What is the importance of telling your story? I mean really telling it, from beginning to end. The last time I attempted to do that was in the last couple of years and it was only the highlights, if you will, of a life time of smaller hurts and also of ongoing effects of childhood sexual abuse which still affect me today. The statement that counselor made to me was that any one of these events would be enough to cause PTSD in someone. For two or three, one hour sessions I briefly ran down the list without too much detail. From the confident woman I first met, this counselor changed before my eyes into someone who seemed to be afraid to hear the next thing that would come from my mouth. My trauma was causing her pain in some way. I didn't understand how she could feel my pain. All I knew was that she was having serious problems with hearing my bare bones story. I felt bad to be hurting her, so I didn't go back. My story remained untold.
Lately I've been googling, trying to find out if telling it in story form is a good thing, necessary or just a nice sounding way of wallowing in the past. When I think of NOT telling my story as a whole, instead of in disconnected pieces; then a whole host of statements made to me by my abuser start playing in a continuous loop, joined by all the other not-helpful things people("friends", counselors, pastors, police officers and lawyers and toss in one ignorant doctor) have said to me over the years. I often feel as disconnected as the way in which I've told my story to my pastor/counselor. In the beginning he told me I didn't have to tell him everything about the actual abuse, so I didn't. Along the way I disclosed small snapshots of what happened when I was abused. I tested him at every turn, waiting for the words, "I can't help you. You need to find another counselor." Instead he keeps on telling me that he's in it for the long haul. I believe him now.
In spite of a non linear telling of events and staying focused, more on the effects of the abuse in my life today than a upfront factual retelling of the abuse, my pastor/counselor has the basic gist of what happened. There is a bit of a problem with adequately addressing guilt and shame, since I've only barely brushed on those immensely shaming aspects of the abuse, in all the many hours of counseling over the last 18 months. I don't know how to go there, or if I should go there. It's pretty explicit because that's part of the story, and to sanitize what happened so its a little more palatable seems like its minimizing what really happened. I lived through it. No one sanitized it for me. No one dimmed the horror by skipping what I couldn't handle. Not one person has heard it all. In order to cushion the blows my words have become to my hearer, I always skip around as I speak of the sexual abuse in counseling. Past counselors have either been deeply affected to the point that they can't help me or have done other odd things that moved the focus from my abuser like: attempting to convince me it was a different person who abused me; or that my "real" problem was something besides the sexual abuse. To a point, it has been a necessary cushioning of it for me too, yet I'm also acutely aware of my edits and deliberate minimizing of the abuse in order to talk about it and not harm or scare off another counselor. There are times I don't say things because I'm sitting there contemplating whether or not bringing up certain aspects of events would be too explicit; and therefore would bring down some sort of rebuke for a gratuitous recounting of things about the abuse or its long term effects that didn't need to be said.
This fear of rejection runs in me so strongly that I can't think reasonably about the chances of such a rebuke occurring. Technically, rejection of me as a person, and not listening to the details of my story are not the same thing. In my mind I know this, but the part of me which fear controls can't make that distinction. Crawling under a rock and face hiding shame dominates my thinking and instinctive self protective behaviour. I would contaminate another person by going into the shame filled details. Why wouldn't anyone not look at me with disgust if they knew everything? It's not like I want to put out all the details, or even any of them, to everyone who knows me. I just want one person on earth to know everything and not turn away from me. That hasn't happened yet. No one yet knows everything. I don't blame them for not being able to handle hearing it, but still, I had to live it. Isn't there anyone who can listen to me say everything; from the sound of the stairs, the creaking open of the door, the smell of concrete, the taste of fear and helplessness, to the things I did to provoke him so he would just get it over with? Or is it just too much to put on someone else? When it's all put together it is horrendous and explicit in all the details of what he did to me and what I did, felt, saw, and thought at the time. Is is wrong for me to tell my story, uncensored?
Showing posts with label #SexualAbuse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #SexualAbuse. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Writing In Order To Do Battle
I can't find the answer to this, but I've been wondering about it for the last several days. Wondering to the point of almost panicly worrying. Does PTSD come and go? For me that has been my experience, but I can't find anyone else saying the same thing. I've wondered about this for years now, ever since a doctor gave me a word for what was happening to me. I'm a bit funny with the way I describe things not realizing its something "real" and enough other people have had the same thing going on that they gave it a name. Just this past year I discovered the word dissociate and what it was, and lo and behold it's what I've been calling "zoning", "being gone somewhere" or "losing time". I have a great fear of re-entering the battle and once again ending up in those dark places where I lose my way. I stopped writing when I got to a comfortable place. God is held at arms length, but I can catch glimpses of Him in church on Sunday and through the overwhelming kindness of my church family. It's a safe place in my journey, but I'm being nudged along to go farther.
