After reading the news, I find myself still very sad about and disgusted by Alex’s death and while I’m happy that his owner may get a new friend I know that the pain this man must be feeling can’t be fixed with a new addition – although I’m sure it will provide some measure of comfort to him to know that there are “good people” in our world.
I’m disgusted with the amount of pedophile stories there are and wonder why we as a society continue to make excuses for these people and hold any hope of them being ‘rehabilitated’. Today’s blog continues with with a bit more about me and my perspective...
My thoughts and feelings are definitely skewed as an elderly babysitter’s husband sexually abused me from the time I was 5 years old until around 10 years old. It was one of the worst things that could have happened to me and had a huge impact on the adult I became. I dreaded going over there and would try to make up any excuse I could to avoid it. Nevertheless, my mom was young and trying to avoid her own personal demons through escape, drug and alcohol use, so she did not want me around those bad influences. Instead, she would send me to a “safe” place, entrusting my care to this an elderly couple that ‘just wanted to help out’. The woman was a domineering, mean, demanding woman who ruled her home and those in it with a tight rein, while her husband appeared caring, loving, and thoughtful, and who would always give us hugs and kisses or sneak us an extra cookie or snack. I used to beg my mom not to make me stay overnight, but her plans would fail if that were the case and so I would have to stay over ‘just this time’ – over and over again. I quickly learned to try not to be too close to him or he would be hugging and kissing you, which would make his wife angry and she would yell at him, but then if you didn’t sit on his lap you would get into trouble from her for being rude and disrespectful. The closer we got to their house the more my stomach would start to churn and my bowels would loosen and bile would build in my mouth, but hearing “you have to stay there even if you’re sick” quickly made me realize that puking wouldn’t do me any good. I would push down the feelings – anxiety, fear, hurt, anger – and try to figure out what I could do to make the best of it. Upon arrival, there was usually not much to do. There was a toy room and I could play cards with her, but he would invite me to help him build one of the many beautiful things he made from wood. He encouraged me to try hammering, gluing, putting in screws – one time he even let me try the drill! He beamed with approval with each new thing I tried and learned. He would tell me stories about the war and I loved listening to them. This part of the visit was good and I looked forward to the next beautiful thing he would allow me to help him create and the new stories he would tell while we were working. However, before I knew it, supper was on the table and I would start to get a bit nervous. My plate would be filled and I would be made to clean it up, no matter if I liked everything or not, and after getting a cuff a few times for trying to refuse to eat, I quickly learned to shut my mouth and make the best of it. The worst part was dessert - she made those pudding and cake things - I would gag and plug my nose and drink lots of water just trying to get it down. I prolonged eating because I knew once we started to clean up supper that bath time would be next and then lights out, and I didn’t want to go there. I would be put in the bathtub and scrubbed by the wife – was she cleaning me for him? – and during the first few times he offered to bath me. I quickly learned that if I played very shy and started to cry she would make him leave. Her scrubbing hurt more, but it was better than him getting to watch me naked and touch me anymore! He would offer to come in and help me get my p.j.’s on, but I would say "no, thank you" to that as well. Although I would try everything in my bag of tricks to stay up (I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I have to pee, I’m going to be sick, I don’t feel good) bedtime was 7:30 and I was told I should be thankful because at home bedtime was 7:00. Did she know I could not care less that I got an extra 30 minutes to stay up? Did she know that I would spend those 30 minutes talking to myself, telling myself that I can say ‘no, thank you’ just as easily when he came in as when he tried to help me with my pajamas? That I would try with all my might to build up the courage to just say no, and when it was over I would beat and berate myself for being such a wuss, how disgusted I would feel with myself? Once I was in bed, I would pray and wish and hope and beg to whatever gods I thought may have existed at the time that this wouldn’t happen - only to jump with each creak of the floorboards and break into a sweat and shake and start to cry and then remember to stop and wipe my tears because one time she came in and told me I should be thankful for all I have rather than crying. [What the hell did she know about what I had? I was a little girl whose dad hated her and was never around, my mom was doing her best to raise me on welfare while working and wanting to explore a world she never experienced by marrying too young, but I should be thankful to be sent to a mean woman and her perverted husband?] I would hope “maybe he’ll fall asleep in front of the television and she’ll put him straight into bed tonight.” Unfortunately, that