My Story - Part 3

Fighting to survive

As time progressed, the relationship between Jeff and me deteriorated. The drugs and the booze suppressed my fear and enabled me to make a show of defiance, regardless of how hard he tried to intimidate me. That irritated him. He was able to easily manipulate the other members of the household with threats and insults, but not me. Something inside me had shut down. I had given up on trying to stay out of trouble and learnt to simply accept what I was dealt. I could take his threats and insults without batting and eye, shove them aside and carry on. I could take a slap in the face without missing a beat.

I lived life on auto-pilot - unresponsive, emotionless, seemingly untouchable.

Behind the impassive facade, I had only one goal - to survive. I knew that injuries to my body would heal in time, but I understood instinctively that my body was mere collateral damage in his quest to break my spirit. I had to protect my soul at all costs. In my mind it was a war - him against me. I believed that to show fear, emotion or any other sign that he was "getting to me", was to loose. Loosing meant that he had won, that I had surrendered my soul. I vowed to die rather than allow that to happen.

I built a fortress around my heart, erecting walls thick enough to withstand any onslaught from any enemy, with battlements from which I could launch vicious assaults on anyone foolish enough to try to breach the gates. I built guard towers from which I could keep a permanent lookout for anyone or anything that could pose a threat. I locked my vulnerability deep inside the fortress, in the inner-most room where no one could even see it, let alone still reach it. Around the fortress I dug a moat and filled it with drugs, as the final barrier against anyone I didn't trust.

I learnt to retreat into my fortress when Jeff became violent and lock the door behind me. My body was left standing outside - an empty shell, devoid of any feeling, personality or will. I would sit in my tower and watch Jeff attack my body. I couldn't hear what he said or feel when he slapped me. At times I felt sorry for my body and the suffering it endured, but it never occurred to me that I should save it. It didn't seem to matter. It didn't really seem to be a part of me. My body was outside the fortress. I was safe inside.

From the safety of my fortress, I dared Jeff to touch me. I provoked his anger just to show that I, too, had an arsenal of poison-tipped words and that I didn't fear his. I defied his every command just to prove that I would never, ever submit to his mastery. Whenever he attacked, I would stand quietly, allowing my fortified walls to absorb his fire, never showing any sign of retreat. His frustration with me grew until he was almost completely focused on breaking through my defenses. I was the only one who stood between him and total control of every inhabitant of his house, and he couldn't stand it.

I was so focused on staying safe, deep within my fortress, that I didn't realize how alone I was in there. I didn't realize that anyone I didn't trust was just about everyone.

May 22, 1988

Jeff was drunk and belligerent, but still thirsty.

"Get me another bottle, boy."
"No"
"Hey, you owe me, I took you in! Now go get me another fucking bottle!"
I wasn't about to let him win the battle of wills. I retreated inside my fortress, throwing my body to the wolves. I'd be damned rather than to give in to him. "Fuck you".
"What did you say? Did you swear at me?"
"Yes. I said fuck you"
He grabbed me, and held me against the wall. "You will not disrespect me like that, boy! Apologize now!"
"No. Fuck You."
He slapped my face. "Apologize! I'm not letting you go till you do".
"Then we're standing here all night."
He grabbed my arm, with one hand, and punched me with the other "Apologize! I'll beat you till you do!"
"No. Fuck you!"

That was when he seemed to loose all control. He threw me down on the carpet and held me down by sitting on me while he removed his belt. I mentally started preparing myself to be raped, but then he got up and started beating me with the belt. I watched impassively from behind my walls as my body took the full impact of his rage. I can remember feeling vaguely sorry for my body. Bizarrely, I can even remember seeing the blood on my back where the belt-buckle cut through my skin. When I continued to answer every demand for an apology with "fuck you", he climbed in with his feet and fists again, kicking me, and raining down the punches on my head and body. The last thing I remember before I passed out was the taste of blood and vomit.

