’t let anyone take them from you. I don’t know if that helped him or if he is angry because he told someone like I did, and they did not help. Sadly he told me who was being abused by the very people abusing him.

Both of these boys were me. Sadly in the first I had no one to go to, the teachers I told only abused me freely and the only time I pulled a gun on one of my abusers … something, maybe a higher power, maybe just a future me, or a better part of me, convinced me not to and to lower the gun, remove my hand from the trigger and to replace everything to the places they belonged. Of all the events in my life that once scares me the most. The idea if I had pulled that trigger that night. What might I have become. Horrible to think of. I was only 9 or so that night. How I might have destroyed the Scotty that was to be. But I had just been violently raped by one of my main hell spawn sibling abusers who had made me do unspeakable things before while growing up. Yet with the gun pressed to his passed out temple, my finger on the trigger, something held me back. I have never understood why. Surly I would have been let off by any court. Blood still tricked down my leg from his sexual assault. But really that was not the point. Something more was. At this point in my life at 62, I doubt I will ever know or understand. Love to all. Best wishes to those that don’t want hugs. Hugs.

It happened again. Trigger warning for child physical and sexual abuse.

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.

I made a mistake, read what I shouldn’t, now can not stop thinking about it.

**** Trigger warning, talk of abuse with a few graphic details. ****

I had stopped going to the male survivor site as it was causing me to spiral badly into the bad places in my head, triggering my negative emotions, getting seriously depressed and spending hours stuck in my memories, crying, then having horrible nightmares as I tried to sleep.

Look even without going to the site I still scream out in my sleep. It is agonizing because in my dreams I am struggling to verbalize the words, get them out and it feels like my mouth is locked shut, sort of my like my lips are sewn together. In my nightmares I can speak and scream normally until it gets so intense it seems I struggle to get the sounds out and they become much more guttural. That seems to be when I am getting audible in the awake world. When it seems I am able to unlock my jaws or rip my lips open is when I am in reality shouting out in my sleep. Ron had to wake me just two days ago when I was shouting help help help. I spared him the description of the abuse even though he is always willing for me to tell him the memories or nightmares because he knows it is very helpful for me to talk about it or get it out. Especially when it has just happened.

Anyway back to this morning. So a new friend who is a survivor who has been on the Male Survivor site much more than I have been and posts there often about everything going on in his life, like I do here, this person has been saying to me that they wrote about their holidays so could I go to their posts to see what had been going on with them. I went to the MS site, I started reading new posts before I got to his posts. And I never made it to Steve’s posts.

The post was about being anally raped and the person leaving their cum inside you that you try to prevent leaking out. The post and the people replying / joining the conversation all also wrote about their underwear being stained with poop and cum or in some cases blood. The conversation was about trying to get rid of or wash the evidence out before it was discovered by a mother or other who cared for them and they did not want to find out they were being abused.

I did not have this problem. My abuse was much more open and known in the house so I did not have to hide it or wash my sheets after. I did get in trouble if I wore my white underwear after without cleaning myself up which would leave stains / marks in the white underwear. So those if I saw that I would wash them myself soon as I could like the people in the conversation said they did. When the wet underwear was discovered after a few times of me doing that, I was caught in the act cleaning them. I was yelled at for it, told I was so stupid then pulled to the kitchen in front of everyone while naked, while my adoptive mother “taught me how to wipe my bottom and clean myself” after being raped. I was told to rather than lay in the bed or put my underwear on, that as soon as the person was finished with me and they did not want to use me anymore I should go empty myself. Then wipe / wash my bottom. I then had to repeat and show I knew how to do this in front of the laughing hell spawn. All that taught me was to wash and dry them before I put them in the laundry basket.

So this brings me to what I can not get out of my head this morning. Before I got side tracked by my memories and started the downward spiral, I was busy reading news articles, adding to my posting of crazy stuff that the right was doing, and gathering memes of Sunday’s meme post. Then it all came to a halt and I started to crash. Writing this out is helping. So what about the above triggered me?