I haven't been writing, anywhere, and that concerns me a bit, in the sense that it should concern me, but it doesn't--not really. I write when I'm actively dealing with things and I haven't written in months. I've been asked to make a list of fears and concerns to work through in counselling.
I would say "challenged", but that just sounds too baptist to me. Of course to me it's not just a list, it's the contents of the boxes I've been dragging around all these years. In some ways its the monsters in my closets that have come so close to destroying me in the past. I use the word past in a way that includes not only my personal ancient past, but my recent past too. Just yesterday I read two bloggers who posted on the topic of writing either directly or indirectly. One of them sounds like he is fairly close to where I am in my own journey while the other one is in a place that often seems unattainable to me. Both of them are writers that speak to me in the deep places of my soul. http://redemptionpictures.com/2014/09/12/when-writing-is-an-act-of-hope/
http://messytheology.wordpress.com/2014/09/10/when-there-are-no-words/
Writing for me has always been cathartic. I started my first little diary in third grade. I still had it, up until almost four years ago when our house burned down. As an adult, reading that first diary I ever kept, brought back memories, good and bad. Almost all the good things in there involved going to my grandma's house, the food she made, the stories she told and helping her hang out laundry, pick apples and watch her work in her garden. When I was old enough to not pull plants instead of weeds, I was actually allowed to go in the garden. Other events I wrote about I remember writing carefully in case my diary was ever stolen and read. My careful writing at age 9 wasn't careful enough and I got in trouble for what I wrote. I didn't keep a diary again until 5th grade. I learned my lesson and wrote carefully and left out the most ugly parts. Yet years later reading my diary from elementary I again saw those events I so carefully edited in my writing, and the memories invoked were not edited.
The power of the written word is incredible. And those were just my own childish writings, yet they held the key to my memory, to my own story.
By 7th grade I was writing furiously and unedited, except for the terrible secret I carried that I couldn't write about even in my own journal. The raw anger flowed from my pen and filled spiral notebooks. Anger, hurt, and betrayal, along with the pettiness of junior high drama, were my themes. I wrote for me and only me. I wrote to keep my sanity and a place to siphon off the anger and rage that threatened to tear me apart. My anger grew as my understanding of what had happened to me grew. I never gave it a word until 2003. I couldn't name it. I was too afraid. The anger was too powerful and I barely kept it in check through my writing. By 9th grade I was learning to control the anger through other means and harness it. I made good use of it and the abuse at home finally stopped, for me. Still I wrote. My survival depended upon it.
I wrote all through high school and into college at Bob Jones University, where I again looked for help and thought I found it. I would have been better off to have kept writing and skipped the counselling. The times I stopped writing were the times I was being successful at locking down all my boxes and shutting off emotions. But of course anger was a main component of all the boxes and anger can only be contained for so long. Thus the cycle of writing while depressed, angry and trying to close back the boxes that another counseling attempt had opened began. I haven't written anywhere for a few months. It's been different this time though. At least one of my monsters has been destroyed and not all emotion has been cut off. I think I've been experiencing life the way that other people do, to a point. Real emotions have still been in play. I've cried and didn't shut it off with anger. I can't remember doing that before. It's been incredible to smile and cry and not have to do my usual routine in order to "be normal". I like it. The problem is that this is only a plateau and there is a long journey still ahead. I've been content here for long enough. It was a nice break from the battle, but it's time to re-engage. Once again, I write.
I haven't been writing, anywhere, and that concerns me a bit, in the sense that it should concern me, but it doesn't--not really. I write when I'm actively dealing with things and I haven't written in months. I've been asked to make a list of fears and concerns to work through in counselling.