I woke up in hospital. I found out later that Susan had come into the room, freaked out and threw a glass vase at his head. The vase shattered, knocking him out and cutting open his cheek. She then called a mutual friend's mother. She came over to find both me and Jeff unconscious on the floor and Susan crying hysterically. He had fractured my arm, four of my ribs, my jaw and my skull. I had a severe concussion, and had lost a lot of blood.

He told the police and the social worker that a house-breaker had beaten me like that, and attacked him when he tried to save me. Both believed him. They sent me back to him when I was discharged from hospital.

Anne never said a word about it.

After that, my friend's mother said I could spend as much time at her house as I wanted to, and eat and sleep there any time. She was trying to offer me an escape. I didn't make much use of the offer. I was too afraid to leave my brother alone with him.

I realized that day that he was capable of murdering me, or us. I also realized that it was within my power to provoke him to commit murder. Being able to create such a powerful reaction in someone else made me feel more powerful, and at the same time more afraid than ever before. It was a power that I would use in the future, with disastrous consequence.


One may ask why I didn't tell our social worker what was going on, or ask for help from some other adult. It is a question I have often been asked, and it always evokes a massive onslaught of mixed emotions. The short answer is - I did, but no one was willing to listen.

A few weeks after Jeff started showing his violent side I told our social worker that some nights he drank too much and that the booze made him aggressive. I told her how he screamed and swore and threatened Anne and us. I still want to cringe when I remember the skeptical look in her eyes. She told me, impatiently, that Jeff and Anne had gone through an extensive approval process, and had been fostering children for years without any complaints. She accused me of lying just to get attention.

On my second attempt, I got John to beat me up. I showed her my bruises, blaming them on Jeff. She refused to believe that it was him. She read me a lecture on how grateful I should be to have been placed with one of her department's most respected foster-families. She warned me that to drag a decent man's name through the mud just to get attention, would land me in trouble. She finished by saying that she would have to inform Jeff of what I had said.

When he walked into the house that evening, Jeff walked up to me an slapped my face without saying a word. It wasn't necessary for him to warn me not to tell my social worker anything, ever again. I knew it would serve no purpose.


My English teacher at school never seemed to pay attention to my bad reputation. She always treated me with tenderness and respect. More than once, she stopped me on my way out of her classroom and asked if everything was well at home. When I said yes, she told me that if I wanted to talk about anything, ever, I could talk to her. One sunny autumn morning, I took the plunge and slipped a note in with my homework, saying that my foster father drank too much and abused us. I wanted to ask for help, but I was too afraid to add the words "please help me" to my little scribble.

I was called to her classroom later that day. She had spoken to the school councilor. They were in agreement that the right thing to do would be for them to inform my social worker. I begged them not to talk to her, but they couldn't understand why not. I sat there, staring at them in disbelieve, feeling that feint sliver of hope slip through my fingers again.

Of course, the school councilor talked to my social worker. Of course, my social worker told her what she had told me. I had to go back home. I got slapped twice this time.


When Jeff beat Susan seriously enough for her to have to stay home from school for a few days, I slipped out of the house and walked to the police station. I told the cop behind the counter that my foster father beat his entire family. They asked me how old I was. When I told them I was 16, they said that a minor couldn't lay a charge, and that I had to get my legal guardian to come in and lay the charge. I told them that I was a ward of the state and in foster care. They told me talk to my social worker.

I broke down and cried for the first time since I went into foster care. I screamed at them through my tears, asking them if they thought I would be there if she would help me? I begged them to help me, telling them that I was afraid of what he could do. They got a female cop to come out and calm me down. She asked who my social worker was. When I refused to give her name and number, they asked me to stop wasting their time and leave.

Walking home, I faced the fact that I was on my own. No-one would help me. For the first time, suicide started to look like an attractive option.

June 13, 1988

I should have known, when I saw the look in Jeff's face that night, that he had thought of another plan to break me. I have often wondered if I would have acted in a different way that night, had I known. That fact is, I didn't know and I acted the way I always did around him - disrespectful, rebellious and belligerent. I went out of my way to be rude to him. I did everything in my power to irritate him.

