Lonely Loneliness

To Champlain To Complain

Question:

: Ok I did some of this too, : Thank-you for sharing this. : You probably didn’t ‘like’ it you were maybe re-inacting stuff. : It is difficult to allow it as " re-enactment." Allow one little bit, :  then you have to allow all of them. no, you don’t. you are *allowed* to accept what you can for now, right this minute, and not look at the other stuff. the rules of recovery are that each person gets to make hir own rules. it’s okay for you to be gentle with yourself, to give yourself credit for doing what you can do instead of beating on yourself for what you can’t. maybe i’m reading things in here that aren’t. i just know that i have had to fight the all-or-nothing thinking that if i can’t deal with it all and RIGHT NOW then i must be failing. every word you speak is a success, every breath you take is a victory. just because you dare, just because you refuse to be silent and refuse to be dead. silverleafs various and assorteds <– this means we have no fucking idea who wrote the post, but someone other than the main leaf did it. — Nobody’s home, even if someone is.

Response:

Every once in a while I am amazed at the pain and the compassion that is felt and show among us who frequent here and among those here I call friends.  Both of you here I consider e-friends – one new and one who has been around a while. I commend NMWFB for having the courage to open up the pain inside and  I am honored to be an a group that is trusted with this information.  I am also angry and sad that that had to happen to you.  I find personal revelations like this hard to read, I tend to feel the pain in them and take it on for a time and that hurts.  Its not bad, I don’t own it but I find tears in my eyes and am overcome with a great wish to go back in time and rescue. You are new here NMWFB,  but you have gained many friends very quickly, you have done that because of what you reveal of yourself inside.  I’ve told you before that I see a soar in there and anytime now you are gonna take flight and surprise the hell out of yourself and feel the freedom and power of that flight.  The altitude you get in that flight is directly connected to the positive qualities that you discover in yourself.  A lot of us have seen those qualities in you, I have.   You are not what others have done to you.  I sincerely believe that you are what you do to and give to others.  You give wonderful things of yourself to others.  I am very excited to see the day that you can see those things and give them to yourself along with sharing them with others. My personal opinion is that you are very very special.  When I sign on you are one of the people I read first.  You never let me down.  You take through so many emotions.  A lot of joy and laughter, wit, intelligence that just doesn’t seem to have any limits, a warmth and love for others sometimes makes my chest swell just reading it.  That is what I see when I think of you – I don’t lie – if I didn’t believe what I say, I would not say it, I probably wouldn’t even reply. even just a little of what I see.   If you don’t – LOOK AGAIN!!!  Its there, please find it. Mick – sometimes you just blow me away….you did this time.  Your words were wonderful and from deep inside.  Thank you. Crisis – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – Well, I probably shouldn’t do this. I feel a strong degree of intuitive liking for you, NMWFB, and whenever I feel that it seems to indicate that I’m about to stuff up whatever friendhip or affinity actually exists between me and the person for whom I feel it. Oh well… You’re a few thousand miles away, I have no idea of your real name or e-mail or who you really are, I’ve only written a couple of things to you – all in all if I say something wrong it’s unlikely to devastate you and from my end if you get pissed with me or I do whatever it is that I do when I feel like this I could always just write it off as yet another instance of my stupidity…      I have decided to go visit my folks. Cool. Can be worth it sometimes, huh? They are but a ferry ride across the lake from Burlington, Vermont. Well, the ferry-ride sounds nice. I am in a child-like rage. In my experience those are _very_ strong feelings. Kids feel anger (I think) very differently to conventional adult anger. Imagine an angel who has just found out there is no God. I hate hating them. Takes it out of you, yes? But I hate hearing their saccharin sweet expressions of "concern"  too. Gotcha. I’d better stop responding to every sentence or I’ll never have the energy to finish writing this. I know you’ll respond to whatever you think is significant.  I want to tell my step-father that we have to take a walk, so I can formulate my reproach, and the second he tries any profusive apology crap, I’ll snap at him, " the gift of your apology is to listen to your effects on my life.           Gushing expressions of fake guilt are just a smoke screen            so you do not have to HEAR of your effects on me." I like that, especially the first sentence. Yes, actually _listening_ to what is being apologised for would certainly indicate some greater degree of sincerity than indulging in profuse self-flagellation. Pretty hard to spot contrition amongst self-pity. And it is true.  I have not had the opportunity to tell him of the loneliness I felt when he turned against me when I was  four year old and tore my underpants off to beat me with a steel ruler, A steel ruler on a four year old? On a four year old’s behind? Blecchhh. I expect that the physical detail is not as significant as the loneliness (and betrayal?) but it catches my eye. because my mother told him to. He sat on my head so I would not squirm. He had a grimace which I took as a smile of sadism when he would say, " the longer you take to pull them off, the harder it is going to be." Yep, classic tactic, make the victim responsible for the punishment’s severity. Charming trait. I was embarrassed to pull them off myself. I had shame about my hygiene. Only twenty five years later, did I realize that it was semen leaking out of my butt that messed up my underwear and pajamas. I’ve had that feeling. It’s fucking horrible. I lost my one and only childhood to feeling filthy, and it wasn’t my damn fault. So how do you get rid of that filthy feeling? Time. For me, time. Oh, lots of things happen over the time and they’re specific to the individual I guess, but the single most salient point is that it takes so much damn _time_. That’s why it’s such a grotesque violation to make a child feel filthy, because no matter what they do it’s going to take a huge chunk of _time_ to get over it. Umm, lessee. One thing which has helped me is to utterly re-jig my understanding of filthiness as it applies to human biological processes. I don’t mean that I am no longer hygienic, just that I don’t attach the revulsion/hatred/shame stuff to body processes. I’m more simplistically objective nowadays. Pizza goes in the bin if it’s not eaten because otherwise it would be messy and start to stink the place up eventually. Poop goes in toilets because when it doesn’t it’s messy and it smells. My nether regions need a degree of hygienic attention because people sweat a lot around there and the internal valves are never perfect. Defining things like this helped me to remove emotional associations.  I was a fastidiously clean child (except for things I knew nothing about) Likewise. Not quite OCD and I have moved past it but for years I was almost obsessively clean. Anyone who reads this, please respond and answer me this: why have I done this to myself? Answer quickly cleanly honestly unsparingly from your intuition. Basically, my guess is because you’re strong-willed and you wanted to fight what was done to you and all this stuff seemed like the best idea at the time. Why have I stuck a finger in my butt in the bathtub as a five year old, and as soon as I felt liquid in me, I pushed out with all my might, dirtied the water, and then dropped the poop on the floor in the bathroom, ran to my bed, and forced myself to sleep? ( nothing was ever said to me about this) Why did I once open a clothes drawer in my bedroom and poop in it? ( my mother asked why, I said the bathroom was too far, end of thread) Why did I go out to the stable when I was six and poop on the floor day after day, ( I had a "collection") ?  ( nothing was ever mentioned of this) Why did I, as an eight year old, look in my bedroom vanity mirror, and poop in my underwear?  ( I told myself  that I would  have to tell someone about this someday) You are very strong to be able to do so. And brave. Yeah, I know you’re not exactly advertising it with your full name and address attached, I’m the same – I’ve talked about some of the most difficult stuff in my life on the net knowing that I was fairly anonymous and untraceable. But I also know that if someone really wanted to they could figure out who I was, and that a few people in my daily life would recognise me from my posts. But, put simply, you have a net- presence. You have expressed various aspects of yourself, your personality is out here somehow. It takes a lot of guts just to write the stuff you’ve been able to write, and allowing that to be in the context of enough posts to be somewhat representative of you as a whole takes even more guts. I haven’t done quite the things you’re talking about. My reactions were more about keeping all the feelings around my pelvis under extrmely rigid control. That, in combination with the abuse, is most likely responsible for messing up my insides to a life-shortening extent. The problems I now have would have seen me dead by this age if I had been born fifty years earlier. But I think some of the answer to your whys might be the same as it was for me. I wanted to control the feelings and pieces that had been abused in me and controlled by someone else. Perhaps you also wanted to thumb your nose at those who had seemed to attempt that theft. Why did I push that little broomstick up my rear end when I was ten up in the loft of the barn, and make it hurt to the point that I spontaneously urinated on myself? Why did I like it so much? Something it took me twenty-five years to understand and accept was that urinating and defecating feel ‘good’. I doubt that to most people they feel particularly special but most people learn to accept them as baseline good by the age of three or four and rarely have reason to notice them after that, although I think most people are aware of the feeling of relief when they really need to go. It’s a bit like saying that breathing feels good, to

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Response:

A steel ruler on a four year old? On a four year old’s behind? Blecchhh. I expect that the physical detail is not as significant as the loneliness (and betrayal?) but it catches my eye. My rump changed into many colors. I showed my mother. She said, " You got a good one, maybe next time you’ll think about it."

