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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Life Experience
- Published: 05/15/2014
Sound of Church Bells
Born 1976, M, from London, United KingdomA few days ago I awoke from an Oedipal dream in a high state of sexual arousal.
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Though I awoke aroused I was instantly sickened and disgusted as you would obviously expect. That it involved my mother was highly disturbing, that it took place on the bed where all the bad things had happened was something that did not strike until later. The concept that some memory was trying to surface something I just did not consider. I do not repress much, I know who I am and what I have done and it is something I have to live with. I also do not repress as a lot of my work relies on me living in the past and using it for inspiration and dreams can be useful, often I jump out of bed to jot them down to use as inspiration for some new piece.
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I managed to fall back asleep and spend the hour before I had to get up dreaming a far more respectable dream about a girl from work. I was not as aroused by this, but its cleaner and more morally acceptable content allowed me to put the Oedipal dream out of my mind. Some dreams are powerful enough to hang over us for most of the day by their disturbing content.
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I suppose in a strange way that dreaming about the girl from work was also unusual, my dreams are rarely sexual in nature and if I do have them they are mild and normally involve ex girlfriends. My dreams are more often random mixes of past and present, people and places. They intertwine in interesting ways to create a muddled and muddied recall of events.
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It was a day or two before I began to think not about why I dreamt of Mum in this way, but why it took place in that bed. I came to conclude my subconscious was inviting me to revisit memories I am aware of and accept but try to avoid. To return to some bad personal history, the subconscious is a sometimes nasty but inventive little device.
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"Some bad things happened to me when I was young" is a statement about myself I rarely express. I think I may have told less than a dozen people in my life. Of these people I am sure at least a few give little credit to it due to it sounding highly unlikely. Of those that do believe me I expect a few comments of sympathy and sounds of reassurance before they take the first opportunity to change the subject to something more comfortable, never to be mentioned again. In fact I can only recall one occasion where I had the opportunity to discuss it in anything like a detailed account. Mostly though I do not mention it at all, preferring to present myself as an ordinary person.
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Besides the reception that this revelation normally receives is also the feeling that I have exposed too much of myself. It is a statement of trust that quickly leads me to find an excuse to distance myself from the person who knows my dirty little secret. Telling someone only strengthens the feelings of isolation and alienation, and the loneliness.
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This is of course ridiculous as there are unfortunately too many people out there who have had similar experiences, and far more with worse experiences than myself. To the best of my knowledge there are no support groups where you can go to share and discuss. I assume there are some out there but I have not looked as I would not go even if there are. To elaborate on my experiences of my youth would be a horrible and pointless thing. I also think it would be an insult to their own experience which I feel would be more harrowing and dramatic than my own. You see I do not feel that I was abused, not truly. Sure, on the few occasions I have told individuals I have described it as such, but perhaps my lack of conviction is the reason some have not believed me. To be honest I only use the word as it makes it easier than explaining in full.
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I also do not feel that I would like to sit in a group of the old, drunk, desperate and drugged to tell my story. I could see the group being full of people using their own method to escape their past, some dependence to help them cope. I tell myself I deal with my past and accept it, truth is that it would be too much like looking in a mirror. It is a joke without much humour that I cannot imagine sharing it on such conditions with someone who was not female, around my age and attractive.
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How funny and unbelievably vain is that? That I should only wish to share my full past with a member of the opposite sex. I felt this joke for years until the reason finally dawned on me. It is the craving to share with someone who would care because she understood. Someone who would care and I could care about, to understand and to be understood.
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I have had some fantastic relationships in the past, but without this understanding they were great relationships with a constant background thought that I was living a lie. That the relationship was a lie because I could not be truthful about myself. Not that I was lying, but that I could not reveal my past.
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For myself I believe that it could have been far worse than it actually was, far more traumatic and violent. I have no proof that this is the case but I am virtually sure that I came close to a far more traumatic experience than my own.
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I think I may have been about eleven when my father made a rare demonstration of parental responsibilities and took me abroad on holiday with his new wife. At no point during this holiday did I feel to be anything other than an inconvenient presence.
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As is common on these sort of holidays my Dad and new wife made friends with another British couple, someone to eat breakfast with in the morning and to drink with in the hotel bar in the evenings. If I remember rightly they were from Manchester, I think he said he was a coach driver. I do not remember anything particularly uncomfortable about them, they were just people that seemed safe because my dad had approved and laughed with them.
