Part Six - Caught in the Undertow

Scientists say a baby's brain is a fascinating bundle of neurons just waiting to be hard-wired into the intricate circuitry we call the mind. The wiring of the brain begins at birth and continues until age 10 or 12 when it is wired for life, according to these findings. - www.aagc.org

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Between the ages of 6 and 12 years old I was exposed to stimuli, both normal and abnormal, all laying down the psychological, emotional, biological and spiritual foundation upon which the rest of my life has been constructed. Thus, the title of this blog: Deconstructing Gary.


In deconstructing my life, I hope to sort out 

• the good from the bad
• truth from misbelief
• facts from myths
• personal responsibility/accountability from unwarranted shame

that I might reconstruct myself with the right pieces in the right places, so that which hath crippled me in my past would no longer limit me in my todays and tomorrows.

In connecting the dots from my present to my past, I am not looking to excuse my own mistakes, sins, poor decisions or the outright foolishness behind some my behaviors; but rather hope to better navigate my life from this day forward without stumbling down the same old, miserable paths I seem to inadvertently traipse into again and again and again.

Before my abuser was bodily removed from my life by his leaving home to join the military, I had already taken a stand in telling him "I don't want to do this anymore!" And for whatever reason, he stopped. I don't remember feeling especially empowered or anything at that time. I think I was just conflicted inside to the point that I cried out "STOP!!"

I asked him to stop, and stop, he did; before moving far away and out of my life for the rest of my now, adolescent years. However, "stop", I did not. Whether merely repeating an established pattern or that now, having entered puberty, I discovered for myself the pleasure which comes with sexual orgasm; I did not stop. My other brother, the "good brother", and I infrequently continued to act out sexually with one another for a few years before both deciding we could not and would not continue this behavior. I also began to masturbate to porn frequently. Yes, I know...I was a teenager - WHAT ELSE IS NEW?

What else WAS new? I was new, or at least part of me was new. Beginning in the 6th grade, I had a gradual spiritual awakening leading to a very personal faith in a very real Jesus Christ. My family of birth was nominally Christian: we went to church, we celebrated the standard Christian holidays, we paid lip service to a Supreme Being. It was all structure without any substance. But, like waking from a dream, all the vague concepts of my religion came to life for me in a way that forever changed my life. Or maybe I should say that it changed some what of my life.

I don't want to dig too deep into my spiritual conversion, as that is not my intended purpose for writing this blog. I only bring up my faith in Christ because my personal beliefs and the religion (read: dogma, doctrine and culture) related to those beliefs played a role in both my healing as well as my compulsion to hide all of those dark and shameful secrets which did and still threaten to undo me.

So back on point, about the same time I was experiencing this spiritual awakening I was also having a sexual awakening (which most of us call PUBERTY). As I've said, when I was a child I was scared of what would happen if my parents found out about me and my brothers. I feared punishment from my parents and my abuser. As an adolescent with a new found spiritual awakening, my anxiety shifted to fear of a righteous God, as well as fear of what others in and outside of the church would think if they ever stumbled upon my dirty laundry. And thus began a spiritual, emotional and psychological roller coaster ride of pleasure, guilt, shame, remorse, desire, self-indulgence, self disgust, repentance, erotic lust, pleasure, remorse, guilt, guilt, guilt, shame, etcetera ad infinitum.

I imagine some of you nodding your heads right now, as that pattern of giving into desire and reaping shame, entertaining pleasure and reaping guilt is the norm for anyone with any sort of religious upbringing.

So part of this blog entry is about the shame over sexual habits which originated before I could really even understand or enjoy the experience; but which continued in one form or another once I was able to choose for myself to continue what I believed was wrong and sinful and yet felt so incredibly awesome.

The other reason I've documented this part of my life is because it's a segue to later issues with my sexual, social, spiritual and gender identity. My need to keep things buried and secret. My fears which were kept bottled up inside of me, torturing me with no hope for relief. My misbeliefs based on false conclusions grounded upon an unhealthy, unnatural and damaged childhood.