I never seem to have successfully made the connection between being physically punished and re-considering my actions in light of that punishment. I think I was rather numb as a kid so I didn’t really compute pain in particularly relative terms. Something it took me twenty-five years to understand and accept was that urinating and defecating feel ‘good’. My best friend from fifth grade, a regal beautiful creature, said, one day to no one in particular, " Taking a dump is one of life’s great little pleasures." I loved her for that.

I have only recently experienced anything other than discomfort around there so it’s kinda nice for me to read that too. I remember a friend of mine saying, "I’d prefer a good shit to a bad fuck" (’scuse the language, my friend and I are Australian ) and it didn’t make much sense to me because both experiences held only unhappy connotations emotionally anyway. Nowadays I am starting to grasp a little more of what he meant. I’ve just begun to know what it feels like to live without all my pelvic muscles tensed up in expectation of being raped and fear of the ordinary physical sensations around there. I didn’t develop the understanding of those feelings as normal when I was a kid – they seem ‘wrong’, sometimes even painful. They’re not, they are intense in comparison to holding myself numb from them, and they sometimes frighten me by their unfamiliarity and the situations that I am reminded of by them – but they are actually the ‘normal’ feelings I might have learned about as a child if I had not been fucked around with so much. Oh yes. Oh yes. I was at a friend’s house when I was eight or nine. I had to poop. I had delayed going because we were playing. It hurt. I cried because I felt insulted. I was sitting in a strange bathroom crying because I was humiliated. I was dreadfully angry.

It seems so strange to me that a simple physical feeling can mean so much emotionally. I have been able to untangle quite a few things like this now and it just amazes me that something like the twitch of a few muscles or some change in bloodflow can make me feel scared, angry, guilty, remorseful, resentful, humiliated, vengeful… a whole slew of feelings and attitudes come up when most objectively I’m experiencing a pretty ordinary biological reflex action. I guess the emotional reaction could be said to be reflex as well, though. I came out and slammed myself against the wall, and told her father," Take me home and don’t ask."  I had to sit next to him on the way home. Bless his heart, he did not ask, and he did not try to comfort me.

Yes, a relief that sometimes people ‘get it right’. So often people are desparate to do something but my favourite first advice to friends who offer to come into my emotional world and help support me is, "Don’t just do something, sit there". My mom gave me hell at home for being rude. I should have saved the cause of my upset for her. " Mom, this is my representation of your husband." and I should have flung it INTO THE CHANDELIER. But I did not have conscious memories until eleven years later.

You were a strong child nonetheless. To deal with those feelings at your friend’s house and be able to maintain enough presence of mind to be taken home shows that. And from a young child’s point of view toilet-training is a big ask – there are a lot of muscles to learn about and different sensations depending on exactly what’s in you that needs to come out where. If someone messes around with those pieces of you it can make some of the feelings confusing and can make control of those processes difficult. And of course you might also have learned, depending on exactly how you’ve been messed with, that pain around there can come before or with some really good feelings too. This is what drives me to despair. I’m not going there right now, but I will. I am so damn tired.

It freaks me sometimes how tired I get working through emotional stuff. I feel fine but with something playing around the edges of my mind, then find myself writing something almost automatically for an hour or more, then quite suddenly feel exhausted – sometimes for a few days afterwards. Recuperation is simply needed sometimes even though there is a strong urgency within me which contantly demands that I get on. I orgasmed when molested and I felt as though my body had betrayed me More later here too.

Please take your time, okay? It’s been important for me to learn to _not_ be recovering and healing sometimes and trying to push myself too hard can actually dent my self-trust. I wanted to mention an experience of my own when I replied previously but it didn’t stay in my mind after I started writing. It’s here now so I will tell you, even though I’m not sure if it will have any relevance. A few weeks ago something happened with which you might be able to identify. I had come to a time where I knew that I was more capable of taking concrete steps and making progress around sexual issues. Basically I had firmly decided that I would confront some of my fears about sex. Even without knowing exactly what I was going to do I simply knew that yes, I would start to take that one last step I had never been able take in the situations where my fears were most intense. I was in the shower one day and that’s when this something-or-other happened, actually it happened on two occasions. I found that a few of the feelings which I associate with being molested – some very young anger and determination and a little fear – were coming up in me. This sort of thing does not happen infrequently and I cope with it okay but it tends to confuse me and I freeze a bit – or my more present mind often freezes and the impulses from those emotions come through very strongly. In this instance I found myself pushing a finger into my bottom. A part of my mind was quite horrified and revolted but accepted that this did not violate my fundamental criteria of actually threatening my health or anyone else’s so allowed it. Ahem. No, it’s not easy stuff to talk about, is it? I’m going to be pretty tired in a minute too. The most important thing about this was what happened next. I found that I was pressing on some internal part of me and I felt something good which shot through me like a jolt of electricity (as the cliche goes). Intellectually I understand this to be the prostate. At that time I understood it to be that part of my body and sensations which hurt me the most as a child because it betrayed me – it is where the good feeling came from, the good feeling which scares me and which I was supposed to never feel again, for various reasons. All the blocking emotions had given way finally to the determination and anger and self-curiosity and self-love and all the support from others – just enough that I could feel fully present, accepting all those childhood feelings, and feel that sexual feeling as well. Would have been nice if I’d been confident enough to do it in a more conventional way, and I hope that’s how I can now go about it but this was the safest way I could do it, I guess. The first things I was able to communicate about this were mainly about shame and fear. I felt very bad for having done it, and also afraid because some part of me expected that this would lead to some vast, diabolical child-molesting monster coming after me. Immediately after it happened the second time I was able to write a post to another newsgroup about it, mainly from the perspective of those childhood feelings and then I collapsed and fell asleep. Fortunately I received several compassionate replies very quickly which expressed some reassurance and could understand the psychology of what had happened. Fundamentally, what had happened was that I had confronted the fear of those feelings and learned that I was safe to feel them. The idea of feeling them to their fullest extent, or with someone else, is still pretty difficult for me to grasp – but that first acceptance that I can feel sexually ‘whole’ and enjoy my full sexual response is there. And no, I don’t think there’s any particular danger that I will only be able to feel that stuff that way. Something I didn’t understand until this year was that possibly I could experience the same incredibly intense feelings as I did when molested but without being molested or doing anything similar. This *will* take some work. It is so true, for me, that adult sex has nowhere near the huge violent desperate secret poignant erotic nasty thrill that was mine as a child. I am so damn tired.