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On one evening they announced they had hired a car and intended to take a drive to a beauty spot on the other side of the Island, it was some kind of cave attraction. They suggested to my Dad that I may like to go with them. My Dad got a kind of hopeful look in his eye, that he would be rid of his son for a few hours. It did not occur to me at the time, or apparently my father, that the invitation was only open to me and not Dad or new wife.
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Initially I accepted the offer, more from the look in my father's eye than any real cave exploration ambitions. I had already spent much of the holiday in my own company, preferring to explore the local village and cliffs than lay pointlessly on the beach the whole day. It was this preference for my own company that I think saved me, more than from any warning instincts about the couple.
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I met them after breakfast the following day as they stood waiting by their hire car, both of them smiled warmly as I approached them. They were both around the late forties to early fifties mark, he was fat and sweaty in awful glasses. She had a gravelly voice from chain smoked cigarettes and her black dyed hair ridiculously thin. The cheerfulness with which they greeted me evaporated when I told them I was not coming. The effect was immediate, he took a step forward with clenched fists and began breathing heavily in anger. She leant in and I clearly remember her face and flaming eyes as she said "Get in the f***ing car". They were furious. The strange thing is that I cannot remember his face, but her I could pick out of a police line up even today.
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It was pure luck that my Dad and wife chose this moment to emerge from the hotel on their way to the beach. In an instant the couple became friendly and the whole atmosphere changed. I took my opportunity and escaped to the hotel grounds where I spent the day sitting by the pool in confusion. When I told my Dad he dismissed it, most likely as either a direct lie or an over active imagination giving an excuse as to why I did not go with them. This was his default attitude to most of the things I said. That I do not speak to him anymore has less to do with this attitude than my need to distance myself from a close member of his side of the family. That being said it does make the breakdown in communication between us easier.
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I am certain that I was in danger and I do believe that this danger was some kind of sexual attack. While this bothers me and the possibility I was only one potential victim worries me, it is not the most disturbing aspect of the whole possibility. Would I look back on it with arousal?
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I cannot and will not think of what happened to myself as abuse, though the one person I have ever managed to have anything like a serious conversation about it considers it so. My own experiences of my youth are of guilt and self recrimination, but also occasionally a tinge of sexual arousal. This is a centrifugal force, the unexpected memory arrives and brings with it a momentary sexual excited kick, quickly followed by a shudder of horror, disgust and self hatred.
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It is comical really that I yearn for someone I can confess this to, and yet I think there are levels of confession. The first admission is that something happened to you that shouldn't have. The second is to tell what it was that happened. The third is to tell who it was with, which is as about as far as I ever go because as soon as I reveal it was a female member of family I am met with incredulity. The fourth is that which I do not think I have ever confessed, that I enjoyed it at the time and was a willing participant. I may have been young, but I was damned well old enough to know it was wrong. How can I refer to myself as abused when I was willing and excited at the time? Who could possibly understand that?
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This brings a new and almost unexpected fear in sharing it with those who have had similar experiences. To confess an enjoyment at the time and regard it as same as their unwilling horror is an insult to them, or worse, would sharing that you both enjoyed it at the time open dark doors in the dark confession? Would it lead down darker paths best not trod, to some places best not explored? To find someone with whom you could finally share only to find the experience to be mutually psychologically destructive.
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I think these experiences of mine fuel a fascination into the darker side of the human mind. I think I need to understand. All my researches though tend to be on monsters who perpetrate these atrocities. I do however find myself fiercely protective of those consenting adults that choose to mutually explore their fantasies, but furiously opposed to those who would take pleasure for the humiliation and degradation of those unwilling or too young. I always research into the perpetrators, never the victims.
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There is an irony and I feel I must mention it, as despite my condemnation of those who would perpetrate such things, it seems somehow tied to what happened to myself. I have an occasional fantasy, even to this day. It begun on that bed where the bad things happened, and I can remember masturbating to it back then as a kid with the years only fleshing it out.
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I am heterosexual and have only rarely and moderately varied from this in a sort of experimental sort of way, despite this I have a sexual fantasy. On some occasions I imagine myself as female, a submissive female subject to the worst degradation and humiliation. Forced to wear the most revealing clothes and to do the worst possible things. I am not sure how this relates to what happened to me, but it did begin on that bed, so somehow I feel it ties in.