did not happen often enough, but it was one of the many prayers I said in hopes that it would happen “just this time, okay god?” With each approaching step my stomach would knot more and more and this pain would start in my breastbone and my breathing would get rapid and then he was there. I don’t remember if I said no or stop or anything – I knew the expectation was to be a good girl, just lay there and get it over with so that he’ll leave. When he started, I would let questions run through my mind as a means of escape: Did he do this with all the little kids who stayed over or was I really special like he said? (One time I asked his granddaughter, who was a year younger than me, if he touched her too and she got really angry with me and said he would never do anything wrong. We were only 5 and 6 at the time, so I still don’t know if maybe she suffered the same things I did.) The smell of the scotch mint he popped into his mouth prior to his arrival and the shampoo and aftershave (he would usually have a bath before he came in) made my stomach churn and made it difficult for me to concentrate on my inner dialogue. (I continue to feel sick to this day by some of those smells.) I would try to lay still and just get it over with so that he would leave – hoping he wouldn’t want to kiss me this time because his lips were gross and mushy and his nose was huge and he smelled like mint and sweat and sawdust and whatever we had for supper. I would try to turn my head away only to have it moved back into the proper position. Wondering if I was supposed to do something to please him like move my lips or body like I saw in movies or maybe I was supposed to start something. Where was she and why she would allow him to come into my room after bedtime? Why didn’t she ever come in? Praying that she would just come down the hall and check on me but the shadow I so desperately wanted to see outside the partially closed door never appeared. Sometimes, if he was with me a really long time, she would call out, “Ernie. Come back to the living room.” (If she knew he was gone doing something, why didn’t she come and check?) Why did my mom keep sending me back here? I thought she loved me. Why does she have to have friends, go out with them, and have fun while I have to come here to be someone’s toy? Why couldn’t I just stay at home alone rather than having to face that which made me so sick. Why did he pick me? Was I really as pretty as he said? If I really was his ‘special’ girl then why did he give Lorraine (another little girl who stayed there sometimes) hugs and squeezes that I thought were just meant for me? What did I do wrong that he would want to do this with someone else? Wasn’t I good enough? Should I change what I do so that he would still pick me? With my mind racing, I would realize that it was over and he was leaving. I would cry into my pillow for being such a failure for not saying no. Why didn’t it work? I had planned everything out before hand this time so that I could get him to leave and not start anything. As I got older, I became more and more independent and convinced my mom of my ability to stay by myself rather than having to be babysat. I made friends with girls 3 and 4 years older than me to reinforce this and eventually, by the time I was around 10, she would allow me to spend the night by myself rather than having to face him.
When all of this was taking place, I don’t remember coming right out and telling my mom. I think I tried to hint at it and tip her off, but she she was so busy and had so many problems of her own, and she needed me to listen more than talk; at least that is what my elementary mind believed. She worked a lot of hours at her full-time day job and also evenings (which would cause me to have to go his house – but they didn’t charge her all the time because they knew she was having a hard time - how kind), and when she wanted to talk I would listen and try to console and comfort her. She missed my dad (he died just before I turned six, but was never around before that anyway), and I didn’t want to add to her grief and pain by telling her my problems – what would she do about it anyway? Although she didn’t bring casual men to the house I met one when they became serious and she was considering marrying him. He wasn't around very long - maybe a few months - but I hated him so much I honestly wanted to kill him. He took my mom’s time from me all the time – and it was always for sex – which wasn’t happening discreetly as I would be sent “downstairs to play” often. When he tried one day to touch me on the breast and my private parts, my hate for him and the other one came out and I slapped his hand away. Unfortunately, this then became a game to him. When I tried to tell my mom, she would say he was “only teasing” and that she would talk to him, but I don’t think she ever did. One afternoon she asked me to sit with her as she had something exciting to talk to me about – “Would you like to have Con for a daddy?” I felt my head spin and the colour must have drained from my face, because she immediately hugged me and asked what was wrong. I told her I didn’t like the way he touched my “snakes and wee wee” (I wasn’t allowed to use correct terms) and no I did NOT want him for a daddy. She hugged me some more while she was crying. We didn’t see Con anymore. He came to the house one night and I heard my mom’s new boyfriend and him fighting, but that’s all I remember about him.
