When will it end?

I haven't posted here in a while. In a way, I feel bad. When I created this blog, it was with one main purpose:  truth. Too few people know the truth about child abuse - about how common it is, how devastating it is, and most importantly, how false most of the so-called "knowledge" about abuse that is out there really is.

I started the exercise by writing down my own story, in all it's sordid detail. I did not expect it to affect me as much as it did. I did not expect to end up on the Bathroom floor, one dark night in January, with a razor in my hand and agony in my soul. So I did what I had to do so many time before to survive - I picked myself up, put down the razor, and reached out to a therapist. Slowly, things got better again, and a few months later I was ready and motivated to not only finish my story, but to jump head first into this blog, using every spare moment to turn this into source of information - a source of truth - about abuse.

To This Day Project - Shane Koyczan

I came across this video about bullying recently. Watching it, I realised that even though I was never bullied very harshly, the poem still resonated with me. I realised again how little difference there really is between child abuse and bullying, apart from the age of the perpetrator(s).

Arguments used to discredit survivors

There are a number of standard arguments used by predators and their lawyers to discredit those who accuse them sexual abuse. This is my response to them.

He (the accuser) is troubled/emotionally unstable. You cannot take him seriously.

There are two responses to this, both of which are often true for any specific survivor.

First, it is well known that predators often target troubled children. The quite boys, the outsiders and the misfits are simply more susceptible to grooming and easier to isolate from their peers. The lonely child is much more likely to respond to perceived kindness and acceptance from the predator. How many survivors have echoed the statement that "he made me feel special"?

Letter to my big brother

Brother,

When I was a little boy, you were my hero, my rock, my guiding light. When I scraped my knees and our mother couldn't be bothered to pay attention, you cleaned them for me. When my father beat me, you read me stories until I stopped crying. When he was screaming at my mother in the kitchen, you taught me to put my hands over my ears and sing. When my mother couldn't be bothered to give us something to eat, you showed me where she kept the bread. You beat up any bully who as much as looked at us. You walked us home from school. You helped me with my homework.

And you made me suck you penis.

You were a lost child. You mother, for reasons I will never understand, took you from your dad and delivered you into the hands of a monster. Your step father, my father, beat you. He used you for an ashtray. He raped you. I don't know how old you were when he started abusing you, but I remember the first time he raped you, because that was the day I saw you die before my six-year-old eyes. Still, you found it in yourself to try to protect me, the child of your abuser.

My support network

Over the past few weeks, my PTSD has been hitting me hard again. I've been struggling through nightmares and flashbacks that kept me awake at night and left me severely sleep deprived and depressed. The one thing that is different from previous cycles like this, is that I have solid support network in place. This has allowed me to stay focussed and keep on keeping on, as as the saying goes.

I thought I'd share what my support system looks like, for two reasons - first, to show my gratitude and give some credit to those who form part of it, and second - to give other survivors who haven't yet built up such a strong network some things to consider.

So, what does my network look like?

Confusion and self-loathing

I feel like I owe you, my readers, an apology. I haven't posted in a while. I meant for this to be an uplifting and informative blog. It is hard to post something uplifting and informative when you are hanging onto sanity with your fingernails. So please forgive me for posting about my own struggles yet again.

I have never been under any illusion that my father was a good father. I have never been able to refer to him as "dad". Dad is a title that is earned. He has never earned it.

There is, however, a world of difference between a bad father and an evil person, between an abusive parent and a pedophile. This weekend, I was forced to admit that my father had stepped over that line. He was not only a bad parent, he was a bone-fide pedophile. He was the type of man who picks out vulnerable boys, grooms them, and then sexually abuse them repeatedly, over a period of years. He is no better than Sandusky, Savile, or those thousands of boyscout leaders and Priests. He was a predatory pedophile who preyed on innocent young boys.

Gun control, mental health and trauma

Ever since Sandy Hook, there has been a lot of discussion on the web about gun-control and whether or not it could have saved those children.

My personal belief was that regardless of what caused his mental illness, Adam Lanza was a dangerously unstable young man. His mother should not have been allowed to keep multiple fire-arms within his reach. Would lack of easy access to firearms have stopped him? Not necessarily, but it might have slowed him down and forced him to think twice.

I am told that to check mental health records and interview friends and neighbours of people who share the home of the applicant, or even the applicant himself, is to convict someone before a crime has been committed. In America one is innocent until proven guilty, and one should not be treated as a potential criminal until a crime has been committed. One should not be required to give up one's constitutional rights until there has been a conviction.

It is a noble argument, but I'd like to call bullshit.

Love, loneliness and trust

Hello again to all my readers. I had a good vacation, but it's also good to be back. I wish you all the best for the new year!

I spent the week-and-a-bit that I was away with my head deliberately stuck in the sand. We cut ourselves off from radio, TV and newspapers, and even ignored out cellphones most of the time. I banned my history and any form of child-abuse as topics of conversation. We immersed ourselves in the beauty of nature and in each other. It was wonderful. I managed to go an entire week without one nightmare.

Of course, I knew all the time that I'd have to pull my head out of the sand and face up to reality again. PTSD will always catch up with you. Real life is full of triggers. But I learned something: I caught a glimpse of what life can be - a life that is centred around love and hope, not fear and pain. A life without loneliness.