I would say "challenged", but that just sounds too baptist to me. Of course to me it's not just a list, it's the contents of the boxes I've been dragging around all these years. In some ways its the monsters in my closets that have come so close to destroying me in the past. I use the word past in a way that includes not only my personal ancient past, but my recent past too. Just yesterday I read two bloggers who posted on the topic of writing either directly or indirectly. One of them sounds like he is fairly close to where I am in my own journey while the other one is in a place that often seems unattainable to me. Both of them are writers that speak to me in the deep places of my soul. http://redemptionpictures.com/2014/09/12/when-writing-is-an-act-of-hope/
http://messytheology.wordpress.com/2014/09/10/when-there-are-no-words/
Writing for me has always been cathartic. I started my first little diary in third grade. I still had it, up until almost four years ago when our house burned down. As an adult, reading that first diary I ever kept, brought back memories, good and bad. Almost all the good things in there involved going to my grandma's house, the food she made, the stories she told and helping her hang out laundry, pick apples and watch her work in her garden. When I was old enough to not pull plants instead of weeds, I was actually allowed to go in the garden. Other events I wrote about I remember writing carefully in case my diary was ever stolen and read. My careful writing at age 9 wasn't careful enough and I got in trouble for what I wrote. I didn't keep a diary again until 5th grade. I learned my lesson and wrote carefully and left out the most ugly parts. Yet years later reading my diary from elementary I again saw those events I so carefully edited in my writing, and the memories invoked were not edited.
The power of the written word is incredible. And those were just my own childish writings, yet they held the key to my memory, to my own story.
By 7th grade I was writing furiously and unedited, except for the terrible secret I carried that I couldn't write about even in my own journal. The raw anger flowed from my pen and filled spiral notebooks. Anger, hurt, and betrayal, along with the pettiness of junior high drama, were my themes. I wrote for me and only me. I wrote to keep my sanity and a place to siphon off the anger and rage that threatened to tear me apart. My anger grew as my understanding of what had happened to me grew. I never gave it a word until 2003. I couldn't name it. I was too afraid. The anger was too powerful and I barely kept it in check through my writing. By 9th grade I was learning to control the anger through other means and harness it. I made good use of it and the abuse at home finally stopped, for me. Still I wrote. My survival depended upon it.
I wrote all through high school and into college at Bob Jones University, where I again looked for help and thought I found it. I would have been better off to have kept writing and skipped the counselling. The times I stopped writing were the times I was being successful at locking down all my boxes and shutting off emotions. But of course anger was a main component of all the boxes and anger can only be contained for so long. Thus the cycle of writing while depressed, angry and trying to close back the boxes that another counseling attempt had opened began. I haven't written anywhere for a few months. It's been different this time though. At least one of my monsters has been destroyed and not all emotion has been cut off. I think I've been experiencing life the way that other people do, to a point. Real emotions have still been in play. I've cried and didn't shut it off with anger. I can't remember doing that before. It's been incredible to smile and cry and not have to do my usual routine in order to "be normal". I like it. The problem is that this is only a plateau and there is a long journey still ahead. I've been content here for long enough. It was a nice break from the battle, but it's time to re-engage. Once again, I write.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Forgiveness Without Coercion: What does it look like?
If anyone would have told me 6 months ago that I would be in contact with a former counselor and forgiveness would be brought up, and the end result would be a good one; I never would have believed it. For the first time in my life someone asked for my forgiveness and didn't try to avoid responsibility or turn it back on me and make it out to be my fault in any way. I am still in shock. I've never experienced anything like this in my life. (There has been one other person, but that happened outside of the IFB/BJU world and the whole process was much simpler.)
Forgive It's one of those major trigger words that can easily lead to full blown flashbacks. Except this time it didn't. I'm not say it wasn't triggering and that I didn't have flashbacks, but because of the other persons response to me the flashbacks didn't become debilitating. I did lose some time( the name I've used to describe dissociation for 20 years, before I knew there was a name for it) but overall it was just a beautiful demonstration of what the process of forgiveness and reconciliation can look like. This may not sound like a positive experience, but it was and is. It was hard work and took the better part of three days. At the beginning of this renewed contact I had no inkling where it would go. At first I received a somewhat generic request for my forgiveness without the other person really comprehending what it was they were asking my forgiveness for. Back and forth we went until I was concise and specific enough that the only option left would be to dodge it, turn it back on me, or accept responsibility. Amazingly, the responsibility was accepted and forgiveness still asked for and then granted. By the end, I actually wanted to forgive and I wasn't guilted into it.