As I stated above, I take full responsibility for my own stupidity; but have also begun to more fully understand how much of the behaviors for which I've borne such shame are connected to corrupted patterns laid down in my childhood. In many ways, I was riding a wave towards the beach before being pulled back out into the ocean of personal struggle.

Pulled back out to the sea where a series of patterns, habits and addictions join together as coping mechanisms...as a ineffective means of treading  water too deep to swim and too far from shore to prevent my own self-destruction.

Part Five - Dredging Up the Details

*** WARNING! This entry is the most explicit I've posted so far. What follows is not sexy. It is not pretty. It is not inspiring. It is sick, plain and simple. But it is truth. It is my truth. PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION! ***

In Part Five, I am going to attempt to recount some very specific details about what happened to me as a child. I am doing this primarily so I can get it all out on the surface, kind of like lancing an infected wound or better yet, major intrusive surgery to remove all the YUCK inside of me. This is supposed to be cathartic, so here goes.

It's going to be ugly and I don't even know if I'll be able to get through this today.

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First Physical Contact:
I remember being in the basement with my 2 brothers.
I remember the wooden box, smelling of tobacco and newsprint.
I remember pornography spread over the couch.
I remember my abuser wearing nothing other than my mother's pantyhose, and encouraging me and my other brother to do the same.
I remember him lying on top of me and rubbing against me.
I remember him reaching orgasm, and his jelly-like semen.

This basic scenario went on for some time, before progressing to the next stage:

I remember being in the basement again.

Same wooden box, same heavy, musky smell.
Porn spread out across the couch.
I remember looking at the magazines
and having everything explained in detail.

I remember my abuser suggesting we try some of the things in the magazines.


I remember him performing oral sex on me, and having me do the same to him.
To the best of my memory, he never ejaculated in my mouth or made me taste his semen; but I remember the texture, the smell and how much I wanted to wash it off myself.

Eventually it reached the point where he attempted to penetrate me:
I remember lying face down on the couch in the basement.
I remember my abuser climbing on top of me.
I remember him using a jar of Vaseline to lubricate his penis.
I remember him rubbing his penis in my butt crack.
I remember him pressing his penis into my rectum,
and I remember the pain.

I remember all of these things:
I remember nearly every other Saturday night from Fall through Spring.
I remember waiting for my parents to leave for their church bowling league.
I remember having to clean up and have everything back in place before they came home.

My story is true, and I have never forgotten these things I've written above. This is the first time I've ever spelled it out like this. This is the first time I've ever put it in writing like this; but this story has haunted me my entire life, from the first day the abuse started up to today. The memories don't go away, the effects remain.

There is more to the story than what I've written above; but this ends the first chapter of the abuse. My next entries will begin with the effect the abuse had upon me after my abuser left home, both in my own acting out and my self isolation.

Part 4 - What Happens in Private

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Part Three - Sexual and Emotional Conflict

Victims of rape often give conflicting testimony of their assault, especially when the abuse happened at the hands of someone they knew and in whom they trusted.

e.g. an adult victim of date rape may find herself questioning her own complicity in the assault.

• On the one hand: "That son of a bitch forced himself on me. He took away my right to choose, to consent, to give myself to him when I was ready. He raped me."
• But on the other hand: "I must have done something wrong. I let myself get drunk. I didn't fight back as hard as I could have. I can't totally blame him. And besides that, I love him."

Children who have been sexually compromised have it even worse.

Think back to when you were 5 or 7 or 10 or even a young adolescent and compare the child you were to the adult you are now. As children, we did not have the capacity to reasonably consent to adult activities (be it getting drunk, having sex or committing a crime). That's one of the reasons minors are held to a different accountability in our justice system. Call it childhood innocence, inexperience, lack of understanding, incapability of abstract thought or plain and simple ignorance: a child cannot be expected to view things as an adult would.