I ended up telling my mom everything when I was about 14 years old. I asked if we could please go to the police so I would know that he wouldn’t do this to any other little kids. That fact, that he was probably still doing it, ate at me every day and I wanted him to have to face other people and let them know what had happened. I wanted to protect anyone else from future harm from him. But my mom didn’t want to. She hesitated and made excuses, even telling me of her own horrible rape as a teen, but she wouldn’t take me to the police. My mom died when I was 22 and I learned about 2 years ago that she never believed what I told her about him. She felt I ‘had been hurt’ by someone, but that it couldn’t have been him. I think she must have felt guilt and responsibility when she remembered all of the hints and innuendos I had given her, and it was probably too much to bear. At least that’s what I tell myself now as I cannot ask her.
So, how do I feel about pedophiles and those addicted to child porn? I would like to have 5 minutes for each time they’ve touched someone else (or themselves while looking at images), to do with as I pleased. If I could have a few big men there to help out, that would be grand! I would love to whisper in his or her (yes, there are a lot of female pedophiles who should be treated just as harshly as the males) ear all of the sick things I and others heard as a child while I violated him or her in any way that would “break” them. I would love to see each and every one of these people dealt with in the harshest way possible for stealing innocence that can never be recaptured, for inflicting the deepest psychological wounds that convolute a child’s mind and take away that part of them that would have made them a different person. Speak to a psychiatrist and ask if there is any hope of “fixing” these people through rehabilitation. The answer is no. They are broken and will continue to prey on our children, hurting them in ways that aren’t readily seen on the outside, but that will cause them to forever question themselves and their thoughts and feelings and sexuality. Unacceptable behaviour becomes acceptable when we allow it to continue, so why are we allowing it to continue?
When are we as a society going to STOP allowing (yes, allowing) these monsters back onto the streets and their computers and secret travel clubs and who knows what else to live out their demented fantasies through our children? When are we going to quit “feeding” these people our children to satisfy their urges? Yes, arguments can be made in their defense, “he or she was abused too” and “he/she has mental, drug, alcohol, whatever problems” but you know what? There are a lot of us who suffered these atrocities and don’t go around fondling little kids, nor masturbating to images of them being sexually abused! We suffered these things and try every day to make it through without feeling as if we asked for or deserved it, and naked pre-pubescent bodies do not arouse us. There are many who try to have healthy relationships and marriages – some fail while others succeed, but we do not turn to someone under age for love and comfort and acceptance and sex.
Of course this has had an effect on my life and the person I’ve become. Maybe if this didn’t happen I wouldn’t have always used the proper terms for body parts with my kids, perhaps I wouldn’t have talked to them about good and bad touches, and how NO ONE should touch them inappropriately. Maybe I wouldn’t have listened when my daughter thought she had been touched wrongly and confronted the person who did it. Maybe I wouldn’t support my kids in their ups and downs and all arounds. It has also caused me to have a lot of anger and resentment and hurt and pain that I know has affected them (and their dad) as well. Although not directly related, I believe it has played a large part in my failed marriage as well as the mental and physical issues I struggle with every day. Don’t ever think that someone abusing a child doesn’t have an effect on them; sometimes it even creates more monsters.
I encourage anyone who has been abused to talk with someone about it - the police, a therapist, whoever - just talk and get it out in the open. Male victims need help too - you don't have to 'be strong' anymore. It was NOT your fault and absolutely NOTHING you did made that beast do anything to you. That person or people made their choices and you have been broken because of it. Only you can decide to fix yourself.
Final words? Why do I, a hard working, tax-paying citizen, have to pay for another monster’s face to be reconstructed? I WANT him to look in the mirror every single day and remember WHY his fucking face looks that way. However, he probably doesn’t. He continues to be so wrapped up in himself that all he can think about is his precious looks. You know what? No matter how ‘pretty’ he was, he is still a monster who preyed on victims because he thought he could. And he got caught. Good! Put him with all the other inmates and let prison justice reign. He’ll have a lot more to worry and think about than his face.