Imagine if all those adjectives were translated only in terms of emotional intensity rather than specific character, and then if that degree of intensity became redefined as good sexual response. They’re strong, extreme, romantic words and I think it’s possible to understand them all as being representative of intense energy that you might experience and express in different ways, according to the circumstance and the associations you connect with it. Remember one of the things Timothy Leary and Ken Kesey used to say about LSD experiences, "Set and Setting" – any very emotionally intense experience can be lousy but concentrating on the setting being conducive to your well-being and your mind- set being appropriate to a good experience will promote your chances of having a good time. I was talking with a friend about the physical feelings we … read more »

Response:

Hello, To me, it sounds like you’re ready for a confrontation. My suggestion is to write a letter to your abuser with the following guidelines.  One: This is what you did to me. Two: Here is how I felt about it at the time. Three: Here is how I feel about it now. Four: This is what I expect from you now. I did this, and its a good way to get your thoughts together. How dare them steal your childhood. Best of luck peace -G. – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text –      I have decided to go visit my folks. They are but a ferry ride across the lake from Burlington, Vermont.  I am in a child-like rage. I hate hating them. But I hate hearing their saccharin sweet expressions of "concern"  too.  I want to tell my step-father that we have to take a walk, so I can formulate my reproach, and the second he tries any profusive apology crap, I’ll snap at him, " the gift of your apology is to listen to your effects on my life.           Gushing expressions of fake guilt are just a smoke screen            so you do not have to HEAR of your effects on me." And it is true.  I have not had the opportunity to tell him of the loneliness I felt when he turned against me when I was  four year old and tore my underpants off to beat me with a steel ruler, because my mother told him to. He sat on my head so I would not squirm. He had a grimace which I took as a smile of sadism when he would say, " the longer you take to pull them off, the harder it is going to be."  I was embarrassed to pull them off myself. I had shame about my hygiene. Only twenty five years later, did I realize that it was semen leaking out of my butt that messed up my underwear and pajamas. I lost my one and only childhood to feeling filthy, and it wasn’t my damn fault. So how do you get rid of that filthy feeling?  I was a fastidiously clean child (except for things I knew nothing about) Anyone who reads this, please respond and answer me this: why have I done this to myself? Answer quickly cleanly honestly unsparingly from your intuition. Why have I stuck a finger in my butt in the bathtub as a five year old, and as soon as I felt liquid in me, I pushed out with all my might, dirtied the water, and then dropped the poop on the floor in the bathroom, ran to my bed, and forced myself to sleep? ( nothing was ever said to me about this) Why did I once open a clothes drawer in my bedroom and poop in it? ( my mother asked why, I said the bathroom was too far, end of thread) Why did I go out to the stable when I was six and poop on the floor day after day, ( I had a "collection") ?  ( nothing was ever mentioned of this) Why did I, as an eight year old, look in my bedroom vanity mirror, and poop in my underwear?  ( I told myself  that I would  have to tell someone about this someday) Why did I push that little broomstick up my rear end when I was ten up in the loft of the barn, and make it hurt to the point that I spontaneously urinated on myself? Why did I like it so much? God, why did I come home from therapy at the age of twenty, and lay on the floor of my little apartment in Los Angeles, and jam my hand up my butt, and defecate on it, and then in a fit of unknown fury, smear it all over me, in my mouth, and hear words like, " Look what you did, you little bitch, you die now." ? What was the deadly satisfaction in having an orgasm blast up from nowhere while doing the same thing a year later? ( self-hatred alongside a proud little voice- I can handle it-) Why did I rape myself with a corn cob in a field in Alberta a year later still, and watch with great happiness the blood course out of me? Why did I sit outside of a convenience store in Simi Valley in my cut-offs and just urinate on the sidewalk without twitching a muscle, tears of happy hate and proud shame? Why did this turn into an addiction, this thing of trying to degrade myself as much as inhumanly possible? There is more, of course, but it must wait.            NMWFB I am ready to take on the  disgust, disdain, revulsion.

Response:

Oh, argh. You’re the second person to ”tell me” this tale, similar right down to the age. The other was geode. *tears* – this put me away.

<hug I know.It makes a bunch of feelings so complicated that sometimes I can’t figure out how they all can coexist at the same time. It put me right into the private chat rooms in the middle of the night during my many hours long talks with her.  Oh God its that time of year. The weather cooler – the air changing and my mind has been racing with thoughts of geode and how its been a year now.

Yes. I feel the need to go out and sit on the patio and look at the moon we used to share and the lights from the restaurants on Westheimer that we used to talk about going to when she came to visit. I’ve had such a difficult few weeks, greenshoes.  She would have helped.  I could have emailed her last night at 10:30 when I got that email and she would have met me on line and made me cry and laugh at the same time.  God I miss her.

I know. She’s a major type person to miss because she was so much HERE when she was here. Crisis hugging greenshoes.

<hugging back, and thinking how g. would have endorsed any and all such hugs…

Response:

hi NMWFB — debster here…. I am ready to take on the  disgust, disdain, revulsion.

you’ll find none of that here.  I snipped your post, only because I have no answers and I can’t even pretend I do.   Just know that I believe you’re doing what we’ve all done at some point just using a different route, perhaps Mine was that as I got older, I allowed  things to be "done" to me…. It seems to me that there is a parallel between defecating and cutting — either way we want it OUT…. as children the only two things we could "control" was what went into us and what came out of us.   And when people try to fuck with that — well, results aren’t always so great. I’m sorry you went through these things — I don’t have any revulsion, digust or disdain — I have compassion for you and what you’ve been through — Understanding for you for what your going through and hope for you for what you may see down the road.. peace and healing debster Did he make you cry, make you break down, shatter your illusions of love…is it over now…..do you know how, to pick up the pieces and go on                                     -Fleetwood Mac-

Response:

Hi NMWFB I have been lurking here for a while and post once in a while. I cannot find words to express the sorrow I feel for the child you were and the adult you are now. rosee says it better than I do. I hope you do not mind rosee if I share with you your sentiments for NMFWB who is wise and very caring person. Ruth – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – Hi rosee here. I read your post and I cried.  Tears of sorrow, they were, for that darling child that was made to feel so horrible, so dirty, over that which a child has no control.  What was done to you was wrong.  You didn’t deserve it.  I don’t think that you will find that others here will see you with disgust or revulsion, for coping the only way you knew how. I do think you will see a lot of others opening up and talking about some of the not-so-pretty ways that were used to cope.  I think that is the stuff that is the hardest to talk about, to bring into the light of day and examine.  It’s hard, because nobody wants to be viewed with revulsion, nobody wants others to think that they are "twisted" or "disgusting". You know something, though?  We aren’t the twisted and disgusting ones. That designation should be saved for those that created in us the need to do some of the things we did, or do still, sometimes.  We were children!!!  For god’s sake, look at any small child and imagine that child trying to cope with what we had to.  Is it any wonder that we ended up overwhelmed? I’m going to open up, here, and tell you how I tried to deal with feeling so dirty.  Horrible feeling, that.  I used to take 3 or 4 baths, everyday. Sometimes, I would get up in the middle of the night, and take another one. I would scrub and scrub, trying to make me feel clean.  It never worked. When I was little, it wasn’t uncommon for children to be given enemas, if they were a little "irregular".  Heh.  Just the thought of it makes me cringe.  However, by the time I was about nine or ten, I became quite obsessed with them. (I can’t believe I am telling this.  I have never told a single soul about this, in my entire life.  Not even my therapist.) Since bathing didn’t help me feel any cleaner, I started giving them to myself.  I’d fill that damn thing right up, climb into the tub, insert the nozzle and lay there, watching my abdomen bloat.  I just kept thinking that if I could only fill up enough, that I would be able to feel clean.  When I couldn’t hold it any longer, I would empty myself, and do it again. Only, it never worked.  It never made me feel any cleaner.  If anything, it made me feel worse, a dirty disgusting little pig.  Didn’t stop me from trying over and over, though. I had my own share of things that I used to inflict pain upon myself.  Was it because I liked it, or because I thought a disgusting little pig, like me, deserved it?  Or was it both?  Neither?  I don’t know if I will ever know the answer to that one.  Just like I will never know how much of the damage done to me, physically, was from my abuser, or was self-inflicted. As a teenager, I was told that I might never have children, because there was so much scar tissue in and around my reproductive organs.  That is why I cherish my children so much.  They were my little miracles. It’s been a long time since I have done anything to, purposely, cause myself harm.  Still, there will always be a connection between pleasure and pain, that I won’t deny.  To do so, would be to deny who I am. So, NMWFB, you will find no revulsion, no disgust coming at you from this little corner of the world.  You will only find me, another survivor that admires your courage, honesty and integrity.  This could not have been easy to write, and maybe even harder to post.  For that, thank you.  For you have helped me, today, to shine the light of healing, into the dark, deep corners of my mind. rosee     I have decided to go visit my folks. They are but a ferry ride across the lake from Burlington, Vermont.  I am in a child-like rage. I hate hating them. But I hate hearing their saccharin sweet expressions of "concern"  too. I want to tell my step-father that we have to take a walk, so I can formulate my reproach, and the second he tries any profusive apology crap, I’ll snap at him, " the gift of your apology is to listen to your effects on my life.          Gushing expressions of fake guilt are just a smoke screen           so you do not have to HEAR of your effects on me." And it is true.  I have not had the opportunity to tell him of the loneliness I felt when he turned against me when I was  four year old and tore my underpants off to beat me with a steel ruler, because my mother told him to. He sat on my head so I would not squirm. He had a grimace which I took as a smile of sadism when he would say, " the longer you take to pull them off, the harder it is going to be."  I was embarrassed to pull them off myself. I had shame about my hygiene. Only twenty five years later, did I realize that it was semen leaking out of my butt that messed up my underwear and pajamas. I lost my one and only childhood to feeling filthy, and it wasn’t my damn fault. So how do you get rid of that filthy feeling? I was a fastidiously clean child (except for things I knew nothing about) Anyone who reads this, please respond and answer me this: why have I done this to myself? Answer quickly cleanly honestly unsparingly from your intuition. Why have I stuck a finger in my butt in the bathtub as a five year old, and as soon as I felt liquid in me, I pushed out with all my might, dirtied the water, and then dropped the poop on the floor in the bathroom, ran to my bed, and forced myself to sleep? ( nothing was ever said to me about this) Why did I once open a clothes drawer in my bedroom and poop in it? ( my mother asked why, I said the bathroom was too far, end of thread) Why did I go out to the stable when I was six and poop on the floor day after day, ( I had a "collection") ?  ( nothing was ever mentioned of this) Why did I, as an eight year old, look in my bedroom vanity mirror, and poop in my underwear? ( I told myself  that I would  have to tell someone about this someday) Why did I push that little broomstick up my rear end when I was ten up in the loft of the barn, and make it hurt to the point that I spontaneously urinated on myself? Why did I like it so much? God, why did I come home from therapy at the age of twenty, and lay on the floor of my little apartment in Los Angeles, and jam my hand up my butt, and defecate on it, and then in a fit of unknown fury, smear it all over me, in my mouth, and hear words like, " Look what you did, you little bitch, you die now." ? What was the deadly satisfaction in having an orgasm blast up from nowhere while doing the same thing a year later? ( self-hatred alongside a proud little voice- I can handle it-) Why did I rape myself with a corn cob in a field in Alberta a year later still, and watch with great happiness the blood course out of me? Why did I sit outside of a convenience store in Simi Valley in my cut-offs and just urinate on the sidewalk without twitching a muscle, tears of happy hate and proud shame? Why did this turn into an addiction, this thing of trying to degrade myself as much as inhumanly possible? There is more, of course, but it must wait.           NMWFB I am ready to take on the  disgust, disdain, revulsion. — For more information about this posting service, contact: If you wish to get an anonymous email/posting account, visit our sign-up page: http://asarian-host.org/emailform.html

Response:

My heart goes with you my friend.  I sobbed while I was reading your post.  I wanted to hold you.  I don’t have answers right now and I don’t want to say the wrong things – just remember this – I am holding your hand.  I am right beside you.  I am with you.  I do not find you respulsive or dirty.  I am proud of you – it took one helluva lot of courage to post this and I am proud of you. Scamper – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – There is more, of course, but it must wait.            NMWFB I am ready to take on the  disgust, disdain, revulsion.

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Oh, argh. You’re the second person to ”tell me” this tale, similar right down to the age. The other was geode.

*tears* – this put me away.  It put me right into the private chat rooms in the middle of the night during my many hours long talks with her.  Oh God its that time of year. The weather cooler – the air changing and my mind has been racing with thoughts of geode and how its been a year now.   I feel the need to go out and sit on the patio and look at the moon we used to share and the lights from the restaurants on Westheimer that we used to talk about going to when she came to visit.   I’ve had such a difficult few weeks, greenshoes.  She would have helped.  I could have emailed her last night at 10:30 when I got that email and she would have met me on line and made me cry and laugh at the same time.  God I miss her. Crisis hugging greenshoes.  

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oh nem. i’m so, so sorry. why do you do these things? i think for the same reason i have hundreds of scars on my body. because everything *hurts* and sometimes a finite and familiar pain seems like a respite from the unending emotional hurts. there is nothing disgusting about you, nothing revolting, nothing to disdain. you are so clearly in such *horrible* pain, how could i not see me in you? i’d very much like to hug you, but i don’t know if that’s okay. but know, at least, that i’m thinking of you, that i’m wishing you some comfort. silverleafs

I have my favorite abandoned house on a country road. I like to crumple on the floor against the wall and remember being this golden child repository for desperate men. I remember basking in the cold superiority of my victimhood as my father (not step-dad) cried because he made me bleed. Next time I go there, I promise you I will let you hold me, and instead of playing cold maybe I will allow hot tears. It hurts in here, but I will tell you, I put together a good survival strategy, a mythology of this beautiful child who inspired envy in lonely perverted adults. Some day, I will retire the mythology, and just allow the small violated child to be scared and so lonely.        Thank-you, Silverleaf.             NMWFB

Response:

i’m very sorry you are having a hard time. peace, Ally

I am wizened in this, Ally. It has been with me all of my life. I do have an agreement with this feral child inside. It sort of says, no I will never abandon you to the denial and disbelief you experienced as a child, so go ahead and run amok, my adult life is yours to trash as you please, we will be proud in our secret hell.  I read your question about what triggered my coprophagic attack, and it was triggered by disbelief or blunted reaction. When I first brought the realization to my parents that I had recovered a memory of being raped by my father, I was 21, my mother responded, " Oh dear, that is awful, simply dreadful." my step-father said, " I hope you put this behind you."  DEAD, DEAD,                  Good!                NMWFB

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oh nem. i’m so, so sorry. why do you do these things? i think for the same reason i have hundreds of scars on my body. because everything *hurts* and sometimes a finite and familiar pain seems like a respite from the unending emotional hurts. there is nothing disgusting about you, nothing revolting, nothing to disdain. you are so clearly in such *horrible* pain, how could i not see me in you? i’d very much like to hug you, but i don’t know if that’s okay. but know, at least, that i’m thinking of you, that i’m wishing you some comfort. silverleafs — Nobody’s home, even if someone is.

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Underneath the syrup there may be venom.

Ohhh yes!!!  But I no longer have need to take it. All I NEED to do is to look deeply into his eyes. There-in lies the truth.  And rather than open myself to his denial, I shall let the secrets trap him in the very same silence that I held for his benefit as a child. Only now, my eyes will tell him that I survived him. And he cannot defend himself against no accusation.          NMWFB

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Almost always, your worst thing about yourself is worser to you than it is to people outside you.

Thank-you, Averti !        NMWFB

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A steel ruler on a four year old? On a four year old’s behind? Blecchhh. I expect that the physical detail is not as significant as the loneliness (and betrayal?) but it catches my eye.

My rump changed into many colors. I showed my mother. She said, " You got a good one, maybe next time you’ll think about it." Something it took me twenty-five years to understand and accept was that urinating and defecating feel ‘good’.