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Psychologically I am led to believe that this kind of fantasy is an unconscious hatred of females. I do not believe this to be the case and there is little evidence to support this. I think it is far more likely due to my sexually perverse development.
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In the recent dream where my own Mum was involved I have a nasty suspicion my brain was placing someone totally inappropriate in the same situation to try and get me to review my feelings on the subject. This was a nasty trick and deeply offensive to my Mother.
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There is some rather odd confusion in my attitude to abuse, perhaps not just myself. A male teacher taking advantage of a young girl in his charge raises condemnation in me. A recent news story of how a pretty young teacher who took advantage of one of her male charges left me wondering what the big deal was. There was at least one female teacher I would have cut my right hand off to have sex with.
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This is muddy thinking but one filled with dynamite.
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You see I am more than willing to believe that the young boy who had sex with his older female teacher would be far from devastated by it. In fact I am willing to believe that he will be telling his mates for the rest of his life about it as a badge of honour. For the rest of his life this boy may be slapped by his male mates on the shoulder in congratulations for an achievement, that he was victorious in becoming a man. That a man should have sex with an older woman is a victory and an honour, for a young girl it is a stigma she should feel ashamed of.
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As a society our point of view is horrific and wrong. The idea of a male score card being high is glorious and a girls being of a slut is horrendous and scary. I find it disgusting that a male teacher caught with a female student will be vilified for the rest of his life and the woman who does the same will not get half as much social stigma attached to her, when she too breached her role of protector.
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Abuse is an electric subject and I who am sort of a victim of it find questions that are difficult to answer. And I am not totally convinced I am a victim or an abused person.
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That my Grandma on my Dad's side used to watch me in the bath until quite a late age of my development is a mild enough and in many ways an innocent enough thing. How it developed beyond this is something I honestly do not remember. How it started and that my clearer memories are of enjoyment do a lot to convince me it was my fault in the first place, I very clearly feel that I am the one to blame. In all the memories I recall myself being the initiator. For my lack of memory I am probably best describing events as best as I can, otherwise I would be being dishonest also to cloud why I feel responsible.
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My parents separated when I was quite young. As both parents worked the guardian duties for myself after school fell to my Grandparents. This is not unusual, though I would not describe my childhood as normal despite the events I am about to relay. I much preferred my own company, something that I am forever grateful for as it saved me from what I suspect were the dangerous and disgusting couple who attempted to force me into the car. At school I got on with pretty much everyone and played with some of them after school, but would always prefer my own company for my imaginative playing after school.
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I have no idea how it started, but at some point I started to be naked in bed with my Grandma. I have no idea how old I was at the beginning. I remember lying naked next to her and being erect and excited. I would then be between her legs and pushing against her, kissing and hearing her breathing increase in excitement until I reached my eventual conclusion.
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It happened most frequently on Friday nights when Granddad was at his club enjoying a pint, though it sometimes was a quick event upstairs when Granddad was busy in the Garden.
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I cannot explain how difficult this is to write.
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She herself never removed her clothes, though she would sleep with me on Friday nights and in night dress. Sometimes she slept with me out of her own choice and sometimes, I am sorry to admit, at my own begging. I think Granddad was convinced I was still afraid of the dark. I remember once after the bath when she was in a dressing gown, but never would she be naked.
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The garden shed had been converted to a play room for me. The walls were covered in sheets and the floor had a carpet, there was a desk and chair and that shed was many things to me. It was a spaceship, a detective's office, a submarine, a time machine and on one occasion, in a sunbed we had opened up in there, it was another location for the perversion.
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It was the time in the shed that I remember quite well her announcing that we would have to be quick as people may wonder what was going on. It was one of the few occasions she referred to it in words.
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Because of my own willingness and eagerness I am quite confident I am to blame, that it was my enthusiasm that brought these events. I have only one memory that I cling to that suggests that I was not totally to blame. On one Friday she flashed me cheerfully on her way to have a bath. I was walking down the stairs and as she walked across the landing to the bathroom door she flashed open her dressing gown with a large smile that I thankfully remember as being far from innocent. I am sickened to confess that this delighted me.
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And in a confession that shudders me, I remember on the occasions I was in bed with her was the desperate desire that she would be naked too. Can you imagine that? I wanted desperately for her too to be as naked as myself.