See I could hold it in, the fluids inside me normally while laying in the bed, or in the short timeframe from when it was over until I could get to the bathroom or if outside until I could dump / empty my bowels, but that left nothing to wipe with so I would have to carry my underwear until I could do so hoping not to soil my pants. But there was one place and time I couldn’t do any of that. It was when raped and abused at school.

Please stay with me and try to understand the feelings / thinking of a small kid as I try to describe this without being too graphic. It started at school when I was 7 and continued but tapered off as I became a teenager. So imagine being 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, or 12 and being taken to a supply closet, empty room, or after school hours to the principal’s office. Once there told to drop my pants. Being fondled and touched. Then ordered to my knees to give oral sex to a male. So far none of that deals with what I wrote about above, soiling myself. But that comes from when instead of being told to kneel, I was instead told to turn around and stand on something, or picked up and draped over something, (more than once being forced to lay over the copy machine as it dug into my chest / belly while my ass was used to make the male staff / teachers happy) when I was very small I would be made to take my pants off then placed on my back on a shelf with my legs pined up as my back was bent to position my butt hole correctly for their use.

Ok I tried to put if off as long as I could. This is the part I was trying to get to and that the conversation on the site was about. After being used, trusted into sometimes with lube and sometimes without, filled with those fluids and possible messiness, my bottom full of the ejaculate of the guy who just … fucked me, I would be told to get dressed and go back to class. Of course the person who used me wanted to make the time I was away from class as short as possible if I was taken from class for the abuse. So if I had been summoned or escorted from the classroom, I would be told to get dressed quickly and return to class. I knew better than to tell. If it had been painful and hurtful, I would be told to stop crying and wipe my face on my shirt.

So this gets back to the stained underwear. I would have to put my underwear on, no choice, and go back to class not knowing if I was messy or not. I would only know my butt hurt, maybe my belly, back, or legs would also hurt. I would have to enter the classroom trying to not show anything wrong, feeling like everyone in the room was looking at me knowing what had just happened, what I had just done. Again if it was oral all I struggled with was the taste in my mouth. But if it had been anal specially if it had been forceful, in a bad position for me, or if no lube had been used, then my butt / asshole would be very sore and full of fluids. I would be forced to try to sit still, and desperately pinch my butt cheeks together as painful as that was or let the liquids mixed with poop ooze out creating both smell and stains. Most teachers soon understood and did not scold me for not paying attention or being not being still in my seat. It was the same as when I had been given a belting, spanking, or bad paddling before school, they seem to understand the pain I was in that my clothing / pants covered.

As soon as I could or when the teacher would quietly whisper in my ear asking if I needed to use the bathroom, I would leave the classroom walk carefully to the bathroom where I would rush into a toilet stall. I would also check my underwear as best I could. I would do the same as I walked or rode my bike home. I lived about a mile and half from the school. It was so much better in the warm months trying to do it in when bundled up for the cold was horrible. Because in warm months I could run in to the woods or somewhere not able to be easily seen, strip off my lower clothing and then remove my underwear, and redress. Then I could take the underwear to a brook like the one we had behind our home, wash the underwear, hang it in the sun to dry off something where I should be able to retrieve it later. Stories of what happened the few times I was caught doing this another time.

Many abuse victims just threw their soiled clothing out. I couldn’t do that. Punishment for losing my clothing was as severe as for soiling them.

So that was what has destroyed my emotions and focus for the last 7 hours. Taking the time to write this has helped me calm down and recenter. But the remembered pain of being so small, the over whelming emotion of feeling that everyone knew when I entered the classroom, and the fear that it was leaking into my underwear knowing that I would be publicly punish and possibly also privately punish if they were stained. Maybe most parents finding semen, blood, or poop stains all over the back of their child’s underwear would cause them to question what happened or rush to defend / help their son. Not mine, if they felt anything at all maybe they were happy it was happening to me. Maybe it relieved their own guilt knowing others did the same to me. I don’t know.

Just more from my childhood I have to deal with. Anyway, no more meme hunting today, nor news about the stuff the right is doing. Today I am going to answer comments and concentrate on the love and out pouring of support I get from this community. Oh and tomorrow I have a doctor’s appointment. Hugs.