My best friend from fifth grade, a regal beautiful creature, said, one day to no one in particular, " Taking a dump is one of life’s great little pleasures." I loved her for that. I’ve just begun to know what it feels like to live without all my pelvic muscles tensed up in expectation of being raped and fear of the ordinary physical sensations around there. I didn’t develop the understanding of those feelings as normal when I was a kid – they seem ‘wrong’, sometimes even painful. They’re not, they are intense in comparison to holding myself numb from them, and they sometimes frighten me by their unfamiliarity and the situations that I am reminded of by them – but they are actually the ‘normal’ feelings I might have learned about as a child if I had not been fucked around with so much.

Oh yes. Oh yes. I was at a friend’s house when I was eight or nine. I had to poop. I had delayed going because we were playing. It hurt. I cried because I felt insulted. I was sitting in a strange bathroom crying because I was humiliated. I was dreadfully angry. I came out and slammed myself against the wall, and told her father," Take me home and don’t ask."  I had to sit next to him on the way home. Bless his heart, he did not ask, and he did not try to comfort me. My mom gave me hell at home for being rude. I should have saved the cause of my upset for her. " Mom, this is my representation of your husband." and I should have flung it INTO THE CHANDELIER. But I did not have conscious memories until eleven years later. And from a young child’s point of view toilet-training is a big ask – there are a lot of muscles to learn about and different sensations depending on exactly what’s in you that needs to come out where. If someone messes around with those pieces of you it can make some of the feelings confusing and can make control of those processes difficult. And of course you might also have learned, depending on exactly how you’ve been messed with, that pain around there can come before or with some really good feelings too.

This is what drives me to despair. I’m not going there right now, but I will. I am so damn tired. I orgasmed when molested and I felt as though my body had betrayed me

More later here too. Something I didn’t understand until this year was that possibly I could experience the same incredibly intense feelings as I did when molested but without being molested or doing anything similar.

This *will* take some work. It is so true, for me, that adult sex has nowhere near the huge violent desperate secret poignant erotic nasty thrill that was mine as a child. I am so damn tired.          NMWFB        Thank-you, Mick.

Response:

(I can’t believe I am telling this.  I have never told a single soul about this, in my entire life.  Not even my therapist.) So, NMWFB, you will find no revulsion, no disgust coming at you from this little corner of the world.  You will only find me, another survivor that admires your courage, honesty and integrity.  This could not have been easy to write, and maybe even harder to post.

When I hit the send button, my stomach went tight. The moon was so beautiful though, that I took it as a sign that God was soothing the riot in my mind.  That moon is so imperviously serene, how could you not be calmed by it?         Ow, ow, owooooooooooooo!                       Not                          Much                             Wolf                                   For                                    Baying For that, thank you.  For you have helped me, today, to shine the light of healing, into the dark, deep corners of my mind.

You too! Thank-you!

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We all have more in common than we’d probably like to admit to. Best wishes jaffa WARNING :- This post is protected with a snide impact protection system.

Thank-you, Jaffa.         NMWFB

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Ok I did some of this too,

Thank-you for sharing this. You probably didn’t ‘like’ it you were maybe re-inacting stuff.

It is difficult to allow it as " re-enactment." Allow one little bit,  then you have to allow all of them. Ok from what I gather from adults who were not abused as kids, they did all this self exploration thing, masturbation etc…  But for children who were abused that is all a bit lame and just doesn’t do it! Things have got to be more painful more intense more physical.

A good distinction. Wow this was intense for me, hope it made sense did not hurt anyone.

It made sense, did not hurt me, and thank-you.             NMWFB    now my stomach hurts

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I heap all this on those that  drove you to desperate expression of your emotions. I’m glad you are here.

I like that phrase, it takes a little sting out of my life.             Thank-you.               NMWFB

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Dear NMWFB I am sorry you have had to suffer so. We that had our innocence, taken from us as children,all seem to feel shame.We act out our emotions in different ways. Mine , a road to self destruction and self loathing. I too felt dirty for years. I don’t feel you are less of a person for sharing this.It took allot of strength to write this. I hope it will help you with your healing. It starts with honesty, and trust. I am happy you are a part of this group. You are a good caring ,special person. Take good care of yourself. Sincerely Freida

– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – I heap all this on those that  drove you to desperate expression of your emotions. I’m glad you are here. I like that phrase, it takes a little sting out of my life.            Thank-you.              NMWFB

Response:

Well, I probably shouldn’t do this. I feel a strong degree of intuitive liking for you, NMWFB, and whenever I feel that it seems to indicate that I’m about to stuff up whatever friendhip or affinity actually exists between me and the person for whom I feel it. Oh well… You’re a few thousand miles away, I have no idea of your real name or e-mail or who you really are, I’ve only written a couple of things to you – all in all if I say something wrong it’s unlikely to devastate you and from my end if you get pissed with me or I do whatever it is that I do when I feel like this I could always just write it off as yet another instance of my stupidity…      I have decided to go visit my folks.

Cool. Can be worth it sometimes, huh? They are but a ferry ride across the lake from Burlington, Vermont.

Well, the ferry-ride sounds nice. I am in a child-like rage.

In my experience those are _very_ strong feelings. Kids feel anger (I think) very differently to conventional adult anger. Imagine an angel who has just found out there is no God. I hate hating them.

Takes it out of you, yes? But I hate hearing their saccharin sweet expressions of "concern"  too.

Gotcha. I’d better stop responding to every sentence or I’ll never have the energy to finish writing this. I know you’ll respond to whatever you think is significant.  I want to tell my step-father that we have to take a walk, so I can formulate my reproach, and the second he tries any profusive apology crap, I’ll snap at him, " the gift of your apology is to listen to your effects on my life.           Gushing expressions of fake guilt are just a smoke screen            so you do not have to HEAR of your effects on me."

I like that, especially the first sentence. Yes, actually _listening_ to what is being apologised for would certainly indicate some greater degree of sincerity than indulging in profuse self-flagellation. Pretty hard to spot contrition amongst self-pity. And it is true.  I have not had the opportunity to tell him of the loneliness I felt when he turned against me when I was  four year old and tore my underpants off to beat me with a steel ruler,

A steel ruler on a four year old? On a four year old’s behind? Blecchhh. I expect that the physical detail is not as significant as the loneliness (and betrayal?) but it catches my eye. because my mother told him to. He sat on my head so I would not squirm. He had a grimace which I took as a smile of sadism when he would say, " the longer you take to pull them off, the harder it is going to be."

Yep, classic tactic, make the victim responsible for the punishment’s severity. Charming trait. I was embarrassed to pull them off myself. I had shame about my hygiene. Only twenty five years later, did I realize that it was semen leaking out of my butt that messed up my underwear and pajamas.

I’ve had that feeling. It’s fucking horrible. I lost my one and only childhood to feeling filthy, and it wasn’t my damn fault. So how do you get rid of that filthy feeling?

Time. For me, time. Oh, lots of things happen over the time and they’re specific to the individual I guess, but the single most salient point is that it takes so much damn _time_. That’s why it’s such a grotesque violation to make a child feel filthy, because no matter what they do it’s going to take a huge chunk of _time_ to get over it. Umm, lessee. One thing which has helped me is to utterly re-jig my understanding of filthiness as it applies to human biological processes. I don’t mean that I am no longer hygienic, just that I don’t attach the revulsion/hatred/shame stuff to body processes. I’m more simplistically objective nowadays. Pizza goes in the bin if it’s not eaten because otherwise it would be messy and start to stink the place up eventually. Poop goes in toilets because when it doesn’t it’s messy and it smells. My nether regions need a degree of hygienic attention because people sweat a lot around there and the internal valves are never perfect. Defining things like this helped me to remove emotional associations.  I was a fastidiously clean child (except for things I knew nothing about)

Likewise. Not quite OCD and I have moved past it but for years I was almost obsessively clean. Anyone who reads this, please respond and answer me this: why have I done this to myself? Answer quickly cleanly honestly unsparingly from your intuition.