Wow! If this were to happen for everyone; what a different world we would be in. Granted, this is only one person and not even my original abuser, but the effect this persons counsel had on me was far reaching and life threatening. For this person to acknowledge the harm, is such a huge deal for me. I never thought it possible. Maybe, just maybe, others will follow suit for me and for others. And maybe the hurt, and the fear, and the never ending guilt can begin to be assuaged, for all of us. As to the teacher that abused me in elementary school, I doubt he would know genuine repentance if it ran over him, but that is a topic for another post.
Maybe someday I will be at a point where I can read the Bible without being severely triggered and spiraling into either dissociation or flashbacks. For now I'm ok with enjoying the good things in life and being thankful to God for the beauty I see. The GRACE investigation set off a chain of events in my life that is truly life changing. I have to face the past or be crushed by it. It's a slow road to healing and agonizing at times, but I think I have hope that it is possible.
Forgive It's one of those major trigger words that can easily lead to full blown flashbacks. Except this time it didn't. I'm not say it wasn't triggering and that I didn't have flashbacks, but because of the other persons response to me the flashbacks didn't become debilitating. I did lose some time( the name I've used to describe dissociation for 20 years, before I knew there was a name for it) but overall it was just a beautiful demonstration of what the process of forgiveness and reconciliation can look like. This may not sound like a positive experience, but it was and is. It was hard work and took the better part of three days. At the beginning of this renewed contact I had no inkling where it would go. At first I received a somewhat generic request for my forgiveness without the other person really comprehending what it was they were asking my forgiveness for. Back and forth we went until I was concise and specific enough that the only option left would be to dodge it, turn it back on me, or accept responsibility. Amazingly, the responsibility was accepted and forgiveness still asked for and then granted. By the end, I actually wanted to forgive and I wasn't guilted into it.
Wow! If this were to happen for everyone; what a different world we would be in. Granted, this is only one person and not even my original abuser, but the effect this persons counsel had on me was far reaching and life threatening. For this person to acknowledge the harm, is such a huge deal for me. I never thought it possible. Maybe, just maybe, others will follow suit for me and for others. And maybe the hurt, and the fear, and the never ending guilt can begin to be assuaged, for all of us. As to the teacher that abused me in elementary school, I doubt he would know genuine repentance if it ran over him, but that is a topic for another post.
Maybe someday I will be at a point where I can read the Bible without being severely triggered and spiraling into either dissociation or flashbacks. For now I'm ok with enjoying the good things in life and being thankful to God for the beauty I see. The GRACE investigation set off a chain of events in my life that is truly life changing. I have to face the past or be crushed by it. It's a slow road to healing and agonizing at times, but I think I have hope that it is possible.
Monday, February 24, 2014
How Bob Jones University's Firing of GRACE Has Affected Me as a Survivor and Interviewee
Up until now I have never mentioned where I went to college or anything about that time in my life. That's an impossible task to cover adequately in one post, but I do want to in a brief way discuss my infamous alma mater, Bob Jones University. I grew up in a "Bob Jones" church, although in the early days it was more a Gothard church and I remember loading up in buses at church and riding downtown to the Basic Youth Conflicts meeting. Brother Roloff was a regular preacher at our church, but I digress. My college choices were Bob Jones University or Your on Your Own- Good Luck U. The whole concept of scholarships and the evil government student loans was abhorred. So off I went to Greenville, South Carolina and the Mecca of the Fundamentalist world, Bob Jones University. I wasn't unhappy about it. I had visited there a few times and knew how to dress like the college girls and not look like a high schooler. I was quite pleased when my clothing was looked over by a girl that used to be in my youth group, but was now that most envied of positions, a GA(graduate assistant). I thought I was hot stuff, with connections in the right places and coming from a well known and respected church and Christian school. MY pastor was asked to speak at Bob Jones and so on. I was such a self righteous, proud little brat, but I was never a Boje(that's BJ slang for tattletale). My freshman year was an odd mix. My APC(assistant prayer captain) was a 5th year senior who only had one semester left. She introduced me to the wild crowd and told them I was cool and wouldn't get a conscience. It's funny how she had me pegged. I was very good at keeping quiet and self preservation. I never did turn anyone in for anything my whole time at Bob Jones University, even when undergoing grilling by the Dean of Women (I always get Baker and Barker mixed up) or the Dean of Students, Mr. Berg.