When he left the room in the middle of an argument, I assumed that he had gone to fetch some whiskey, so it surprised me when he came back into the room empty handed and ordered the rest of the family out. I stared at him for a moment, unsure of what was about to happen.

He stuck his hand under his worn-out sweater, and pulled a pistol out of his jeans. I froze, staring at the pistol in terror. There was no doubt in my mind that he would kill me. I tried to flee into my inner fortress, but something - fear, perhaps, or shock - kept pulling me back to reality. This was too big. I couldn't abandon my body to a loaded pistol.

He walked up to me, grabbed my hand and put it on his crotch. I jerked my hand back. I received a slap in the face for my attempt to resist. He cocked the pistol and put my hand back on his crotch, telling me to open the zip. I opened it without taking my eyes off the pistol in his other hand. When I tried to step back, he grabbed my arm again. For perhaps the first time since I met him, I fought. I pulled and twisted, clawing at his hand with my free hand, trying to loosen his grip on my wrist, but I was only 16 year old kid, small for my age, up against a tall, muscular man. He was simply too strong.

Suddenly, I felt the cold metal of the pistol's barrel on my cheekbone. I froze again. "You're always a cheeky one", he said. "You've defied me enough. Tonight, you will obey or die."

I felt cold. My mouth was too dry to speak.

Keeping the pistol pressed against my head, he pulled my head down towards his crotch, forcing me to go down on my knees...

I was only the fear of death that kept me from vomiting before he left the room. When he finally did, I rushed to the bathroom and locked myself in. I spent the rest of the night alternately vomiting and crouching down in the shower, trying in vain to wash his filth off my body, off my soul, and out of my consciousness. I never wanted to come out of that bathroom again. I searched through all the cabinets for something I could use to kill myself, but drinking shampoo only made me vomit more. The only razor I could find barely managed to break my skin. I used it to cut my arms and legs to shreds anyway. Why? I don't know. Perhaps I believed that I could somehow cleanse my inside if I bled enough.

In the early morning hours, I finally came out of the bathroom. I walked into our bedroom, my wet clothes leaving a trail of water down the hall and up to my bed, and got under the covers. I didn't care or even notice that I was soaking the mattress. John tried to ask me what had happened, but I couldn't tell him. I had retreated deeper into myself than ever before. I was determined that no one would ever come near me again. I lay there, my mind blank, until the rest of the family started getting up. When I heard his footsteps going past our bedroom, I was ceased by a sudden panic. He mustn't see what he did to me! I jumped out of bed and pulled off my wet clothes, shivering with the cold. I swallowed a hand full of painkillers to take off the edge, dressed in my school uniform, brushed my hair and my teeth, and went to the kitchen as if nothing had happened.

The only thing I could think of was getting to Jason's flat. Sitting down at the breakfast table, I closed my eyes and imagined the cool metal of the needle tip slipping over my skin, the sharp prick as it sank into the vein, and warmth and comfort when the drugs engulfed my brain. Forgetting. Above all else, I wanted to forget the previous night and the only way I knew how, was to bombard the memories with heroin. In my minds eye I saw a field of vivid red poppies - the color of my blood, but breathtakingly beautiful - all the flowers seemed to smile at me and beckon, "come to us, our juices will ease your pain..."


After the night of June 13, everything changed.

I couldn't sleep. When I did, I woke up drenched in sweat, with my heart pounding in my throat. I heard my father's voice behind me, telling me that I'd never be anything other than a sex-toy for older men. I heard him call me a faggot. At times the voice sounded so real that I turned around, expecting to see him behind me, but he was never there. Other times I felt his hands on my body, holding me down so I couldn't move. The memories were so vivid that the spots where he had held on to me physically hurt for hours afterwards. I learnt quickly that cutting would make even the most intrusive memories disappear the moment the blood started flowing. I learnt to give myself stitches when I accidentally cut too deep.

I couldn't eat. The thought of swallowing made me sick. Everything tasted the same, as if my taste-buds were frozen in the that one, horrible moment. When I did eat, I would throw it all up afterwards.