So it was with me. I was conflicted about my role in the abuse  and still am to some degree. Since I participated, was I not also to blame? Since I accepted the bribes of candy and food, did I not also carry some blame? And what about family loyalty with its unspoken code of honor? I didn't want to be a snitch. I was afraid to be a snitch. But since I didn't speak out when I could have, doesn't that mean that it's my own fault this happened to me?

As far as the whole love thing goes, I don't know that I ever really, truly loved my abusive brother. As I've written previously, when we weren't being sexually inappropriate together, he was usually kicking kicking the tar out of me. Not a lot of love; but still some measure of family loyalty, code of brotherhood. (Yeah, he abused me but he's still my brother, still family, still my flesh and blood)

In light of my own personal conflict, it's not difficult for me to understand why more victims don't speak out about their abuse. There are consequences to opening your mouth. On top of that, even now in year 2012, we've still got a whole lot of people who don't want to believe that childhood sexual abuse happens - who would rather believe that the child is exaggerating or is confused. DAMN RIGHT we're confused! And the imposed silence continues to shove us back into our own darkness.

I knew something was wrong when I was a kid. I was pretty sure this didn't happen in other boy's homes, especially after mentioning it to my fellow cub scouts. In being inducted into the secret club of childhood sex, I was automatically disconnected from childhood normalcy. In my mind, in my soul, I was an outsider to the rest of the kids in my neighborhood, in my school, in my extended family. And there was no way back in once you've been initiated into a life of the unspeakable. It wasn't my fault. I couldn't have knowingly chosen to lose my innocence, to quite frankly give up my virginity.

I didn't understand that back then; but I'm beginning to understand it now. I was compromised. I was betrayed. I was exploited. I was taken advantage of. I was used and abused. I wasn't treated like a brother; but as a sex toy. We didn't have consensual sex. I was a living sex doll - no emotions, no feelings, no strings attached, no regrets. Just another tool for his masturbation.

And for all these years I've carried the shame for something I did not choose to do; but was done to me. Over 40 years of shame, of grief, of internal conflict, confusion, corruption. Feeling broken,soiled, defective, dirty, always coming up short. And over 40 years of feeling alone in all of this. SIGH.

Thank God for groups like One Sixth Columbus, SIA and MaleSurvivor.org. I'm grateful for online support from RAINN, ASCA, 1in6.org and The Joyful Heart Foundation (thank you Mariska!) I'm getting closer to 50 years old and finally, now, I'm able to share my story with others who understand and support me.

Part Two - The Naked Truth

It's funny how images and smells from long ago can be so vivid today, especially when related to trauma. Sometimes connected to good memories as well; but so often and so vivid when connected to trauma.

I remember the smell of my brother's padlocked wooden box in which he stashed his porn and cigarettes. It had the fragrance of colored newsprint and tobacco.

The porn smelled of tobacco and the box smelled of both the cigarettes and the porn. I have memories of my brother unlocking his treasure chest to display its contents to me, my closest brother and my sister. Sister was the oldest of the kids, and she was also the provider of porn to my brother and probably the cigarettes, too. She used to be a candy striper at the Nursing Home down the road and would frequently lift porn mags and other goodies from the residents. She also stole porn from the people for whom she used to babysit. I can remember her smoking with all of us; but I do not recollect her ever being present for the abuse or for naked hide n' go seek. She obviously knew about the porn...and was also aware of some my biggest brother's other habits: like the women's undergarments he kept in that box.

Regarding those undergarments: This was in the 70s, and streaking was a popular fad. You know, completely naked people would run across an athletic field, interrupt a parade or expose themselves at some other public event; usually running off before they were caught. That was the fun of it, right? There was even a popular song on the radio about it. "Oh yes they call it the streak, look at that, look at that. The fastest thing on two feet, look at that, look at that. He's just as proud as can be of his anatomy. He's goin' to give us a peek."

I guess every generation has its own weird fads and streaking was one of them, along with Pet Rocks.