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Then one summer afternoon we were in bed together, it was weeks since we had done this as Grandma and Granddad had been on holiday abroad. Granddad was in the back garden in his shorts and enjoying the sun that was not quite as hot as his holiday sun.
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She told me that we needed to stop as it was wrong. It was actually me who begged for one last time, one last time between her legs and pushing until I came.
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So there you have it, it was me who begged for it that last time and her that eventually stopped it. How can I not blame myself? And do you want to know what is funny? I was scared she would tell Granddad. Whenever I recall this day I think of myself as being in my late teens, yet it was before Granddad died so I cannot have been more than twelve. I am not sure if it went on for months or years.
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The one friend I have discussed this with in anything like detail had pointed out that even if I instigated this then it is still abuse as she should have known better and I didn't, that she should not have allowed such a thing in the first place. And yet I remember a crushing disappointment when it ended and the begging for one last time, so how can I not be the one to blame? And there is my willingness, I cannot remember ever refusing this game, so I cannot consider it as abuse. It was sexual and yet no penetration ever took place, so how could I ever look a true victim in the eyes and claim I was abused. I quite simply cannot.
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It would be helpful if I could remember how it started. Was it myself that instigated the first time or Grandma? I just do not know, and to be honest I do not want this memory. When I was really young I remember my Dad was watching a porn film while I was in the living room. I had seen sex, I am scared of the memory. What if the truth is that Grandma was innocently in bed with me one day and I had risen while innocently cuddled up to her and the warmth had affected me. What if I was the one to make the move on top of her and she had allowed it when the feeling against her felt good.
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This is the memory I fear the most and why I cannot blame her.
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I am aware that there is a camp out there that actually believe that people can be sexual beings earlier than the law allows. Yes I can believe it, in many ways I am living proof. This does not however take into account the guilt and torment that follows. The self hatred and the burden of an eternally degrading secret. I feel that I am a freak.
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I have no children. I have had many relationships where it looked like a possibility for some time. Some serious relationships with some very wonderful girls. But I have no children and am not at this moment in a relationship. Now let me let you into a secret which is very difficult to admit.
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A few months ago I saw a young girl on a hot summer evening staring thoughtfully down the street while I was washing up.
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It was about the time that the Jimmy Saville sex scandal broke. If you remember it when it first started many were sceptical and actually incredulous that the girls would keep silent for so long, in fact they were being attacked as liars. I was busy at the time telling anyone would listen that there were perfectly good reasons as to why they may not have spoke out.
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I saw this young girl staring down the street with a look of concentration, totally lost in her thoughts on a hot summer evening. For a moment I was mesmerized, her look took me back to when I was about six. I remembered being alone in my parents garden playing on a swing on a hot summer evening. I remembered hearing the church bells in the distance and feeling happy. I smiled at the memory and then with horror had to avert my gaze from the girl in case anyone should notice me looking at the girl and get the wrong idea.
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I felt angry, very angry. I felt furious that these sick people should ruin the innocence of our children. That they should pervert their innocence and that special ability of a child to take us back to our own childhood.
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Sounds noble right? Here is the joke.
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I have never really wanted kids, but part of the reason is that my experiences terrify me. What if I had a daughter and at some point when she was old enough that I would feel a desire towards her. This terrifies me of having children.
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I have a much younger half sister that has grown into a very pretty young woman. Can you imagine what it is like to feel terrified of having a young girl of your own and having to remind yourself that you are not like that as you are ferociously protective of younger sister and not the slightest sexual attraction is felt? What sort of person has to remind himself he is not sick with examples? This is my life. When I see a young girl with a smile and get pleasure from it, every single damn time I think how thankful I am that my pleasure is innocent. Every single damn time I search myself to feel reassured that my experience has not made me a monster.
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So I am left with the guilt, the fear and the doubt. And one day Grandma will die. On that day the whole family will be at the church cursing the Grandson who has not talked to her for years and is not at the church to pass respect.
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I know that I am not the only one to walk through life telling myself "It was all my fault". If someone was telling me the same story I would furiously try to convince them that they were innocent of any crime and I know I would be right, they were too young. And yet I cannot believe this of myself.
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And abuse is the unwanted gift that keeps on giving. It is perpetrated upon the young and it does not always make them just a victim, it makes them feel just as much a sick monster.
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It is something I do not think about much, but it is with me every damn day.