Toodles.
I’m disgusted with the amount of pedophile stories there are and wonder why we as a society continue to make excuses for these people and hold any hope of them being ‘rehabilitated’. Today’s blog continues with with a bit more about me and my perspective...
My thoughts and feelings are definitely skewed as an elderly babysitter’s husband sexually abused me from the time I was 5 years old until around 10 years old. It was one of the worst things that could have happened to me and had a huge impact on the adult I became. I dreaded going over there and would try to make up any excuse I could to avoid it. Nevertheless, my mom was young and trying to avoid her own personal demons through escape, drug and alcohol use, so she did not want me around those bad influences. Instead, she would send me to a “safe” place, entrusting my care to this an elderly couple that ‘just wanted to help out’. The woman was a domineering, mean, demanding woman who ruled her home and those in it with a tight rein, while her husband appeared caring, loving, and thoughtful, and who would always give us hugs and kisses or sneak us an extra cookie or snack. I used to beg my mom not to make me stay overnight, but her plans would fail if that were the case and so I would have to stay over ‘just this time’ – over and over again. I quickly learned to try not to be too close to him or he would be hugging and kissing you, which would make his wife angry and she would yell at him, but then if you didn’t sit on his lap you would get into trouble from her for being rude and disrespectful. The closer we got to their house the more my stomach would start to churn and my bowels would loosen and bile would build in my mouth, but hearing “you have to stay there even if you’re sick” quickly made me realize that puking wouldn’t do me any good. I would push down the feelings – anxiety, fear, hurt, anger – and try to figure out what I could do to make the best of it. Upon arrival, there was usually not much to do. There was a toy room and I could play cards with her, but he would invite me to help him build one of the many beautiful things he made from wood. He encouraged me to try hammering, gluing, putting in screws – one time he even let me try the drill! He beamed with approval with each new thing I tried and learned. He would tell me stories about the war and I loved listening to them. This part of the visit was good and I looked forward to the next beautiful thing he would allow me to help him create and the new stories he would tell while we were working. However, before I knew it, supper was on the table and I would start to get a bit nervous. My plate would be filled and I would be made to clean it up, no matter if I liked everything or not, and after getting a cuff a few times for trying to refuse to eat, I quickly learned to shut my mouth and make the best of it. The worst part was dessert - she made those pudding and cake things - I would gag and plug my nose and drink lots of water just trying to get it down. I prolonged eating because I knew once we started to clean up supper that bath time would be next and then lights out, and I didn’t want to go there. I would be put in the bathtub and scrubbed by the wife – was she cleaning me for him? – and during the first few times he offered to bath me. I quickly learned that if I played very shy and started to cry she would make him leave. Her scrubbing hurt more, but it was better than him getting to watch me naked and touch me anymore! He would offer to come in and help me get my p.j.’s on, but I would say "no, thank you" to that as well. Although I would try everything in my bag of tricks to stay up (I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I have to pee, I’m going to be sick, I don’t feel good) bedtime was 7:30 and I was told I should be thankful because at home bedtime was 7:00. Did she know I could not care less that I got an extra 30 minutes to stay up? Did she know that I would spend those 30 minutes talking to myself, telling myself that I can say ‘no, thank you’ just as easily when he came in as when he tried to help me with my pajamas? That I would try with all my might to build up the courage to just say no, and when it was over I would beat and berate myself for being such a wuss, how disgusted I would feel with myself? Once I was in bed, I would pray and wish and hope and beg to whatever gods I thought may have existed at the time that this wouldn’t happen - only to jump with each creak of the floorboards and break into a sweat and shake and start to cry and then remember to stop and wipe my tears because one time she came in and told me I should be thankful for all I have rather than crying. [What the hell did she know about what I had? I was a little girl whose dad hated her and was never around, my mom was doing her best to raise me on welfare while working and wanting to explore a world she never experienced by marrying too young, but I should be thankful to be sent to a mean woman and her perverted husband?] I would hope “maybe he’ll fall asleep in front of the television and she’ll put him straight into bed tonight.” Unfortunately, that did not happen often enough, but it was one of the many prayers I said in hopes that it would happen “just this time, okay god?” With each approaching step