So what does streaking have to do with bras and panties? Well, around that same time my father had purchased a little camping trailer that we used, as a family, every warm weekend and the occasional week or two when Dad was on vacation. When we weren't camping the trailer sat out on the driveway; and during the Summer with no school, Dad let us kids sleep outside in the camper. My sister had a job, so she didn't typically sleep out there with us. She stayed inside the house with Mom and Dad.

So three boys alone and you probably imagine. But here's where it gets weird.

My brother got into this habit of leaving the trailer around 2am, when the neighbors would likely be sleeping, completely nude. He convinced me and my other brother to join once or twice; but we were scared to go any further than a few steps away from the camper door. Big brother, on the other hand, would go walking around the neighborhood, bare feet, bare buttocks and all. He didn't run, so I guess technically it wasn't streaking; but he would walk around the neighborhood, occasionally ducking behind trees or bushes when the occasional car drove by. And when he came back he would wake us up and tell us of his adventures. He talked about climbing fences, looking in people's windows and skinny dipping in the neighbor's pools. And as if we needed proof of his adventures, he would bring back bras, panties, nylons and pantyhose he had nicked from the neighbor's clotheslines. The more interesting prizes were the crotchless panties and the bras with crude holes cut to allow someone's nipples to protrude. This is the truth. This really happened. One of our neighbors saw him stealing clothes from her clothesline late at night. Either she didn't know or didn't want to believe it was my brother; but she told the whole neighborhood about the naked man in her backyard, causing no small amount of concern that a pervert was wandering our streets at night.

Big Sis knew about the undergarments, and she had a pretty good clue about the identity of the naked lingerie thief. To the best of my memory, she laughed at the thought; but I'm pretty sure she had no clue about the other things her brothers were doing in the dark.

One more memory and then I'm going to stop for today. I believe it was while I was in 3rd grade that I started walking with fellow students to our weekly cub scout meeting. One of the boy's mom was our den mother. These boys, fellow cub scouts, they had this weird habit of sticking their hands down the backs of each other's pants on the way to the meeting. Strictly down the backside, never down the front. I can't say for sure if it was or wasn't sexual in nature, because it never really went further than someone sticking his hand down another boy's pants and then pulling it out. I remember them accusing one of the boys of having pooped his pants and how that kid cried and said they were lying.

Yeah. So my final memory for today is when I asked these guys if any of them ever put their "thing" in one of the other guy's butts. Their reply was a pretty solid "NO".

To this day, I don't know if they ever put 2 + 2 together and figured out what was going on at my house; but I do remember telling big brother about the conversation and how angry he got at me. I was never, ever, ever to tell anybody about what happened in my house when Mom and Dad were away. NEVER! There would be consequences if I ever opened my mouth again. Mandated silence. A silence that screamed then,  screams now and continues to scream forevermore.

Part One - Earliest Memories

One of my earliest memories connected to my abuse began with some innocent role-playing between myself and my closest brother. Back in those days, the easiest costume a boy could wear was to run around in nothing but our Fruit of the Looms.

That's all we needed to play Tarzan. Add a loosely tied blanket around your neck and presto-change-o! now you're Superman! This vision of childhood innocence is, unfortunately, probably one of the last memories I have of being truly innocent.


The tie-in to my eventual sexual abuse was when my oldest sibling found me and my brother hiding under the sheets, completely naked after one of our silly underwear games. I was 6 years old, my brother was 8. The sibling who found us was nearly 6 years older than me, meaning he was just entering puberty. What we were doing under the sheets was completely and entirely non-sexual. We were little kids. There was nothing perverse about our nudity. But my oldest sibling saw it otherwise. He said we were being naughty and threatened to tell Mom and Dad. He said we would be in BIG TROUBLE if they found out.

Only recently have I begun to connect the dots and see how this was the beginning of our grooming. FEAR is a powerful means of control, and though it seems almost silly to me now; once the abuse commenced, I continued to fear getting in trouble with Mom or Dad for years. I was worried I would be punished if they found out what I was doing...or rather (in retrospect), what was being done to me.