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Every damn day.
Sound of Church Bells(Charlie Farthing)
A few days ago I awoke from an Oedipal dream in a high state of sexual arousal.
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Though I awoke aroused I was instantly sickened and disgusted as you would obviously expect. That it involved my mother was highly disturbing, that it took place on the bed where all the bad things had happened was something that did not strike until later. The concept that some memory was trying to surface something I just did not consider. I do not repress much, I know who I am and what I have done and it is something I have to live with. I also do not repress as a lot of my work relies on me living in the past and using it for inspiration and dreams can be useful, often I jump out of bed to jot them down to use as inspiration for some new piece.
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I managed to fall back asleep and spend the hour before I had to get up dreaming a far more respectable dream about a girl from work. I was not as aroused by this, but its cleaner and more morally acceptable content allowed me to put the Oedipal dream out of my mind. Some dreams are powerful enough to hang over us for most of the day by their disturbing content.
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I suppose in a strange way that dreaming about the girl from work was also unusual, my dreams are rarely sexual in nature and if I do have them they are mild and normally involve ex girlfriends. My dreams are more often random mixes of past and present, people and places. They intertwine in interesting ways to create a muddled and muddied recall of events.
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It was a day or two before I began to think not about why I dreamt of Mum in this way, but why it took place in that bed. I came to conclude my subconscious was inviting me to revisit memories I am aware of and accept but try to avoid. To return to some bad personal history, the subconscious is a sometimes nasty but inventive little device.
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"Some bad things happened to me when I was young" is a statement about myself I rarely express. I think I may have told less than a dozen people in my life. Of these people I am sure at least a few give little credit to it due to it sounding highly unlikely. Of those that do believe me I expect a few comments of sympathy and sounds of reassurance before they take the first opportunity to change the subject to something more comfortable, never to be mentioned again. In fact I can only recall one occasion where I had the opportunity to discuss it in anything like a detailed account. Mostly though I do not mention it at all, preferring to present myself as an ordinary person.
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Besides the reception that this revelation normally receives is also the feeling that I have exposed too much of myself. It is a statement of trust that quickly leads me to find an excuse to distance myself from the person who knows my dirty little secret. Telling someone only strengthens the feelings of isolation and alienation, and the loneliness.
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This is of course ridiculous as there are unfortunately too many people out there who have had similar experiences, and far more with worse experiences than myself. To the best of my knowledge there are no support groups where you can go to share and discuss. I assume there are some out there but I have not looked as I would not go even if there are. To elaborate on my experiences of my youth would be a horrible and pointless thing. I also think it would be an insult to their own experience which I feel would be more harrowing and dramatic than my own. You see I do not feel that I was abused, not truly. Sure, on the few occasions I have told individuals I have described it as such, but perhaps my lack of conviction is the reason some have not believed me. To be honest I only use the word as it makes it easier than explaining in full.
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I also do not feel that I would like to sit in a group of the old, drunk, desperate and drugged to tell my story. I could see the group being full of people using their own method to escape their past, some dependence to help them cope. I tell myself I deal with my past and accept it, truth is that it would be too much like looking in a mirror. It is a joke without much humour that I cannot imagine sharing it on such conditions with someone who was not female, around my age and attractive.
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How funny and unbelievably vain is that? That I should only wish to share my full past with a member of the opposite sex. I felt this joke for years until the reason finally dawned on me. It is the craving to share with someone who would care because she understood. Someone who would care and I could care about, to understand and to be understood.
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I have had some fantastic relationships in the past, but without this understanding they were great relationships with a constant background thought that I was living a lie. That the relationship was a lie because I could not be truthful about myself. Not that I was lying, but that I could not reveal my past.
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For myself I believe that it could have been far worse than it actually was, far more traumatic and violent. I have no proof that this is the case but I am virtually sure that I came close to a far more traumatic experience than my own.
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I think I may have been about eleven when my father made a rare demonstration of parental responsibilities and took me abroad on holiday with his new wife. At no point during this holiday did I feel to be anything other than an inconvenient presence.
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As is common on these sort of holidays my Dad and new wife made friends with another British couple, someone to eat breakfast with in the morning and to drink with in the hotel bar in the evenings. If I remember rightly they were from Manchester, I think he said he was a coach driver. I do not remember anything particularly uncomfortable about them, they were just people that seemed safe because my dad had approved and laughed with them.
