May 16, 2007

  • When I was eight, I lived in Cincinnati and had a thirteen year old friend named Jimmy. Once, when I came over to his house, his mother answered the door and said I could just go upstairs. When I came in, he and a friend of his were drawing pictures of people having sex. I didn’t know what they were doing at first until they told me. Once, after playing Bubble Bobble on his Nintendo for awhile, we went up into his Dad’s workspace where he showed me his Dad’s playboys. He made fun of me for thinking I was looking at ‘fur’. And once, when we were in his parents garage, he pulled his penis out of his pants and told me to kiss it. I did. He told me to suck on it. I don’t remember if I did or not. I’m convinced I said I didn’t want to, but I know he wasn’t one to accept ‘no’ for an answer.

    Why send a postcard? The denial is over. When I was 8, I was sexually abused by someone I thought was my best friend. This was the first sledgehammer.

    When I was 15, my father told me that he was going to leave Bev, and come back to live with us. After the emotional hell that was 7th and 8th(to that point) grade, I believed him. Two weeks later he told me when I was standing outside of my mom’s apartment that he couldn’t come back.

    Why send a postcard? The denial is over. When I was 15, I learned I could never again trust my father. This was the second sledgehammer.

    When I later turned 16, I was terrified of driving. I didn’t know how and didn’t want to get myself or someone else killed. Over months and months my mother asked me time and again how I expect to hold a job, go visit friends, go on dates, move out if I didn’t drive. I felt rejected at school, and thought that perhaps my home would be a place of relief. It wasn’t, and it broke me.

    Why send a postcard? The denial is over. When I was 16, I learned that I could not turn to my mother for relief from the world. This was the third sledgehammer.

    When I was 18, the only person during my junior high life who seemed to register how much pain I was in – my father’s brother Rich – died of a heart attack at 47. I never accepted his offer(extended when I was 14) to talk about what was happening inside of me. I will always regret it because it may have saved me from 11 more years of hell. 

    Why send a postcard? The denial is over. I had one shot to talk, and lost it in February of 2000. This was the fourth sledgehammer.

    There are about a half-dozen people who read this page. Some, I think, check in almost every day. Some don’t. Please don’t take it personally if you’ve always sensed a wall between you and I. Through no fault of your own, I see you all carrying sledgehammers and fear you. I am currently unable to trust or love you.

    Please don’t take it personally if you don’t hear anything from me for awhile. Please don’t take it personally if I ask for no emails, calls or cards expressing sympathy. The wall around me prevents them from registering and I won’t disrespect you by expressing false appreciation. I see one of three courses for my life. Therapy. Death. Mental Breakdown.

    I am going to seek out therapy.

    -Dan