Let me repeat that: I never thought my abuser would get in trouble; but that I would be the one who would be punished! Fear is a powerful weapon, and my abuser continued to use it as a means of keeping us quiet the entire time he was actively abusing us as well as into adulthood.

Some time after that incident, our abuser exposed us to sexual materials buried in my father's night stand. The stuff in that drawer was tame by today's standards; but it was my first experience looking at a naked adult female as a sex object. I remember a coin with heads printed on one side and tails on the other along with the appropriate female body parts, a little telescope with a pin-up model inside, some condoms in what I remember as little metal containers - sort of like mini-film rolls. There may have been more stash in there; but that's all that I can remember.

My brother tried to make this a fun event, laughing about finding my Dad's secret stash and inflating one of the condoms like a balloon. I can't say I exactly understood what I was seeing; but instinctively knew we were doing something bad. After all, this my Dad's private property which he had made efforts to keep hidden from us. We had no business digging around in his nightstand and looking at his stuff while he and Mom were out shopping or bowling or whatever they were doing that night.

This was another means of our abuser grooming us. He impressed upon us the fear of our parent's wrath, should they ever find out what we had done, and also led us to believe that he possessed a magic key to secret knowledge: information that would make us wiser and more advanced than our peers. Not unlike a certain snake so very long ago in the Garden.

The grooming progressed along the same lines whenever my parents left him to babysit us. Having had a taste of adult sexuality, we were introduced to a new game: Naked Hide 'n Go Seek. It was just like the regular kids game; but this was supposed to me more fun because it had the added thrill factor of playing in the nude (something we now understood was naughty) and our Mom and Dad didn't know anything about it. That's cool, right? At this same time, big brother babysitter started playing upon our natural physical desires and allegiance to him by purchasing a ton of goodies while Mom & Dad were away.

Basically, bribing us to keep quiet with bags of potato chips, candy bars, soda, cheese puffs, you name it. All stuff which we normally received in measured rations now available to us in Bachanallian fashion. Eat, drink and be merry, for later tonight Mom and Dad will be home! That's also when we started smoking cigarettes together, which further bonded us together in our secrets.

But I remember there was always a balance between fear of physical abuse and my indebtedness to him for all that good stuff he bought when Mom and Dad were away. Usually when the parents were home, I cowered in fear of being punched in the chest or having one of my favorite toys crushed in a vise; but when they were out for the evening, I revelled in the attention, the treats and a couple of hours of peace.

At some point in the midst of this new sibling tradition of feasting and being naughty, I got to see my first Playboy magazine. This was back in the 70s when Playboy was a bit classier than their competition. No full-frontal nudity and obviously no genitalia; but regardless, the idea of women as sex objects to be used and tossed aside was pretty clear. Playboy was followed by Penthouse with it's descriptive and rather imaginative Letters section as well as whatever else my abuser could get her hands on.

And as a result I was schooled in the mystery of where, how and why a man sticks his penis in a woman's orifices; most often with graphic R. Crumb style comix than with the much gentler Playboy mags. We were schooled and we were groomed and eventually, as a result, experienced firsthand the discomfort of a large penis in our little mouths and the pain of having it forced into our little boy rectums...but I'm jumping ahead. It didn't exactly happen that fast. We went from naked Hide 'n Go Seek to naked browsing of girlie magazines to dressing in our mother's undergarments to being rubbed against in slippery, slippery pantyhose followed by sticky semen from our abuser's penis pumping out upon our backs and legs. This non-penatrative sexual contact went on for some time before the creep went all the way; but all the way he did eventually go.

I'm going to stop for right now. Writing about this stuff is not easy. I'll get into the impact of the abuse in another post. Just suffice it to say that mentally and emotionally I am a mess whenever I re-visit the darkest days of my childhood and I would never wish this sort of thing on any young boy (or young girl, for that matter).