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On one evening they announced they had hired a car and intended to take a drive to a beauty spot on the other side of the Island, it was some kind of cave attraction. They suggested to my Dad that I may like to go with them. My Dad got a kind of hopeful look in his eye, that he would be rid of his son for a few hours. It did not occur to me at the time, or apparently my father, that the invitation was only open to me and not Dad or new wife.
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Initially I accepted the offer, more from the look in my father's eye than any real cave exploration ambitions. I had already spent much of the holiday in my own company, preferring to explore the local village and cliffs than lay pointlessly on the beach the whole day. It was this preference for my own company that I think saved me, more than from any warning instincts about the couple.
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I met them after breakfast the following day as they stood waiting by their hire car, both of them smiled warmly as I approached them. They were both around the late forties to early fifties mark, he was fat and sweaty in awful glasses. She had a gravelly voice from chain smoked cigarettes and her black dyed hair ridiculously thin. The cheerfulness with which they greeted me evaporated when I told them I was not coming. The effect was immediate, he took a step forward with clenched fists and began breathing heavily in anger. She leant in and I clearly remember her face and flaming eyes as she said "Get in the f***ing car". They were furious. The strange thing is that I cannot remember his face, but her I could pick out of a police line up even today.
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It was pure luck that my Dad and wife chose this moment to emerge from the hotel on their way to the beach. In an instant the couple became friendly and the whole atmosphere changed. I took my opportunity and escaped to the hotel grounds where I spent the day sitting by the pool in confusion. When I told my Dad he dismissed it, most likely as either a direct lie or an over active imagination giving an excuse as to why I did not go with them. This was his default attitude to most of the things I said. That I do not speak to him anymore has less to do with this attitude than my need to distance myself from a close member of his side of the family. That being said it does make the breakdown in communication between us easier.
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I am certain that I was in danger and I do believe that this danger was some kind of sexual attack. While this bothers me and the possibility I was only one potential victim worries me, it is not the most disturbing aspect of the whole possibility. Would I look back on it with arousal?
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I cannot and will not think of what happened to myself as abuse, though the one person I have ever managed to have anything like a serious conversation about it considers it so. My own experiences of my youth are of guilt and self recrimination, but also occasionally a tinge of sexual arousal. This is a centrifugal force, the unexpected memory arrives and brings with it a momentary sexual excited kick, quickly followed by a shudder of horror, disgust and self hatred.
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It is comical really that I yearn for someone I can confess this to, and yet I think there are levels of confession. The first admission is that something happened to you that shouldn't have. The second is to tell what it was that happened. The third is to tell who it was with, which is as about as far as I ever go because as soon as I reveal it was a female member of family I am met with incredulity. The fourth is that which I do not think I have ever confessed, that I enjoyed it at the time and was a willing participant. I may have been young, but I was damned well old enough to know it was wrong. How can I refer to myself as abused when I was willing and excited at the time? Who could possibly understand that?
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This brings a new and almost unexpected fear in sharing it with those who have had similar experiences. To confess an enjoyment at the time and regard it as same as their unwilling horror is an insult to them, or worse, would sharing that you both enjoyed it at the time open dark doors in the dark confession? Would it lead down darker paths best not trod, to some places best not explored? To find someone with whom you could finally share only to find the experience to be mutually psychologically destructive.
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I think these experiences of mine fuel a fascination into the darker side of the human mind. I think I need to understand. All my researches though tend to be on monsters who perpetrate these atrocities. I do however find myself fiercely protective of those consenting adults that choose to mutually explore their fantasies, but furiously opposed to those who would take pleasure for the humiliation and degradation of those unwilling or too young. I always research into the perpetrators, never the victims.
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There is an irony and I feel I must mention it, as despite my condemnation of those who would perpetrate such things, it seems somehow tied to what happened to myself. I have an occasional fantasy, even to this day. It begun on that bed where the bad things happened, and I can remember masturbating to it back then as a kid with the years only fleshing it out.
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I am heterosexual and have only rarely and moderately varied from this in a sort of experimental sort of way, despite this I have a sexual fantasy. On some occasions I imagine myself as female, a submissive female subject to the worst degradation and humiliation. Forced to wear the most revealing clothes and to do the worst possible things. I am not sure how this relates to what happened to me, but it did begin on that bed, so somehow I feel it ties in.
