Greetings, All!  Dwayne, here!  

First... TRIGGER ALERT!  TRIGGER ALERT!  This Blog-Post may cause some readers to TRIGGER into a TRAUMATIZED STATE!  Of course, that is never my intent; but, I thought it would be polite to warn anyone who needed such warning.  Now... 

I am not entirely sure how/where to start.  During my daily inner-dialogues, I hardly ever have this discussion -- there is just too much pain and shame involved.  I even end up feeling ashamed about those rare positive accomplishments I had; because they stand in such contrast to the abuses I endured.  

First, the good news... or, was it?    I was a genius, during my childhood and adolescent years -- with an I.Q. that was off the scale and a strong, vibrant Creative Muse... I was a wunderkind!  But, socially and emotionally, I was retarded -- in the truest sense of that word.  The de-evolution... Was it bred into me... and provided the gap through which all the abuses snuck in?  Or, did it come about, as a coping mechanism, from the abuses?  Hard to say, now that I am in my mid-50s.  Such questions keep me eternally, constantly frustrated with myself.     

The first incidence of sexual abuse happened when I was 5-years-old... I was gang-raped by older school peers in the boys washroom, at school.  It was a lunch-hour... I was stripped completely naked, punched and kicked and warned not to talk about anything that they did to me.  They gang-raped me, repeatedly -- anally and orally... Even the boys that weren't young enough to ejaculate took their turns.  After they'd finished their "fun", they warned me again not to mention a word; and they left me in the cold, stainless steel trough of the sink... naked, aching and trembling, covered in urine and semen and feces and some blood, and several clumps of paper towel thrown in around me... and told I'd better hurry up and clean up and get dressed, or I'd be late for class.  

I did as I was told -- cleaned myself as best I could... got dressed... tried to comb my hair with my fingers, in one of the mirrors... wove and wobbled my way back to class, stumbling to my seat, while the teacher wasn't looking... and carrying my great shame of that first-time sexual-encounter.  It gave me an erection; so I "knew" I had enjoyed it.      What kind of person was I!?!      

Similar gang-rapes happened a couple more times over that first two-weeks.  I got better and quicker, at cleaning myself up.  I'd be getting more of it, the other kids would tease me in the halls, seeing as how I loved it so much.  I decided they were being reasonable; so I should too.  I mean, at home, my father was physically abusive -- disappointed in his day-dreaming son -- and my mother kept me clean and fed, and gave out as many hugs as father would allow her... She couldn't really stop Dad's beatings -- THAT  was his job!  And, they both told me they "loved" me... So, at least I was able to take some gut-deep, visceral pleasure from the sexual abuses.  I certainly didn't get much pleasure at home... And, so, I never mentioned the rapings to anyone.  

Dad being military, we moved around a bit.  The sexual abuses continued -- I felt like I must have a "mark" on me, that the same type of people would find me wherever we lived.  By age 11-12, my abusers shifted towards men -- specifically, men "in authority"... 2 priests, an in-law, my dope dealers (trading my body for drugs)... and some of their friends... 

Oh, yes!  I started abusing drugs at age-10, to help me cloak myself in oblivion, as -- what seemed to me at the time to be -- a "reasonable" coping mechanism.  I continued active addiction from ages 10-31 -- long after the abuses stopped -- because... Reality was not my friend.  The sexual abuses by others stopped sometime after my 17th birthday.  From those years, to this day, I remember the taste of human semen, urine, feces, and blood... I remember what dog semen tastes and feels like, as well as goat, donkey, and horse semen... And I still have nightmares (and daymares, when triggered), of the time I was raped with a baseball bat, trading that for one more line of coke.  I had to lay in the dealer's tub for over 3-hours, before my anus would shut enough to stop voiding my bowels... Yeah, good times... Not.  

And, that is just a nutshell version of the sexual abuses I let others put me through... from ages 5-17.  From ages 17-25, I got into a chronic rhythm of genital self-mutilation... so that: a) I could still feel some pleasure, and b) to punish myself for making myself "gay".  And then there were the physical abuses... 

From age-5 onward, my father was extremely physically abusive.  The beatings were in the form of extreme-spankings from ages 5-12, leaving me criss-crossed and layered with welts from his hand, his belt, a wooden spoon, a hair-brush, a wooden switch, electrical cords... from halfway up my back, down to just above the back of my knees; and often the implements would pop partly out of his hands and wrap around my body.  I had the buckle of his belt come loose, whip around my hips, and snap against my boyish genitals on more than one occasion.  He would "spank" me until my bladder would let go; and then he'd get angry and spank me even harder, for pissing all over myself and the floor.  I would just barely be able to crawl up the stairs to my room.  As soon as possible, after, my mother would hurry up and wash off blood and urine, in a stinging bath of Epsom salts... dry me off as tenderly as she could... dress me in my pyjamas, and lay me in my bed -- where I would pass-out shivering.  After age-12, Dad decided I was too old for spankings... So his disappointments in me registered with fists to the head, instead.  Other physical abuses came from bullies, at school.  That continued until I was 15.  When I came back from summer vacation, I had developed a new attitude... and some major fighting skills.  The first bully who tried to intimidate me in front of the class, got laid-out unconscious.  I declared "hunting season" on ALL bullies.  I spent 3 months sending one after another home or to hospital.  None of them dared to confess that they were afraid of the scrawny little kid in their grade or lower.  So i got away with it.     ... I was vicious with them...   I ... enjoyed it.     And so, it is another great shame that I carry with me.  

And that is the shortest version possible, of "my" disrupted childhood... a lot of details have been left out, mainly in the interest of brevity.  What helped me get through all of it?  Well... Time... a 12-Step Recovery Fellowship that helped me to take a really honest look at myself... more Time... There were still mistakes made along the way; but I worked hard to find the lesson in each one, and put it to use in the next stages of my life... Giving back/Reaching out, to those who I found (or who found me) along the way... Sharing -- openly and honestly -- whenever anyone was willing and courageous enough to ask me.  There has never been any single-set, perfect solution.  I'm just not willing to go back there.  

Thank you for letting me Share with you!     I hope this is the correct venue for this -- or, wow!  You are all scratching your heads, out there, thinking, "Whhhaaaaaatttt?!?"      (LOL)  

Peace & Blessings, All!  

Rev. L. Dwayne Decker (ULC)