I couldn't look in the mirror. The face staring back at me filled me with revulsion. It was the face of a boy who allowed a man to intimidate him into giving him a blow job. Sometimes, the face in the mirror looked like a stranger - a hated stranger.

When Jeff was present, my defiance gave way to fear. He had finally broken down my defenses. He needed only to look at me to send me scurrying back into my fortress. There were hours, even days that disappeared without me having any memory of what had happened. I built a dungeon under my fortress where I could hide away, from where I couldn't see anything that happened outside. I spent more and more time incarcerated down there. My body moved through my life without feeling, without emotion, without direction, without me.

One afternoon I saw a knife lying around Jason's flat. It was nothing special - a black plastic handle, just long enough to fit comfortably in my hand. But the blade was beautiful - serrated, slightly bent, with a very sharp tip. It looked murderous. It was murderous.

If I had a knife like that, no one could make me do anything.

But he had a gun. You can't fight a gun with a knife.

A knife will give me half a chance. That's all I need. If it fails, I die. That won't be much of a loss.
I stole it. I also stole a piece of broad elastic from Anne's sewing cupboard, tied it around my leg, and slipped the knife inside. I loved the feeling of its weight against my leg. It made me feel safe. I knew that if Jeff tried to molest me again, one of us would die. I didn't really care which one.

27 June 1988

Of course, Jeff did it again. He had found a way to get to me. One couldn't expect him to give it up.

I remember going for the knife strapped to my leg.

I remember a lot of blood.

I remember running through dark, quiet streets, the sound of my own racing breath deafening in my ears.

I remember knocking on my friend's bedroom window, and asking him to lend me a clean shirt. He was understandably shocked to see me at that time of night, covered in blood and wanted to know what had happened. I can't remember what I told him, but he lent me clean clothes in the end.

From there, I went to Jason's, picked up a bundle and walked East, into the city. I don't think I had a very clear idea of what I had done at that stage, but I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of dread. I definitely knew I had done something terrible. I sat down in a bus-shelter, and prepared my fix. Just before plunging the needle into my arm, I looked up and saw a gecko peering at me over the edge of the roof. For some inexplicable reason, it comforted me.

The next morning I started walking South, towards the neighboring city. I had a vague idea of vanishing into the crowds of criminals and losers in the notorious streets of its most notorious neighborhood.

July 8, 1988

I was desperate. I hadn't eaten in days. I hadn't showered or brushed my teeth in the two weeks since I ran. I was still wearing my friend's T-shirt, unrecognizably filthy by now. I had run out of drugs and out of money and the sickness was setting in fast. I must have looked suspicious as hell, skulking around the store, looking for something to steal, because by the time I reached the door they had already called the cops.They pulled up just in time to empty my pockets and retrieve an unsuspecting customer's wallet.

By the time we got to the police station, the cops had figured out who I was. My knife, covered in my fingerprints was found next to Jeff's body and that, coupled with my disappearance, had the cops looking for me all over the country.

The interview must have been one of the weirdest that the cops have ever had. At one stage, one asked me straight if I had killed my foster-father. I told him, with perfect honesty, "I don't know, did I?" He then asked me if the knife belonged to me, and I told him no, not really, I stole it. It was surreal. I wasn't thinking - I just said whatever came into my head. I couldn't think even if I wanted to. I was being perfectly honest, but I had the cops convinced that I was playing games with them. The police psychologist finally rescued me. He walked into the room, took one look at me, and told the cops to leave me alone. By then it must have been really obvious that I was falling apart both physically and psychologically.

The police psychologist spoke to me for a while, but I was going into full-on withdrawal, fast. When I started to vomit, they decided to lock me in the cells until I had detoxed far enough to be coherent again.

That was when the nightmare really set in. Searing pain in every inch of my body. Shivers, spasms, goose flesh, diarrhea, vomiting... and that was only the first night. Time and space lost all significance, only agony remained. Getting up from the floor was too much effort, so I just huddled in my corner on the floor. On Monday morning, my state-appointed lawyer found me still lying in the same corner, barely conscious, in a pool of my own bodily fluids. She immediately demanded that I be admitted to hospital, where I was treated for severe dehydration. By the next Friday, a week after my arrest, I was able to face the cops again.