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Psychologically I am led to believe that this kind of fantasy is an unconscious hatred of females. I do not believe this to be the case and there is little evidence to support this. I think it is far more likely due to my sexually perverse development.
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In the recent dream where my own Mum was involved I have a nasty suspicion my brain was placing someone totally inappropriate in the same situation to try and get me to review my feelings on the subject. This was a nasty trick and deeply offensive to my Mother.
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There is some rather odd confusion in my attitude to abuse, perhaps not just myself. A male teacher taking advantage of a young girl in his charge raises condemnation in me. A recent news story of how a pretty young teacher who took advantage of one of her male charges left me wondering what the big deal was. There was at least one female teacher I would have cut my right hand off to have sex with.
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This is muddy thinking but one filled with dynamite.
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You see I am more than willing to believe that the young boy who had sex with his older female teacher would be far from devastated by it. In fact I am willing to believe that he will be telling his mates for the rest of his life about it as a badge of honour. For the rest of his life this boy may be slapped by his male mates on the shoulder in congratulations for an achievement, that he was victorious in becoming a man. That a man should have sex with an older woman is a victory and an honour, for a young girl it is a stigma she should feel ashamed of.
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As a society our point of view is horrific and wrong. The idea of a male score card being high is glorious and a girls being of a slut is horrendous and scary. I find it disgusting that a male teacher caught with a female student will be vilified for the rest of his life and the woman who does the same will not get half as much social stigma attached to her, when she too breached her role of protector.
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Abuse is an electric subject and I who am sort of a victim of it find questions that are difficult to answer. And I am not totally convinced I am a victim or an abused person.
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That my Grandma on my Dad's side used to watch me in the bath until quite a late age of my development is a mild enough and in many ways an innocent enough thing. How it developed beyond this is something I honestly do not remember. How it started and that my clearer memories are of enjoyment do a lot to convince me it was my fault in the first place, I very clearly feel that I am the one to blame. In all the memories I recall myself being the initiator. For my lack of memory I am probably best describing events as best as I can, otherwise I would be being dishonest also to cloud why I feel responsible.
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My parents separated when I was quite young. As both parents worked the guardian duties for myself after school fell to my Grandparents. This is not unusual, though I would not describe my childhood as normal despite the events I am about to relay. I much preferred my own company, something that I am forever grateful for as it saved me from what I suspect were the dangerous and disgusting couple who attempted to force me into the car. At school I got on with pretty much everyone and played with some of them after school, but would always prefer my own company for my imaginative playing after school.
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I have no idea how it started, but at some point I started to be naked in bed with my Grandma. I have no idea how old I was at the beginning. I remember lying naked next to her and being erect and excited. I would then be between her legs and pushing against her, kissing and hearing her breathing increase in excitement until I reached my eventual conclusion.
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It happened most frequently on Friday nights when Granddad was at his club enjoying a pint, though it sometimes was a quick event upstairs when Granddad was busy in the Garden.
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I cannot explain how difficult this is to write.
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She herself never removed her clothes, though she would sleep with me on Friday nights and in night dress. Sometimes she slept with me out of her own choice and sometimes, I am sorry to admit, at my own begging. I think Granddad was convinced I was still afraid of the dark. I remember once after the bath when she was in a dressing gown, but never would she be naked.
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The garden shed had been converted to a play room for me. The walls were covered in sheets and the floor had a carpet, there was a desk and chair and that shed was many things to me. It was a spaceship, a detective's office, a submarine, a time machine and on one occasion, in a sunbed we had opened up in there, it was another location for the perversion.
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It was the time in the shed that I remember quite well her announcing that we would have to be quick as people may wonder what was going on. It was one of the few occasions she referred to it in words.
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Because of my own willingness and eagerness I am quite confident I am to blame, that it was my enthusiasm that brought these events. I have only one memory that I cling to that suggests that I was not totally to blame. On one Friday she flashed me cheerfully on her way to have a bath. I was walking down the stairs and as she walked across the landing to the bathroom door she flashed open her dressing gown with a large smile that I thankfully remember as being far from innocent. I am sickened to confess that this delighted me.
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And in a confession that shudders me, I remember on the occasions I was in bed with her was the desperate desire that she would be naked too. Can you imagine that? I wanted desperately for her too to be as naked as myself.
