Thomas

 

I am now 54 years old and still carry scars from early childhood. I was repeatedly molested over about 8 years by a neighbor. Like too many survivors, I buried my secret, carried my pain, and in doing so... severely damaged my mental health. At 18, in college, my first time living alone, it became too much and I learned the taste of a gun barrel, I learned to hoard pills and keep alcohol close. Too much time was spent considering just a way out of my own thoughts. My inner monologue ruled out the gun because his parents wouldn't get the cleaning deposit back if I blew my head off. Proof of my illogical thinking but also how considerate I was for my parents. A friend thankfully had read the cues something was wrong and came over and literally saved my life. My greatest fear was still my parents learning my secret. My molester called what he was doing to me "the game". Even though I could not ejaculate... I would have dry orgasms and it felt good. As I hit puberty, he lost interest and I also felt abandoned... like some fucking demented Stokholm syndrome. The incident with the gun and pills did get me into some counseling at my university where the trauma was never discussed because all I was concerned about was did this make me gay. 

 

My parents were staunch conservative, religious, Republicans. All I feared was them thinking I was gay because I was molested by a guy. My parents did all they knew to do to help me... but not ruffling the feathers of anyone at church was their concern. Few people have ever made it behind the wall I live behind. I love my parents (both passed away now) and I do know they loved me too, but just were not equipped to deal with a traumatized boy. The college friend (that saved me) also became my 1st true love. He knew my secret and did not care. The one love in college lead to fear of being found out and I dated girl after girl to make myself straight. After a short, failed marriage, I came out to myself and just weeks later to the world. Admitting I was gay was not healing, but it was some salve on a still tender scar. 

 

Few people have ever made it behind the wall I live behind. The few relationships I have had, have been generally good, but I still feel to damaged to love. My parents did not know I needed protecting, no one knew my acting out needed defending. To this day, the slightest (sometimes only perceived) feeling of not being protected, defended or someone not standing up for me sends me down a spiral of depression that thankfully doesn't seek a gun, pills, or alcohol to cure... but it sure makes that scar tender all over. Food is often used to treat and comfort my feelings.

 

I know I still need treatment for my mental UNhealth... but being poor, even small copays add up. As the world began to quarantine and social distance one good friend made the observation that - that is how I have been living for years.