After what felt like an eternity of being drilled by various cops, I was finally driven to a juvenile detention center, where I was to await trial.

Mercifully, I was tried as a minor and only had to be in court for my own testimony. Both my friend and his mother testified about the abuse I had suffered. My social worker was forced to admit that I had asked her for help. My lawyer dragged out the records from my hospitalization. Anne and Susan testified (Anne under duress), as well as my brother.

The judge showed mercy for an abused and abandoned boy, who had been failed by the very system that was supposed to save him. I received a suspended sentence, on condition that I undergo thorough psychiatric evaluation.

End of July, 1988

After the trial I was sent to join my brother at a home for at-risk teenagers. The social worker called it a safe place. They took one look at our history of sexual abuse, vaguely remembered some crap about sexual abuse victims becoming perpetrators, and isolated us from the other boys.

In the meantime, unbeknownst to us, social services had traced our grandmother. When she heard what had happened to us, she immediately filed for custody. Two weeks after I was found guilty, she won custody on condition that she had no contact with our father until we turned 18.

We walked into the office and saw this little old lady, with a head of perfect white curls, sitting at his desk. When the door closed behind us, she got up and turned around. Her eyes filled with tears when she saw us. Tony and I stood together, trying to place her vaguely familiar face.

"Boys, do you remember your grandmother? She has come to take you home with her."

We looked at each other, and back at her. She smiled. We didn't move.

"Well, go pack your things."

I finally found words, "Why? We don't even know her, what if we don't want to go with her?"

Like the children's home back when we were 13 years old, this home wasn't filled with unending joy, but we weren't being abused there either. I felt safe in the group setting. I was fighting against going home with another stranger, who I was sure would end up abusing us again.

The principle tried to reason with me, but I became increasingly defiant. Eventually, he ordered us to go pack, or face dire punishment. In my case, that would mean possibly going to juvenile detention. "Let's just go", John whispered to me. Realizing that I was loosing the fight again, something inside me snapped, and let out a wave of rage so intense that it frightened me more than anyone else in the room. I heard myself scream and swear. I don't remember what I said. Perhaps I never knew. Inside, I was terrified. I saw tears running down my grandmother's face. The principle asked her to leave the office, and the resident psychiatrist came in. She managed to calm me down, somehow.

We did leave with our grandmother that day. My rage had left me mentally and physically exhausted, and feeling utterly defeated and hopeless. I sat in the back-seat of the car, staring blindly out the window, consumed with an overwhelming need for the only other safety I knew - the safety that could be found in the tip of a needle.

August, 1988

I had not been given a choice about seeing a psychiatrist. If I refused, my suspended sentence would kick in, and I'd be off to juvenile detention.

So there I was, sitting on an overly-large, too beige and far too soft couch, staring at a tall, wiry man in a nondescript brown suit. His one hand was clenched around a gold pen, the other around a clipboard of the same brown as his suit, that made him look more like a salesman than a doctor. He was staring at me, waiting for my answer. I wasn't sure what the question was. If I had heard it, I had forgotten. It didn't matter. If I knew what the question was, I still wouldn't know the answer anyway. I didn't know the answer to any of the questions he asked me. So I stared back at him, imagining his bony hands turning into spiders. I shuddered at the image.

He pounced. "What is the matter? What made you shudder".

Glad to know the answer, I told him that I imagined his hand had turned into spiders. He looked confused. The spider holding the pen moved, and wrote something on the clipboard. He started asking questions about spider - what did it mean to me, did I like spiders, was I afraid of spiders? Was I afraid of his hands? I stared at him. I didn't know. I just thought his fingers looked like spider legs.

After two months of us mostly staring at each other in silence, he told my grandmother that I wasn't co-operating with him, and that he had done all he could to help me.

I had hated him, but I was devastated regardless. I had been rejected by a psychiatrist.

Part 4: Mental breakdown