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Then one summer afternoon we were in bed together, it was weeks since we had done this as Grandma and Granddad had been on holiday abroad. Granddad was in the back garden in his shorts and enjoying the sun that was not quite as hot as his holiday sun.
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She told me that we needed to stop as it was wrong. It was actually me who begged for one last time, one last time between her legs and pushing until I came.
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So there you have it, it was me who begged for it that last time and her that eventually stopped it. How can I not blame myself? And do you want to know what is funny? I was scared she would tell Granddad. Whenever I recall this day I think of myself as being in my late teens, yet it was before Granddad died so I cannot have been more than twelve. I am not sure if it went on for months or years.
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The one friend I have discussed this with in anything like detail had pointed out that even if I instigated this then it is still abuse as she should have known better and I didn't, that she should not have allowed such a thing in the first place. And yet I remember a crushing disappointment when it ended and the begging for one last time, so how can I not be the one to blame? And there is my willingness, I cannot remember ever refusing this game, so I cannot consider it as abuse. It was sexual and yet no penetration ever took place, so how could I ever look a true victim in the eyes and claim I was abused. I quite simply cannot.
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It would be helpful if I could remember how it started. Was it myself that instigated the first time or Grandma? I just do not know, and to be honest I do not want this memory. When I was really young I remember my Dad was watching a porn film while I was in the living room. I had seen sex, I am scared of the memory. What if the truth is that Grandma was innocently in bed with me one day and I had risen while innocently cuddled up to her and the warmth had affected me. What if I was the one to make the move on top of her and she had allowed it when the feeling against her felt good.
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This is the memory I fear the most and why I cannot blame her.
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I am aware that there is a camp out there that actually believe that people can be sexual beings earlier than the law allows. Yes I can believe it, in many ways I am living proof. This does not however take into account the guilt and torment that follows. The self hatred and the burden of an eternally degrading secret. I feel that I am a freak.
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I have no children. I have had many relationships where it looked like a possibility for some time. Some serious relationships with some very wonderful girls. But I have no children and am not at this moment in a relationship. Now let me let you into a secret which is very difficult to admit.
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A few months ago I saw a young girl on a hot summer evening staring thoughtfully down the street while I was washing up.
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It was about the time that the Jimmy Saville sex scandal broke. If you remember it when it first started many were sceptical and actually incredulous that the girls would keep silent for so long, in fact they were being attacked as liars. I was busy at the time telling anyone would listen that there were perfectly good reasons as to why they may not have spoke out.
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I saw this young girl staring down the street with a look of concentration, totally lost in her thoughts on a hot summer evening. For a moment I was mesmerized, her look took me back to when I was about six. I remembered being alone in my parents garden playing on a swing on a hot summer evening. I remembered hearing the church bells in the distance and feeling happy. I smiled at the memory and then with horror had to avert my gaze from the girl in case anyone should notice me looking at the girl and get the wrong idea.
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I felt angry, very angry. I felt furious that these sick people should ruin the innocence of our children. That they should pervert their innocence and that special ability of a child to take us back to our own childhood.
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Sounds noble right? Here is the joke.
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I have never really wanted kids, but part of the reason is that my experiences terrify me. What if I had a daughter and at some point when she was old enough that I would feel a desire towards her. This terrifies me of having children.
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I have a much younger half sister that has grown into a very pretty young woman. Can you imagine what it is like to feel terrified of having a young girl of your own and having to remind yourself that you are not like that as you are ferociously protective of younger sister and not the slightest sexual attraction is felt? What sort of person has to remind himself he is not sick with examples? This is my life. When I see a young girl with a smile and get pleasure from it, every single damn time I think how thankful I am that my pleasure is innocent. Every single damn time I search myself to feel reassured that my experience has not made me a monster.
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So I am left with the guilt, the fear and the doubt. And one day Grandma will die. On that day the whole family will be at the church cursing the Grandson who has not talked to her for years and is not at the church to pass respect.
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I know that I am not the only one to walk through life telling myself "It was all my fault". If someone was telling me the same story I would furiously try to convince them that they were innocent of any crime and I know I would be right, they were too young. And yet I cannot believe this of myself.
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And abuse is the unwanted gift that keeps on giving. It is perpetrated upon the young and it does not always make them just a victim, it makes them feel just as much a sick monster.
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It is something I do not think about much, but it is with me every damn day.
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Every damn day.
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