Basically, my guess is because you’re strong-willed and you wanted to fight what was done to you and all this stuff seemed like the best idea at the time. Why have I stuck a finger in my butt in the bathtub as a five year old, and as soon as I felt liquid in me, I pushed out with all my might, dirtied the water, and then dropped the poop on the floor in the bathroom, ran to my bed, and forced myself to sleep? ( nothing was ever said to me about this) Why did I once open a clothes drawer in my bedroom and poop in it? ( my mother asked why, I said the bathroom was too far, end of thread) Why did I go out to the stable when I was six and poop on the floor day after day, ( I had a "collection") ?  ( nothing was ever mentioned of this) Why did I, as an eight year old, look in my bedroom vanity mirror, and poop in my underwear?  ( I told myself  that I would  have to tell someone about this someday)

You are very strong to be able to do so. And brave. Yeah, I know you’re not exactly advertising it with your full name and address attached, I’m the same – I’ve talked about some of the most difficult stuff in my life on the net knowing that I was fairly anonymous and untraceable. But I also know that if someone really wanted to they could figure out who I was, and that a few people in my daily life would recognise me from my posts. But, put simply, you have a net- presence. You have expressed various aspects of yourself, your personality is out here somehow. It takes a lot of guts just to write the stuff you’ve been able to write, and allowing that to be in the context of enough posts to be somewhat representative of you as a whole takes even more guts. I haven’t done quite the things you’re talking about. My reactions were more about keeping all the feelings around my pelvis under extrmely rigid control. That, in combination with the abuse, is most likely responsible for messing up my insides to a life-shortening extent. The problems I now have would have seen me dead by this age if I had been born fifty years earlier. But I think some of the answer to your whys might be the same as it was for me. I wanted to control the feelings and pieces that had been abused in me and controlled by someone else. Perhaps you also wanted to thumb your nose at those who had seemed to attempt that theft. Why did I push that little broomstick up my rear end when I was ten up in the loft of the barn, and make it hurt to the point that I spontaneously urinated on myself? Why did I like it so much?

Something it took me twenty-five years to understand and accept was that urinating and defecating feel ‘good’. I doubt that to most people they feel particularly special but most people learn to accept them as baseline good by the age of three or four and rarely have reason to notice them after that, although I think most people are aware of the feeling of relief when they really need to go. It’s a bit like saying that breathing feels good, to most people most of the time it doesn’t. How might it feel after someone has tried to strangle you? If someone interferes with the early development of genitals/rectum it’s not too surprising that a child might not learn the ordinary ‘good’ sense of the processes that are normal for those body areas. I’m 31 and this year I’ve just begun to know what it feels like to live without all my pelvic muscles tensed up in expectation of being raped and fear of the ordinary physical sensations around there. I didn’t develop the understanding of those feelings as normal when I was a kid – they seem ‘wrong’, sometimes even painful. They’re not, they are intense in comparison to holding myself numb from them, and they sometimes frighten me by their unfamiliarity and the situations that I am reminded of by them – but they are actually the ‘normal’ feelings I might have learned about as a child if I had not been fucked around with so much. There are a lot of nerve-endings, internal and external, around the genitals and rectum. And from a young child’s point of view toilet-training is a big ask – there are a lot of muscles to learn about and different sensations depending on exactly what’s in you that needs to come out where. If someone messes around with those pieces of you it can make some of the feelings confusing and can make control of those processes difficult. And of course you might also have learned, depending on exactly how you’ve been messed with, that pain around there can come before or with some really good feelings too. And I think it’s also pretty natural for kids to want to be in charge of themselves as much as possible – ie, if someone else has caused you to feel some things, even painful things, you might want to prove to yourself that you can be in charge of those feelings. Please remember too that (as far as the psychs can tell us) most kids experiment with themselves and their poop to some extent anyway. I didn’t because I was terrified that any recognition of those parts of me would get me killed, but I am unusual in the opposite direction to the stuff you’re talking about. God, why did I come home from therapy at the age of twenty, and lay on the floor of my little apartment in Los Angeles, and jam my hand up my butt, and defecate on it, and then in a fit of unknown fury, smear it all over me, in my mouth, and hear words like, " Look what you did, you little bitch, you die now." ?

Confusion coming through and an act … read more »

Response:

This is one of the most heart-rending things I have ever read here 8(….      I have decided to go visit my folks. They are but a ferry ride across the lake from Burlington, Vermont.  I am in a child-like rage. I hate hating them. But I hate hearing their saccharin sweet expressions of "concern"  too.  I want to tell my step-father that we have to take a walk, so I can formulate my reproach, and the second he tries any profusive apology crap, I’ll snap at him, " the gift of your apology is to listen to your effects on my life.           Gushing expressions of fake guilt are just a smoke screen            so you do not have to HEAR of your effects on me."

Geeze, nobody left in MY rotten family would even understand the words, let alone entertain the meaning. And it is true.  I have not had the opportunity to tell him of the loneliness I felt when he turned against me when I was  four year old and tore my underpants off to beat me with a steel ruler, because my mother told him to. He sat on my head so I would not squirm. He had a grimace which I took as a smile of sadism when he would say, " the longer you take to pull them off, the harder it is going to be."  I was embarrassed to pull them off myself. I had shame about my hygiene. Only twenty five years later, did I realize that it was semen leaking out of my butt that messed up my underwear and pajamas.

Oh, argh. You’re the second person to ”tell me” this tale, similar right down to the age. The other was geode. I lost my one and only childhood to feeling filthy, and it wasn’t my damn fault. So how do you get rid of that filthy feeling?

You come across as someone who HAS gotten rid of at least part of it. By being intelligent, fair, and clean (spiritually if not always physically).  I was a fastidiously clean child (except for things I knew nothing about) Anyone who reads this, please respond and answer me this: why have I done this to myself? Answer quickly cleanly honestly unsparingly from your intuition.

Most of it was ”did” TO you. The people who were supposed to teach you and point you in healthy directions about how to feel about things didn’t do their assigned job; they ripped you off. At that age if somebody messing with your ass is what passes for love and affection–and, frankly, also for sexual stimulation– then way down the road in adulthood your body and your under-mind are gonna remember those feelings and will be drawn toward them. While at the same time heavily pushed away from them. Why have I stuck a finger in my butt in the bathtub as a five year old, and as soon as I felt liquid in me, I pushed out with all my might, dirtied the water, and then dropped the poop on the floor in the bathroom, ran to my bed, and forced myself to sleep? ( nothing was ever said to me about this)

Classical theory would be, at age five, you were trying to ”expel” your molestors from your body–through the place where they got in. Why did I once open a clothes drawer in my bedroom and poop in it? ( my mother asked why, I said the bathroom was too far, end of thread) Why did I go out to the stable when I was six and poop on the floor day after day, ( I had a "collection") ?  ( nothing was ever mentioned of this)

Sexual, sensual, a way of saying if only to yourself ”I exist and I control this.” Or possibly, ”Keep your distance or I’ll poop on YOU.” Why did I, as an eight year old, look in my bedroom vanity mirror, and poop in my underwear?

At that age you were approaching the stage of adult paraphilia, AFAIK. The things you talk about later seem to reinforce this notion.  ( I told myself  that I would  have to tell someone about this someday) Why did I push that little broomstick up my rear end when I was ten up in the loft of the barn, and make it hurt to the point that I spontaneously urinated on myself? Why did I like it so much?

I bet you’ve read up on this aspect. To get off. If not directly sexually, then mentally and emotionally. Nobody has yet figured out the ”why do I like it so much?” part yet. Why do I like it so much when I have conventional, USDA approved ”regular” sex? Uh, because I do. God, why did I come home from therapy at the age of twenty, and lay on the floor of my little apartment in Los Angeles, and jam my hand up my butt, and defecate on it, and then in a fit of unknown fury, smear it all over me, in my mouth, and hear words like, " Look what you did, you little bitch, you die now." ? What was the deadly satisfaction in having an orgasm blast up from nowhere while doing the same thing a year later? ( self-hatred alongside a proud little voice- I can handle it-)

Well, not to be flip about it, at least at some point the sexual trigger actually triggered some sexual satisfaction 8(. This sort of forks the question into two avenues, which may make it easier to deal with: 1. How did I get this way? 2. Why do I do this? (The light at the end of the…wait, I don’t want to say that…)the partial payoff is the obvious answer: it makes me come. Why did I rape myself with a corn cob in a field in Alberta a year later still, and watch with great happiness the blood course out of me?

