Now We Are Six
8:59 a.m. -- 2008-07-18
You might not want to read this entry, since it concerns my being molested a young age.
Still here?
When I was about six years old, a teenaged boy lured me into his family's garage, on the pretext of giving me a toy. Let's call him Simon. Because that's his name. The bastard.
Trusting little berk that I was, I went along quite willingly.
Mercifully, I don't remember everything that took place. I remember that the toy 'disappeared' and my assailant alleged that I had hidden it. I can still hear his voice asking me, in a friendly, sing-song tone; 'Is it up your bottom?'
Which he then insisted should be examined for evidence of the missing toy...
(Ugh. This is making my skin crawl.)
So, I was indecently assaulted. Maybe worse, but I don't remember how the attack concluded; whether he actually violated me in the worst way, or not. I can remember the jumble of cardboard boxes on the floor of that garage, the paint tins and the heavy wooden doors with flaking white paint on them... but there's no memory of the time between my standing bare-arsed in the garage, and my return home.
When I got home, I was in Big Trouble for having wandered off. I was in enough hot water for going AWOL, without compounding my woes by explaining that I'd been caught up in something nasty... so, of course, I didn't tell.
On the positive side, it seems that Simon must have found the experience either very frightening or highly unsatisfactory. He didn't seek a repeat performance. At least, not with me.
Having no frame of reference upon which to hang this memory, I didn't recall any of this until years afterwards. I knew nothing at all about sex until much later, when I encountered 'Chapter 10: reproduction' in our science textbooks, at age eleven. Even then, it was almost a decade before I suddenly remembered the event I have described here, and understood it for what it was. In fact, it popped back into my head shortly after Lucy and I became sexually active.
I think Simon must have been about fourteen years old when he felt me up. This almost certainly means he was perpetuating a pattern of abuse that he had himself experienced. That doesn't make it much easier for me to forgive, though.
Still, almost all the cells in the human body are replaced, over time. Some people have quoted a renewal process of seven years, to replace everything except teeth and some parts of the brain. That means my body has been completely replaced - renewed and made clean - several times over, since that disgusting day. I was once a victim, but now I'm somebody else.
My attacker grew up and moved away. Years later, in a cautionary tale no doubt passed on in order to stop me wanting a motorcycle, my father told me that Simon had been in a dreadful traffic accident, and was badly injured. It's my understanding that his mobility is now considerably impaired, and I take this to mean that he won't be abusing any more small boys. It's handy, really, because it means I don't have to waste my time with thoughts of somehow tracking him down, and killing him.
Sometimes, if I'm left alone, allowing myself too much introspection, I wonder if there's a relationship between my cross-dressing and the day I was assaulted, maybe raped.
Did this event kick-start my transvestism, as I sought to reject maleness, after a deeply unsettling encounter with this other male?
Was I victimised by this attack, with the result that I failed to develop a healthy, confident male self-image, and became gender-confused?
Am I confusing cause and effect? Was I chosen as victim because I was already perceived to be somewhat feminine? It seems unlikely because kids are more-or-less the same before puberty, but... was I? Why me?
And...
Is my unusual level of interest in womens' clothes actually a good thing? The abused, left untreated, often become sexually compulsive. A lot of abused males become abusers, themselves.
I, too, have a sexual compulsion. I'm a fetishistic transvestite. But is my cross-dressing a useful outlet? I mean, some people might call me a pervert, but there are worse perversions. I may be a bit screwed up, but I'm not dangerous.
Actually, I am reluctant to describe myself as having been abused. For some people, abuse happens again and again, over a number of years. In such cases, the abuser is often somebody within the family home, which is a far more terrible thing. I was lucky; it only happened once. It's just one blip in an otherwise happy childhood of roller skates, Lego, Action Man, balsa wood aeroplanes, gobstoppers, comics...
I count my blessings, and I can see that I've come out far, far ahead of the game. I love Victoria fiercely. Passionately. And she loves me, and she held me when I cried and got all snotty as I told her about this. Who could ask for more?
-----
I'm sorry if you found today's entry upsetting. I was just trying to recount a small part of my life, which may or may not have shaped who I am. As usual, my aim was 100% honesty - even if it costs a little dignity - because I'm trying to explain my condition, not justify my actions.
If you have been affected by child abuse, or are currently being abused, I suggest you visit this page and see the external links that include a number of support communities. You are not alone, but you have to take that first step.
previous - next
|
