I was described as some kind of inspiring individual in primary school, apparently. That changed later on. After being hit by my father at a young age, he'd later be divorced for his abuse of the entire family. I'd join a Catholic primary school and become baptised shortly beforehand; then I'd have my First Communion in the school. The whole intent behind all of this (including the baptism in Poland, where I had no connection) was to get me to a decent high school on the intent of my family. My father-in-law was Polish, and so he had married my mother and this had all started. He was often comforting in my much younger years, and then crueller as time went on (atleast when we were alone).
I had a day to go there and try it out. I loved it, I loved the people there, and I had so much fun. Eventually I'd get bullied there, it wasn't so nice, and even the tasks I'd be assigned, that I loved -- like lighting the candles for prayer -- they would get stolen from me.
This and the molestation led to me bullying another, not constantly, not daily, but I wasn't too nice to them, I don't think. I used to tackle this guy and hit him now and again when I lost my temper. I never really went hard on the physical stuff, once I matured. I began to understand how to process my feelings.
I do feel guilty for things like that, perenially guilty, even if I didn't at the time. It's just, miserable, you know?
I was getting molested at the time, so perhaps, even if I did do bad things to other people, it was kind of.. atleast.. understandable. I feel gross saying that, but perhaps I'll sympathise with myself someday.
The story of the mythical levels of molestation committed against me is necessarily censored, because otherwise it would expose my personal life (as the story of the serial child abuser is reported online from certain local, but not national newspapers).
He'd put cameras in the school toilets he worked at, and he molested me, too. It was when I was eight or nine.. Maybe a bit later. Many years later, he was caught for the cameras thing -- and for molesting a much younger girl, the daughter of his friend, who was five years old, maybe six at the time. She used to hide from us starting at one point -- I guess it was related to that. I had never told anyone until a week of my mum asking if he did anything to me.
I was convinced I would never tell anyone, when he did all those things to me, you see. He did make me promise -- but it was less about that, more the promise I made to myself. At eight years old or so, little old me was convinced I'd take the story to the grave. Perhaps I'm just making excuses.
The police believed me, and the fucker confessed. They'd charge him on a count or two from my end, but no more: they didn't believe the extent of the crimes he had perpetrated against me, you see.
He'd probably molested me 50 times or more. A reminder I was eight or so at the time of this. It started off gently, and he'd advance over many days. We'd be sitting downstairs, and I loved World of Warcraft at the time. I was never any good at it, but I used his account, and I played a lot and had so much fun. Sometimes we'd look at Wowhead or Wowpedia, and I'd read all this lore stuff. I read it on an iPad next to him, we'd chat.
Anyways, as I said, it started off gently. He'd rub my crotch, sometimes with just a finger, sometimes with the back of his hand, sometimes the front of his hand. Sometimes he'd grab at it. My crotch was always covered, though. Sometimes he tried to go further than that, but somehow I stopped him, just by asking. He did it a lot, so many times, I couldn't keep count. I really couldn't -- and that's why I often say about '50'. Because it was at least that.
He was nearly caught once by mum -- who insisted I had to go up to bed, it was getting late -- and as I left the room, he tried to make me promise I would never tell anyone. I said okay. He asked me this a couple of times over the period.
After this, I didn't really know what to think. Like I said, I was convinced I'd take it to the grave. I hated him and all he'd done to me, especially because he'd punched me in the head once at this point. The other acts weren't fully understood, but I understood them as making me very, very uncomfortable.
In spite of everything, he did stop for a while. It'd stop and start -- the same scenario. I was deliberately distant towards him.
Eventually, I was so terrified of lightning and storms -- I always have been, still am -- that I had to sleep in my parents bed, where he was. Mum made me sleep on his side, but I was so terrified of being alone that I did. Mum was fast asleep, and I made no noise as he put his hairy, big hand under my boxers, underneath my pyjamas, and touched my dick. I'll go no further than that, but that's how it started.
Eventually I'd get him to stop, whispering, and I'd demand to go to my bed. He was confused as to why, and I said I just want to go. He took me there, stared at me. Kept watching me as I went to sleep. Sometimes I think he contemplated killing me.
I'd wake up later in the night -- with him squatting next to the bed, his hand under the quilt. I think he was touching me more while I was asleep.
My point was, life in general has been rape to me. The event instilled constant problems to me, ongoing for years, ongoing to this day.
I'm on YouTube videos (not my face, or anything personally identifiable) with tens of thousands of views because I cut an /r9k/ girl's name into my arm when I was 15, at her request. Not even her request directly -- she just, said you'd get a reward. I thought this girl, 8 years older than me was my eternal love. Aeromatic moment. She instead was speaking to 7 others and trying to get money from all of them.
After that, it was a 21 year old from Louisiana on ROBLOX, who convinced me we were in a gay relationship and sent me photos of his cock all the time. Afterwards I'd tip the FBI (and he'd genuinely get a visit).
Before all this it was Aiste -- I was maybe 13, she wasn't really known, but she was about 27 and teaching me Swedish, so I could become her child bride. I didn't even realise what was wrong until she said she was into lolicon, and she used the "child bride" term to ask how my mother would feel about us marrying.
I didn't REALLY know I was getting groomed. I did sort of understand with some of these people, not really properly or truly until after, but I was just desperate for love, for attention. For my life to mean something. I didn't really care about being abused.
What is the point of chronicling all this for myself? I guess I don't know how to get past all this. And a lot of it is, very embarrassing to tell to psychiatrists/therapists. My psychiatrist knows, atleast, of some of them. It's just really, really fucking uncomfortable being me.
And despite all of that, I guess I have turned things around. I no longer repress, so no need to drink. We aren't in a perfect scenario there, but I'm making inroads, I promise.
My life isn't really much better than it used to be. I do have some friends that care about me now, I can't talk to them as much as I'd like to.
One of them helped me vocalise my truth, about who I really am. I don't know if they actually care about me. I suppose they do, given the things we did together, but the way they respond or don't sometimes, even if we've met up.. I don't know, aaaa. I guess what I mean is I care about them a lot, a huge amount, so I worry.
And besides, the others in their life -- so much better than I.
It's my age-old problem. Even if I shouldn't see it that way.
Nothing's been meaningfully improved by virtue of me writing this, I can tell. I just always feel like I'm sitting, scrunched up in the corner of a room filled with ripped-up papers, demonstrating my life and what's been done to it. Permanent ruin. Most people never have to deal with all this, and yet I have to endure ever more challenges than everybody else. And I have to behave as acceptably as the best of them too. More than a few days off sick, get sacked. How's that fair? I have an exceptionally shit life. I should be afforded some privilege in compensation. I guess I did get £1,000 when I was 18 and spent it on booze and a laptop.
I get a new infection of brainworm every year or two -- some new addiction, some new problem like OCD to handle. At least I swung the OCD out of the park last year, mostly. Who knows how long I'll be able to handle that? :) I have been thinking about starting to play the lottery. Even if it's a £8 idiot tax to play every week in a month, who gives a shit? Maybe I'll get something that helps me be a bit happier anyway.
I see all these people, with so much opportunity, so much drive, so much capability. The western land of opportunity fills me with rage.
And all these people, oh-so-beautiful, fill me with even worse jealousy.
Life is a constant repetition of rape. The internal inferno of feeling like less than a pushover, who can never say no to anyone. Above all else, a desire to be needed that will forever go unfulfilled.
More than both of those things, I just grieve for who I could've been. I live in a constant state of self-torture.
Atleast now, I know I won't go bald.
