Once A Victim Not Always A Victim.
I didn’t grow up thinking of myself as a victim. Just as ’strange’, unusual, clever. I didn’t remember the abuse. I always had certain unusual talents particularly the arts of the mind. I mean sciences, of course. My physics teacher, when I was fourteen took me to one side and said if I worked at the subject he felt I had an unusual talent in the science. He said he thought I “could be one of the top three physicists in the world” by the time I was twenty one. I was, he said a genius.
It was a bit of a head*uck, but my head was so messed up anyway – it did not really phase me. Shortly thereafter my best friend, Michael, was killed. He was run over by a car driven by my brother and in which I was the front seat passenger. We had been in the pub together. His brother Larry ran up to the side window of the car and screamed you’ve “killed my *ucking brother”.
In any case I was at that stage in time shattered into several key personalities and god only knows how many fragmentary parts. The sexual abuse made sure of that. At age one to age seven multiple abusers took their toll on my sanity. It has been hard work growing up which is only something I started doing when I gave up trying to fit in in a world which made no sense. I decided to find out who I was.
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t. It was six years before I remembered being abused and only then after I had calmed my mind with meditation. Then I was strong enough to start to put the pieces of the puzzle back together. To re-live each horrific experience and integrate its’s aftermath, it’s trauma. The last four years I have well documented here before.
Being raped by two teachers age seven is the last act of penetrative violence I remember. I don’t know if I am still repressing other later or earlier incidences. I know I don’t know everything yet. I know I am still not whole, have still not solved the puzzle.