my stomach would knot more and more and this pain would start in my breastbone and my breathing would get rapid and then he was there. I don’t remember if I said no or stop or anything – I knew the expectation was to be a good girl, just lay there and get it over with so that he’ll leave. When he started, I would let questions run through my mind as a means of escape: Did he do this with all the little kids who stayed over or was I really special like he said? (One time I asked his granddaughter, who was a year younger than me, if he touched her too and she got really angry with me and said he would never do anything wrong. We were only 5 and 6 at the time, so I still don’t know if maybe she suffered the same things I did.) The smell of the scotch mint he popped into his mouth prior to his arrival and the shampoo and aftershave (he would usually have a bath before he came in) made my stomach churn and made it difficult for me to concentrate on my inner dialogue. (I continue to feel sick to this day by some of those smells.) I would try to lay still and just get it over with so that he would leave – hoping he wouldn’t want to kiss me this time because his lips were gross and mushy and his nose was huge and he smelled like mint and sweat and sawdust and whatever we had for supper. I would try to turn my head away only to have it moved back into the proper position. Wondering if I was supposed to do something to please him like move my lips or body like I saw in movies or maybe I was supposed to start something. Where was she and why she would allow him to come into my room after bedtime? Why didn’t she ever come in? Praying that she would just come down the hall and check on me but the shadow I so desperately wanted to see outside the partially closed door never appeared. Sometimes, if he was with me a really long time, she would call out, “Ernie. Come back to the living room.” (If she knew he was gone doing something, why didn’t she come and check?) Why did my mom keep sending me back here? I thought she loved me. Why does she have to have friends, go out with them, and have fun while I have to come here to be someone’s toy? Why couldn’t I just stay at home alone rather than having to face that which made me so sick. Why did he pick me? Was I really as pretty as he said? If I really was his ‘special’ girl then why did he give Lorraine (another little girl who stayed there sometimes) hugs and squeezes that I thought were just meant for me? What did I do wrong that he would want to do this with someone else? Wasn’t I good enough? Should I change what I do so that he would still pick me? With my mind racing, I would realize that it was over and he was leaving. I would cry into my pillow for being such a failure for not saying no. Why didn’t it work? I had planned everything out before hand this time so that I could get him to leave and not start anything. As I got older, I became more and more independent and convinced my mom of my ability to stay by myself rather than having to be babysat. I made friends with girls 3 and 4 years older than me to reinforce this and eventually, by the time I was around 10, she would allow me to spend the night by myself rather than having to face him.
When all of this was taking place, I don’t remember coming right out and telling my mom. I think I tried to hint at it and tip her off, but she she was so busy and had so many problems of her own, and she needed me to listen more than talk; at least that is what my elementary mind believed. She worked a lot of hours at her full-time day job and also evenings (which would cause me to have to go his house – but they didn’t charge her all the time because they knew she was having a hard time - how kind), and when she wanted to talk I would listen and try to console and comfort her. She missed my dad (he died just before I turned six, but was never around before that anyway), and I didn’t want to add to her grief and pain by telling her my problems – what would she do about it anyway? Although she didn’t bring casual men to the house I met one when they became serious and she was considering marrying him. He wasn't around very long - maybe a few months - but I hated him so much I honestly wanted to kill him. He took my mom’s time from me all the time – and it was always for sex – which wasn’t happening discreetly as I would be sent “downstairs to play” often. When he tried one day to touch me on the breast and my private parts, my hate for him and the other one came out and I slapped his hand away. Unfortunately, this then became a game to him. When I tried to tell my mom, she would say he was “only teasing” and that she would talk to him, but I don’t think she ever did. One afternoon she asked me to sit with her as she had something exciting to talk to me about – “Would you like to have Con for a daddy?” I felt my head spin and the colour must have drained from my face, because she immediately hugged me and asked what was wrong. I told her I didn’t like the way he touched my “snakes and wee wee” (I wasn’t allowed to use correct terms) and no I did NOT want him for a daddy. She hugged me some more while she was crying. We didn’t see Con anymore. He came to the house one night and I heard my mom’s new boyfriend and him fighting, but that’s all I remember about him.