That’s one way–hopefully not THE way–that you became imprinted that sex works for you. Why did I sit outside of a convenience store in Simi Valley in my cut-offs and just urinate on the sidewalk without twitching a muscle, tears of happy hate and proud shame?

Well, about 30% of the people I used to play with do stuff like THAT; you didn’t invent that part, and your liking for it may not be tied up with abuse at all. Why did this turn into an addiction, this thing of trying to degrade myself as much as inhumanly possible?

You get off. Now, of course, that’s a feedback circuit of a classic nature; the more degrading things you do, the more you can ”abuse” yourself for being sexually warped. And the more you do that, the more acting out with further degrading thoughts and actions. Almost always, your worst thing about yourself is worser to you than it is to people outside you. It HAS to be; that’s part of its power. If we were RL friends and you were suddenly moved to defecate right there on the spot, I think probably you would be disappointed at how un-shocked and un-disgusted I would be. There is more, of course, but it must wait.            NMWFB I am ready to take on the  disgust, disdain, revulsion.

Are you up for the understanding, admiration, and support? — May the road rise to meet you, so you’ll have the same face as the rest of your family. –traditional toast

Response:

     I have decided to go visit my folks. They are but a ferry ride across the lake from Burlington, Vermont.  I am in a child-like rage. I hate hating them. But I hate hearing their saccharin sweet expressions of "concern"  too.  I want to tell my step-father that we have to take a walk, so I can formulate my reproach, and the second he tries any profusive apology crap, I’ll snap at him, " the gift of your apology is to listen to your effects on my life.           Gushing expressions of fake guilt are just a smoke screen            so you do not have to HEAR of your effects on me."   And it is true.  I have not had the opportunity to tell him of the loneliness I felt when he turned against me when I was  four year old and tore my underpants off to beat me with a steel ruler, because my mother told him to. He sat on my head so I would not squirm. He had a grimace which I took as a smile of sadism when he would say, " the longer you take to pull them off, the harder it is going to be."  I was embarrassed to pull them off myself. I had shame about my hygiene. Only twenty five years later, did I realize that it was semen leaking out of my butt that messed up my underwear and pajamas. I lost my one and only childhood to feeling filthy, and it wasn’t my damn fault. So how do you get rid of that filthy feeling?  I was a fastidiously clean child (except for things I knew nothing about) Anyone who reads this, please respond and answer me this: why have I done this to myself? Answer quickly cleanly honestly unsparingly from your intuition. Why have I stuck a finger in my butt in the bathtub as a five year old, and as soon as I felt liquid in me, I pushed out with all my might, dirtied the water, and then dropped the poop on the floor in the bathroom, ran to my bed, and forced myself to sleep? ( nothing was ever said to me about this) Why did I once open a clothes drawer in my bedroom and poop in it? ( my mother asked why, I said the bathroom was too far, end of thread) Why did I go out to the stable when I was six and poop on the floor day after day, ( I had a "collection") ?  ( nothing was ever mentioned of this) Why did I, as an eight year old, look in my bedroom vanity mirror, and poop in my underwear?  ( I told myself  that I would  have to tell someone about this someday) Why did I push that little broomstick up my rear end when I was ten up in the loft of the barn, and make it hurt to the point that I spontaneously urinated on myself? Why did I like it so much? God, why did I come home from therapy at the age of twenty, and lay on the floor of my little apartment in Los Angeles, and jam my hand up my butt, and defecate on it, and then in a fit of unknown fury, smear it all over me, in my mouth, and hear words like, " Look what you did, you little bitch, you die now." ? What was the deadly satisfaction in having an orgasm blast up from nowhere while doing the same thing a year later? ( self-hatred alongside a proud little voice- I can handle it-) Why did I rape myself with a corn cob in a field in Alberta a year later still, and watch with great happiness the blood course out of me? Why did I sit outside of a convenience store in Simi Valley in my cut-offs and just urinate on the sidewalk without twitching a muscle, tears of happy hate and proud shame? Why did this turn into an addiction, this thing of trying to degrade myself as much as inhumanly possible? There is more, of course, but it must wait.            NMWFB I am ready to take on the  disgust, disdain, revulsion.

Response:

NMWFB I’m replying to this on the basis that you are in search of answers and that you are not asking rhetorical questions ! Standard disclaimers apply ) These are not *the* only answers, just my thoughts….. Before I get going I should point out that I intend to snip to get to the questions. This is not because I find the contents of your post too  revolting, but simply because I want to focus on what I  think is pertinent (and it is a long post ) ) So how do you get rid of that filthy feeling?

I simply don’t know the answer to this, but I suspect that recognising that it is a feeling and that it is therefore potentially under your control may be a good start. I would also suggest that the feeling will be easier to dismiss if you can convince yourself that you’re not actually filthy. Maybe that’s a tautology ? [...] Anyone who reads this, please respond and answer me this: why have I done this to myself? Answer quickly cleanly honestly unsparingly from your intuition.

Because for whatever twisted reason, it gave, or gives you short term pleasure. This is paid for at the expense of your long term self worth. I would guess that it’s a conditioned reaction from your early external abuse. Self abuse also tends to be self sustaining as your own perceived self worth spirals downwards. ( Maybe at some unconcious level you are trying to convince yourself that you deserved what you got. That’s a human way to try to make the world make sense. Based on faulty reasoning IMO. Why have I stuck a finger in my butt in the bathtub as a five year old, and as soon as I felt liquid in me, I pushed out with all my might, dirtied the water, and then dropped the poop on the floor in the bathroom, ran to my bed, and forced myself to sleep? ( nothing was ever said to me about this)

Seeking a reaction to establish right and wrong ? Expressing your frustration against your parents ? Wanting to provoke a situation that allowed your confusion to be resolved ? Why did I once open a clothes drawer in my bedroom and poop in it? ( my mother asked why, I said the bathroom was too far, end of thread)

See above. Why did I go out to the stable when I was six and poop on the floor day after day, ( I had a "collection") ?  ( nothing was ever mentioned of this)

See above. Why did I, as an eight year old, look in my bedroom vanity mirror, and poop in my underwear? ( I told myself  that I would  have to tell someone about this someday)

See above. Why did I push that little broomstick up my rear end when I was ten up in the loft of the barn, and make it hurt to the point that I spontaneously urinated on myself? Why did I like it so much?

Well from a physiological point of view the nerves in the rectum are closely associated with the ones that provide pleasure. Once you’ve learnt to associate pleasure and pain it tends to stick. If that wasn’t the case there wouldn’t be such a thriving BDSM culture. I would guess psychologically if you linked this kind of activity with attention from a father figure it probably satisfied some more ill defined needs. God, why did I come home from therapy at the age of twenty, and lay on the floor of my little apartment in Los Angeles, and jam my hand up my butt, and defecate on it, and then in a fit of unknown fury, smear it all over me, in my mouth, and hear words like, " Look what you did, you little bitch, you die now." ? What was the deadly satisfaction in having an orgasm blast up from nowhere while doing the same thing a year later? ( self-hatred alongside a proud little voice- I can handle it-)

Now you’re answering your own questions….. Why did I rape myself with a corn cob in a field in Alberta a year later still, and watch with great happiness the blood course out of me? Why did I sit outside of a convenience store in Simi Valley in my cut-offs and just urinate on the sidewalk without twitching a muscle, tears of happy hate and proud shame? Why did this turn into an addiction, this thing of trying to degrade myself as much as inhumanly possible?