One of my teachers my freshman year was similar in mannerisms and size as my teacher in elementary that molested and raped me during that whole school year. I didn't have the right words for what was happening to me. I genuinely liked Mr. Berg and went to him for help. I described what was happening and one of the things I was told, was to think on those things that are lovely and to meditate on Philipians 4:8. I tried so hard but things just got worse. I have words now for what was happening: triggers, flashbacks, PTSD and eventually dissociation. I was severely depressed and became suicidal. I thought I was going crazy. I went to the wrong classes for an extended period of time until the teacher pointed out that I wasn't actually IN that class. I would wander around and be vaguely aware that I was supposed to be somewhere. After sessions with Mr. Berg I would walk out of the administration building and "come to" in some out of the way back campus location.
I'm barely touching on my experience with counseling while at Bob Jones, but it was a part of every year of my time there. I interviewed with G.R.A.C.E. last year and have been paying a heavy toll for it. I finally got to a point of relative peace in the last few months. The flashbacks to the original abuse in elementary had become infrequent, I could sing in church again and talking with a Baptist didn't throw me into panic. I still couldn't read the Bible without being triggered, but I could listen to someone else read it, as long as it wasn't the King James version. It was nice to wake up without that instant feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. I made it past a major depression and time of being suicidal. PTSD symptoms were basically gone for a while. I was still in counseling with my pastor, but it had lost the edge of desperation that began our counseling relationship soon after I filled out the original GRACE questionnaire and then went into full blown longlasting flashbacks. Believe me, that was an interesting call!
But now, BJU has fired GRACE and it's not looking like the report will ever see the light of day, if BJU can get away with it. I've seen various blogs and comments mention how this decision to fire GRACE re-traumatizes victims, but I haven't seen anyone specifically saying how it does. I'm going to tell you how it affects me, and I hope that others will tell in the comments, or elsewhere, how BJU's actions in firing GRACE is affecting them.
1. My hands are sweating like a faucet, and it makes the keyboard slippery to type on.
2. Betrayed
3. Headaches and eye twitches have returned
4. Nightmares are starting back up
5. I am being more easily triggered again
6. Flashbacks are returning
7. Anxiety (and DON'T tell me to be anxious for nothing!)
8. General nervousness
9. Difficulty staying in the present while singing in church (fighting to not dissociate too badly)
10. Nausea
11. Difficulty sleeping(I haven't slept well for a couple of weeks now and I was up the whole night this past Saturday.)
12. Loss of appetite (I could stand to lose a bunch of weight, so that's almost ok with me)
13. I know I'm depressed, although I can't say to what degree, but not currently suicidal.
14. I am physically tense all over to the point of pain
15. You really don't want to know about the connection all this has with my bowels ;)
16. Church is again full of triggers for me and has been increasing each week since GRACE was fired
17. I have been irritable and hard to live with(I'm working on it!)
18. Loss of hope(but then I got really ticked and that helps because I am doing what I can)
19. Crying and not able to control emotions well, so I use anger to keep the tears in check
20. Really and truly beginning to grasp the depth and beauty of the imprecatory Psalms and praying in a very specific way towards Bob Jones University---Lord, hear my prayer.
One of my teachers my freshman year was similar in mannerisms and size as my teacher in elementary that molested and raped me during that whole school year. I didn't have the right words for what was happening to me. I genuinely liked Mr. Berg and went to him for help. I described what was happening and one of the things I was told, was to think on those things that are lovely and to meditate on Philipians 4:8. I tried so hard but things just got worse. I have words now for what was happening: triggers, flashbacks, PTSD and eventually dissociation. I was severely depressed and became suicidal. I thought I was going crazy. I went to the wrong classes for an extended period of time until the teacher pointed out that I wasn't actually IN that class. I would wander around and be vaguely aware that I was supposed to be somewhere. After sessions with Mr. Berg I would walk out of the administration building and "come to" in some out of the way back campus location.
I'm barely touching on my experience with counseling while at Bob Jones, but it was a part of every year of my time there. I interviewed with G.R.A.C.E. last year and have been paying a heavy toll for it. I finally got to a point of relative peace in the last few months. The flashbacks to the original abuse in elementary had become infrequent, I could sing in church again and talking with a Baptist didn't throw me into panic. I still couldn't read the Bible without being triggered, but I could listen to someone else read it, as long as it wasn't the King James version. It was nice to wake up without that instant feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. I made it past a major depression and time of being suicidal. PTSD symptoms were basically gone for a while. I was still in counseling with my pastor, but it had lost the edge of desperation that began our counseling relationship soon after I filled out the original GRACE questionnaire and then went into full blown longlasting flashbacks. Believe me, that was an interesting call!