I ended up telling my mom everything when I was about 14 years old. I asked if we could please go to the police so I would know that he wouldn’t do this to any other little kids. That fact, that he was probably still doing it, ate at me every day and I wanted him to have to face other people and let them know what had happened. I wanted to protect anyone else from future harm from him. But my mom didn’t want to. She hesitated and made excuses, even telling me of her own horrible rape as a teen, but she wouldn’t take me to the police. My mom died when I was 22 and I learned about 2 years ago that she never believed what I told her about him. She felt I ‘had been hurt’ by someone, but that it couldn’t have been him. I think she must have felt guilt and responsibility when she remembered all of the hints and innuendos I had given her, and it was probably too much to bear. At least that’s what I tell myself now as I cannot ask her.
So, how do I feel about pedophiles and those addicted to child porn? I would like to have 5 minutes for each time they’ve touched someone else (or themselves while looking at images), to do with as I pleased. If I could have a few big men there to help out, that would be grand! I would love to whisper in his or her (yes, there are a lot of female pedophiles who should be treated just as harshly as the males) ear all of the sick things I and others heard as a child while I violated him or her in any way that would “break” them. I would love to see each and every one of these people dealt with in the harshest way possible for stealing innocence that can never be recaptured, for inflicting the deepest psychological wounds that convolute a child’s mind and take away that part of them that would have made them a different person. Speak to a psychiatrist and ask if there is any hope of “fixing” these people through rehabilitation. The answer is no. They are broken and will continue to prey on our children, hurting them in ways that aren’t readily seen on the outside, but that will cause them to forever question themselves and their thoughts and feelings and sexuality. Unacceptable behaviour becomes acceptable when we allow it to continue, so why are we allowing it to continue?
When are we as a society going to STOP allowing (yes, allowing) these monsters back onto the streets and their computers and secret travel clubs and who knows what else to live out their demented fantasies through our children? When are we going to quit “feeding” these people our children to satisfy their urges? Yes, arguments can be made in their defense, “he or she was abused too” and “he/she has mental, drug, alcohol, whatever problems” but you know what? There are a lot of us who suffered these atrocities and don’t go around fondling little kids, nor masturbating to images of them being sexually abused! We suffered these things and try every day to make it through without feeling as if we asked for or deserved it, and naked pre-pubescent bodies do not arouse us. There are many who try to have healthy relationships and marriages – some fail while others succeed, but we do not turn to someone under age for love and comfort and acceptance and sex.
Of course this has had an effect on my life and the person I’ve become. Maybe if this didn’t happen I wouldn’t have always used the proper terms for body parts with my kids, perhaps I wouldn’t have talked to them about good and bad touches, and how NO ONE should touch them inappropriately. Maybe I wouldn’t have listened when my daughter thought she had been touched wrongly and confronted the person who did it. Maybe I wouldn’t support my kids in their ups and downs and all arounds. It has also caused me to have a lot of anger and resentment and hurt and pain that I know has affected them (and their dad) as well. Although not directly related, I believe it has played a large part in my failed marriage as well as the mental and physical issues I struggle with every day. Don’t ever think that someone abusing a child doesn’t have an effect on them; sometimes it even creates more monsters.
I encourage anyone who has been abused to talk with someone about it - the police, a therapist, whoever - just talk and get it out in the open. Male victims need help too - you don't have to 'be strong' anymore. It was NOT your fault and absolutely NOTHING you did made that beast do anything to you. That person or people made their choices and you have been broken because of it. Only you can decide to fix yourself.
Final words? Why do I, a hard working, tax-paying citizen, have to pay for another monster’s face to be reconstructed? I WANT him to look in the mirror every single day and remember WHY his fucking face looks that way. However, he probably doesn’t. He continues to be so wrapped up in himself that all he can think about is his precious looks. You know what? No matter how ‘pretty’ he was, he is still a monster who preyed on victims because he thought he could. And he got caught. Good! Put him with all the other inmates and let prison justice reign. He’ll have a lot more to worry and think about than his face.
Toodles.
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