I would sat that a lot of the reasons are the same as those for people that cut themselves. Maybe you could talk to someone who suffers from that compulsion and look for parallels ? There is more, of course, but it must wait.           NMWFB I am ready to take on the  disgust, disdain, revulsion.

I’ve tried to react dispassionately because that’s what I thought you wanted. I do have disgust and revulsion at the overall situation, but no disdain for you. You have been very brave IMO to express yourself, I hope it reaps benefits. On a more personal level I wish I could find a way to let you understand that it’s alright to be you. If you want to change your life though it’s something that you’ll have to do mainly alone. The first big step is to understand that this does not mean you are a freak. We all have more in common than we’d probably like to admit to. Best wishes jaffa WARNING :- This post is protected with a snide impact protection system.

Response:

Just decided to say that I get a bit angry in this post. Hi, This was a hard post to respond to, not really the content mainly the emotions within, also it made me think about quite a few unpleasant things from that dreadful time as a child and young adult.  Its ok though, sometimes it is good to go over these things.  I am not sure what I am going to write yet in this response, but if I get angry or whatever it is directed at my past and not you. – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text –     I have decided to go visit my folks. They are but a ferry ride across the lake from Burlington, Vermont.  I am in a child-like rage. I hate hating them. But I hate hearing their saccharin sweet expressions of "concern"  too. I want to tell my step-father that we have to take a walk, so I can formulate my reproach, and the second he tries any profusive apology crap, I’ll snap at him, " the gift of your apology is to listen to your effects on my life.          Gushing expressions of fake guilt are just a smoke screen           so you do not have to HEAR of your effects on me." And it is true.  I have not had the opportunity to tell him of the loneliness I felt when he turned against me when I was  four year old and tore my underpants off to beat me with a steel ruler, because my mother told him to. He sat on my head so I would not squirm. He had a grimace which I took as a smile of sadism when he would say, " the longer you take to pull them off, the harder it is going to be."  I was embarrassed to pull them off myself. I had shame about my hygiene. Only twenty five years later, did I realize that it was semen leaking out of my butt that messed up my underwear and pajamas. I lost my one and only childhood to feeling filthy, and it wasn’t my damn fault. So how do you get rid of that filthy feeling?

I don’t know the answer, this makes me so damn sad angry upset etc…  Why the hell do people hurt small children or big children or adults. Dammit…..  OK. You got it right it was not your fault, any of it.  It was them they should have protected you and failed miserably, it makes me seethe,  sorry I am a bit MAD today.  As for visiting them, do it if it is what you want to do, tell him/them how much they messed you up.  Tell them how bad a job they did, it was not you who was/is filthy it is them.  Filthy minds do filthy deeds. I was a fastidiously clean child (except for things I knew nothing about) Anyone who reads this, please respond and answer me this: why have I done this to myself? Answer quickly cleanly honestly unsparingly from your intuition.

I usually do answer like that, so because I am angry at the moment this is an angry post, sorry again.  (damn always aplogise, wonder why!!!! childhood fears). Why?  Same reason I used to cut, same reason I used to dig compasses and darts into my body, same reason I would use a pumice stone to scrape off layer after layer of skin on my face, same reason I used to touch burning things, same reason I tried electrocuting myself by always touching switches with wet  hands.  Never damn well worked though.  I could go on but it serves no purpose here.  But, I think in lots of ways you just dealt with a bad situation in the only way you could. Why have I stuck a finger in my butt in the bathtub as a five year old, and as soon as I felt liquid in me, I pushed out with all my might, dirtied the water, and then dropped the poop on the floor in the bathroom, ran to my bed, and forced myself to sleep? ( nothing was ever said to me about this) Why did I once open a clothes drawer in my bedroom and poop in it? ( my mother asked why, I said the bathroom was too far, end of thread) Why did I go out to the stable when I was six and poop on the floor day after day, ( I had a "collection") ?  ( nothing was ever mentioned of this) Why did I, as an eight year old, look in my bedroom vanity mirror, and poop in my underwear?

Ok I did some of this too, I think a lot of it depends on what abuse you have suffered, mine was torture and degrading and humiliating based.  Always called slut bitch whore etc.  Mother used to call me a dirty little slut, cos I started wetting the bed when the abuse started, did  all the things she shouldn’t.  I felt dirty (still do) so I can understand what you felt, been to a lot of those places.  But one thing I would say, is that you should not judge your childhood with an adult perspective.  You were damaged back then, you still are, you coped and are coping the best way you can. You needed to survive and survive with your mind intact, it should never have happened, you should have had a normal childhood.  That was stolen from you and you could only cope. ( I told myself  that I would  have to tell someone about this someday) Why did I push that little broomstick up my rear end when I was ten up in the loft of the barn, and make it hurt to the point that I spontaneously urinated on myself? Why did I like it so much?

You probably didn’t ‘like’ it you were maybe re-inacting stuff.  I don’t know enough about you so if I say something that offends you then I am really truly sorry.  Ok from what I gather from adults who were not abused as kids, they did all this self exploration thing, masturbation etc…  But for children who were abused that is all a bit lame and just doesn’t do it! Things have got to be more painful more intense more physical.  Is this making sense?  I would do similar things to you, I think it was a way of me trying with all my might to find myself sexually.  However I was fighting a losing battle.  I think you needed to do it, and I understand why you did it even if I can’t explain very well.  I used a back brush handle, it was plastic and blue and I remember it so damn well.  Oh damn. God, why did I come home from therapy at the age of twenty, and lay on the floor of my little apartment in Los Angeles, and jam my hand up my butt, and defecate on it, and then in a fit of unknown fury, smear it all over me, in my mouth, and hear words like, " Look what you did, you little bitch, you die now." ?

You were still reacting, and I mean part of you needed to do it, it is like a drug you have to or you go crazy.  I go for these self-destructive things, but have got off the sexual stuff for now.  If you have ever cut then you would have the same feeling you have just got to do it.  Plus for you in this instance the therapy session probably brought up a lot of memories, which made you go back to your primal state which is of a need to do something.  Damn this is confusing stuff, especially as it is producing a whole lot of memories for me too.  Also when I went to therapy last year I would come home, lie down and hurt myself while fantasising that it was my brother raping me, or doing the other shit that he used to do to me. Therapy triggers and I think a good therapist realises this and brings you back to a safe place at the end of a session.  One reason why I am nervous about starting again. – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text -What was the deadly satisfaction in having an orgasm blast up from nowhere while doing the same thing a year later? ( self-hatred alongside a proud little voice- I can handle it-) Why did I rape myself with a corn cob in a field in Alberta a year later still, and watch with great happiness the blood course out of me? Why did I sit outside of a convenience store in Simi Valley in my cut-offs and just urinate on the sidewalk without twitching a muscle, tears of happy hate and proud shame? Why did this turn into an addiction, this thing of trying to degrade myself as much as inhumanly possible?

In answer to your last question, hmm what answer is there.  If I knew that I would stop hurting myself too.  A difference between us is I tend to keep a lot of my degrading and self-destruction in my head, wheras you enact it. You must realise that what you do as an adult is forever linked with what happened to you as a child, after all you are still that child, we tend to talk separately of our childhood as if it happened to another person (not saying you do it, but I do).  But that child is within you and is hurting, and for a time we can just let the child hurt, but sometimes it all comes out and we are overcome with pain. And yes it is an addiction, believe me I understand, and I hope I don’t sound like a know it all cos I am not, this is a very real problem for me and you and many others, we all handle it differently but it is basically the same. Wow this was intense for me, hope it made sense did not hurt anyone. There is more, of course, but it must wait.           NMWFB I am ready to take on the  disgust, disdain, revulsion.

No that is just how you view that part of yourself, the rest of you is wonderful and kind and very wise.  I know I have read virtually all your posts. Seraphina. Thinking that you are really a great person.

Response:

Filed under: Happiness Loneliness

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