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My story.

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Joined: 23 Apr 2013
Posts: 3

PostPosted: Thu May 09, 2013 11:26 pm    Post subject: My story.

This is my first post. I welcome any input. Itís why I'm here; I never discuss what happened with anyone, except the person that got me through the darkest parts. Perhaps that's the problem. I have gone through a very long journey, so I will tell my story, as you tell yours, or at least, some of it.

When I was abused, I was not just one thing. Let's start at home. I have seen the "dysfunctional families" people think they have, and then there is mine. If you can relate to this, you know how it feels, itís all a facade. In appearances we were a very handsome and kind family; it was totally different at home, where it was a violent recurrence of nightmarish things. There is my father, who taught with his fists, my mother, who never defended anyone, another victim to my eyes, but itís not relevant for my, for my recovery at least.

Can't help in the outside if one is not right in the inside.

I was sexually abused by my neighbor, short of saying I tried fighting (like I never have before), I could not stop it, but I was only a boy, 8, and the other guy was too strong. His thing was humiliation, and to my horror, later in life, he liked it oral. Here I suppose there is no need for details, which is great, for a change.

I tried telling my father, but the very same day this happened the first time, he arrived angry from work, too angry. He was a cruel man when it came to punishment. I remember his anger, his eyes, the way he looked at me, he hammered at me before I could say anything. I was a boy, 8, even if I could have articulated what was happening, I couldn't do it there. And so it went.

My first attempt at changing things was to try to run away, at that age. I still remember the face of the police officer that ran after me, leaving my mom and brothers in shocked horror as I tried to get away, but the man grabbed me before I could break free. He was a good cop, at least.

As I reached my teenage years, the horrors of my past, and present festered, as I could not escape my father. I was 13 when I was ready to take him on, not physically, the bastard (ha! that's how I thought about my own that, cruel irony) when one day one step too far. I barely remember how I actually happened.

Seeing red has never been a metaphor for me, but a reality, a blurry storm of anger, and sorrow, and so many other things. I remember punching him senseless, he, and I in hindsight, were lucky that my family was there, not my younger brothers, but two uncles. I smashed his nose in that day, and laughed down at him with bloody teeth. It was a fight, one of the last as he realized what I was becoming.

What had happened to me had become the most innate hatred. Memories were blurred as I grew, as I reached my developing stage, and even then I could not tell what was happening. At this stage of my life physical pain was not even a concern. I was suicidal.

I began fighting first, as a reaction, then as the only method I had to drain the storm in my head. Even then, at 13, I had no way of telling anyone what had happened all those years ago, and how many times it did.

At 13 I already had all the symptoms of a PTSD. My dad got afraid from or for me, I will never understand him, and he rounded up all my uncles so they could restrain me. In a family of doctors, I suppose that seemed logical. I was angry, and alone, even the child therapists I had were unable to get me to talk.

Then, one night, I was drugged. They took me to one of those "crisis centers", a short term madhouse, though I know this term is no longer used. There was a doctor there, he saw me and immediately knew what was happening to me, he told me, he told my parents, I admitted it.

I will never understand why, but that didn't change anything. So much hatred. That year I was excited about summer camp, first time going, and couldn't contain myself.

Some bullies came at me there, it took them a while to tick me, but when they did I lost it. I was completely empathic to fights at this point. I remember the rage on me as I went at them, 5 of them trying to corner me in the bathroom of camp, I beat them. It was a disaster, I was hurt in the fight (broken arm, bruises and cuts all over my face) but it didn't pain me physically, nothing did by that point. They kicked me out of the camp.

When my dad went to pick me up, and he was told I was out and could never return to that camp, he lunged at me, he chased me, screaming my name, my shock at his expression will never leave me, nor his foot on my chest, kicking me in front of everyone.

My dad kept up the pressure, mentally, to the point I questioned my own sanity, what had happened.

It was my brothers who made me understand my situation, they will never know exactly what happened, but they knew I was a madman. The two of them were big boys too, and they faced me down, and we fought. When I was 15 I was too strong for that age, and so they were. We shattered windows, and threw chairs, the two of them tackled me at some point, one pinning me to the ground, the other hitting me (he got a boxers fracture).

It is that same fact, which now as man, haunts me. I was never weak, but this had happened to me, and I had lost a fight that ended with me getting raped.

I was lost; I met the man that changed my life shortly after. A therapist, he understood me, what was happening. He thought a summer at military school would be good for me, and with the trust I had with him, I knew that was the right move.

I got the discipline I needed, and I enlisted in the Corps as soon as I was able. By then I was functional, alive, and sane (though spend just a month in Parris Island and that definition will change). I am proud of my service, 6 years of it, but I never got to escape, it was not the right choice at the time, but for once it was mine. I never truly faced what happened, but I was functional.

I was an infantryman. It was a good life for me just because of the sheer tireless task of being a Marine. Every Marine is in the end, a rifleman. Every day running, marching with almost 80 pounds in your backpack, drilling and drilling the basics of MOUT, even the mundane task of cleaning your weapon. I loved it, compared to the past. But never dealt with my past, and had no social life, no friends but team mates, no girls, because I avoided them, I was too awkward with them, too weird I suppose.

I took part in the invasion of Iraq, then a tour Afghanistan, then Iraq again, arriving just in time for Phantom Fury. Every day just surviving, not living, with hopes for when I got home, or dreams, or anything. I never took a weekend pass, never took a vacation, just focusing on the task at hand. It always struck me how I handled things beyond the wire, nothing affected me, not the gore, not the shooting. Never afraid, but never alive. Discipline. Duty. Your brothers depend on you. Pride. Devotion. Loyalty. I was a good Marine at least.

Eventually it all caught up with me, with time, and by the end what a fall that was. I am still surprised that decided to not to blast my head with my M-16, I was again suicidal. It was my cousin who got me through, when I opened up to her. I spent the last year of my service training FNGs for COIN operations at Twentynine. Then back home.

It hit me, all my life, alone, in the dark, too angry for something that happened when I was too young. A boy. It took me years to understand what had happened. And it was pure sorrow when I realized that you can't ever run from this. It caught up with me. Even in the sandbox.

Now, I have to face what I have tried to avoid my whole life, what I enlisted to get away. I never realized, until I got back, that all I was little damaged boy running away. I have never been good socially, and this is my main struggle today, it always has been. I'm still functional, but just in appearance. I can work, but not live. I punished myself for so long that I don't remember a time when I didn't.

I don't know what to do now. I'll never make friends if I keep feeling like this; I'll never live, short of pretending to. I can't imagine a day when I can have a girl, not because I can't, but because I'm so damaged that I don't know how.

I'm stagnant, and I do not know how to move forward from here. My family broke apart after I left. Time heals, I've learned, but it takes its toll.

Now Iím reaching thirties, depressed, can't sleep, and am paranoid. I don't see a happy ending for me, any time soon. My whole life confuses me, in the end. I have help, but still, I donít know how to take the next step. But that is how it always is.
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Joined: 02 Jun 2015
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PostPosted: Thu Jul 23, 2015 9:46 pm    Post subject: Story

So sorry all this happened to you.
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