But now, BJU has fired GRACE and it's not looking like the report will ever see the light of day, if BJU can get away with it. I've seen various blogs and comments mention how this decision to fire GRACE re-traumatizes victims, but I haven't seen anyone specifically saying how it does. I'm going to tell you how it affects me, and I hope that others will tell in the comments, or elsewhere, how BJU's actions in firing GRACE is affecting them.
1. My hands are sweating like a faucet, and it makes the keyboard slippery to type on.
2. Betrayed
3. Headaches and eye twitches have returned
4. Nightmares are starting back up
5. I am being more easily triggered again
6. Flashbacks are returning
7. Anxiety (and DON'T tell me to be anxious for nothing!)
8. General nervousness
9. Difficulty staying in the present while singing in church (fighting to not dissociate too badly)
10. Nausea
11. Difficulty sleeping(I haven't slept well for a couple of weeks now and I was up the whole night this past Saturday.)
12. Loss of appetite (I could stand to lose a bunch of weight, so that's almost ok with me)
13. I know I'm depressed, although I can't say to what degree, but not currently suicidal.
14. I am physically tense all over to the point of pain
15. You really don't want to know about the connection all this has with my bowels ;)
16. Church is again full of triggers for me and has been increasing each week since GRACE was fired
17. I have been irritable and hard to live with(I'm working on it!)
18. Loss of hope(but then I got really ticked and that helps because I am doing what I can)
19. Crying and not able to control emotions well, so I use anger to keep the tears in check
20. Really and truly beginning to grasp the depth and beauty of the imprecatory Psalms and praying in a very specific way towards Bob Jones University---Lord, hear my prayer.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
My Friend, Dean
We moved to a new house in January of my third grade year. It was a brand new house on a brand new street. I made new friends in the neighborhood and school was okay. My teacher was pregnant and spent most of the day sitting at the back of the classroom with her head on the desk. We got to play on the good playground for one recess but had to play on the blacktop parking lot for the other recess.
I met Dean in the neighborhood, he was a few years older than me. He taught me how to jump my bike and land level with both tires on the dirt course kids made out of the piles of dirt around the poured basements on the street. I got pretty good. He even let me ride his dirt bike, the motorized kind. I knew I was hot stuff and special because he didn't let anyone else ride his motor bike. He also taught me karate moves and how to defend myself and fight. (Yes, I know it doesn't sound like girl stuff, but I liked the guy's kind of fun. Barbies and board games get old real quick.) His garage door was always open(if his parents weren't home) and that was the neighborhood source for all things illegal. He never let any of the other guys there give me the hard stuff they were offering. I could hang out there and smoke, but he wouldn't let me try anything with needles. Sometimes he would shoo me out of the basement side of the garage(raised ranch style house) and it wasn't until my teacher at school molested and raped me all through the school year that I realized what all was going on in the basement side of his garage. He was a good guy and I was safe with him. Some days he told me I needed to leave, usually this was when his friends wanted me to go in the basement and hang out with them. Later I realized what he was keeping me safe from. I wish I knew his last name and could find him and say thank you. He was kinda like an onery, getting in trouble older brother. He was my friend, Dean.
I met Dean in the neighborhood, he was a few years older than me. He taught me how to jump my bike and land level with both tires on the dirt course kids made out of the piles of dirt around the poured basements on the street. I got pretty good. He even let me ride his dirt bike, the motorized kind. I knew I was hot stuff and special because he didn't let anyone else ride his motor bike. He also taught me karate moves and how to defend myself and fight. (Yes, I know it doesn't sound like girl stuff, but I liked the guy's kind of fun. Barbies and board games get old real quick.) His garage door was always open(if his parents weren't home) and that was the neighborhood source for all things illegal. He never let any of the other guys there give me the hard stuff they were offering. I could hang out there and smoke, but he wouldn't let me try anything with needles. Sometimes he would shoo me out of the basement side of the garage(raised ranch style house) and it wasn't until my teacher at school molested and raped me all through the school year that I realized what all was going on in the basement side of his garage. He was a good guy and I was safe with him. Some days he told me I needed to leave, usually this was when his friends wanted me to go in the basement and hang out with them. Later I realized what he was keeping me safe from. I wish I knew his last name and could find him and say thank you. He was kinda like an onery, getting in trouble older brother. He was my friend, Dean.
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