Some boys were actually raped.
I read Mudblood's post about his experience. I responded thusly...
This is very difficult for me to read - I immediately want to freeze up and say 'man up' - not to you, but to myself. I suppose it's 'defensive detachment' at work.
Amazingly, my experience is similar to yours - it didn't take place at a church camp however. It involved a neighbor just a bit older than your predator - it happened repeatedly. I hate thinking of it. I had a crazy family as well - very abusive. It made me an easy target for a predator. I pretended it was an 'affair' - like in the movies. I pretended I was sophisticated and adult. I hated doing it. For years I blamed myself - completely - not believing that I was really only a child.
It was a long time ago... but it never goes away completely. The wounds reopen from time to time - but they no longer become infected - to a deadly degree, that is. At least I hope not. It's like the wound in St. Rita's forehead - it can become foul and festering, repellent to others, but it closes sometimes, and you almost don't notice it.
God bless you for being so honest.Just like Brideshead Revisited - only poorer and creepier.
It's difficult for me because for most of my life I pretended it didn't really happen, and I kept it secret - because I was embarrassed and ashamed. Keeping secrets became a habit and so everything about me got to be 'protected' information. I censored myself. I also claimed responsibility for everything that happened to me - I would admit that "I did it". Even though my closest friends in high school knew about some of what "I did", the stuff I permitted them to know about, I pretended I had been in control - but I wasn't. I pretended to be a 'man of the world' due to the experience - but I wasn't. Then, as any fugitive, I more or less exiled myself as soon as I could, and moved away ...
Oddly enough, while I was sick recently, I thought very much about that period in my life, the neighborhood, the circumstances at home - it all seems so insane in retrospect. The sense of shame is so overwhelming - I cannot even write about it. So I won't. Maybe I'll rewrite a kid's book I did years ago... about the little kid whose bear was given away by his wicked step-mother ...
Once upon a time there was a little kid who had a little bear. They lived in a little house on a little street named Petit, in a little portion of an Italian neighborhood in St. Paul.
508 Petit St.
Which reminds me - I Googled the old neighborhood and all the houses were torn down - and nothing lives on the land today. I wonder if it was salted?
Read Gabriel Blanchard's post on his experience here.
It helps - so much - to understand things. Yep - then move on. (Only to return - from time to time.)
I refer to abuse wounds as a sort of stigmata.
St. Rita's wounds work for me as an analogy
because her wound was at times repellent
to those with whom she lived.
Similarly, as a result of my wound,
I sometimes say and do
which others find