These days we can read a lot about a severe case of child abuse here in Germany. A mother and her boyfriend have abused her son for two years and sold him to other men. As usual the press can’t really express their disgust and even if everyone claims to be shocked and overwhelmed by such evil, they all hunger for more details.
It brought me to think about offenders again and even though I suffered for almost 21 years, I still believe that they are insane and need therapeutical and medical help. I don’t judge a person for being a pedophiliac, but I judge and hate them for what they do. I know very well that not every person who is pedophiliac carries their needs out on children, and especially those are in desperate need for therapy to teach them ways to deal with their nature. We need more programs for prevention. It’s too late to be shocked when a child was already harmed. In my opinion we should finally overcome that taboo and no longer shame people for their nature, but help them to find ways to cope with it.
Of course I wonder if my father would have had the balls to talk about his nature and change something about that. I wonder if he ever felt the need to talk about that and get help. For me, it’s too late.
At the moment we talk about what my father did to me when I see my therapist. My therapist wants me to take a deep look at what he did in order to understand that it’s over and to find out how and how much this has effected my wish to be impotent and more girlish. To tell you the truth, over the past 20 years I have talked so much about that crap that most times I don’t feel anything when listing all my injuries and all the things he did. I normally just don’t feel it, and most times I deny to feel any anger or pain or whatsoever.
That being said, I have to add that of course I understand that I’d be a totally different person today if I had not experienced this abuse. But that counts for everyone with this background. To be honest, I think I have come out of this hell quite sane. I didn’t need to have a stoma, for example, like others. I can still pee through my own urethra. Not all my broken bones healed up perfectly, but I can move without pain. Over the years most scars have turned white, some remain pinkish. The scars on my soul didn’t heal up too well. It’s not that I haven’t had enough talks with therapist (more than enough), but that I can’t fit it all together to feel unbroken, unabused or uninsane, if you want. But most day I’m alright.
I didn’t see it coming that Ginny would become such an important thing for me. I thought dressing up would be enough, just for kink. You know, men who wear ladys’ clothes are a bit ill-reputed among gays. I have always failed to understand why, but that’s a fact. I think some gays think of wearing ladys’ clothes as unmanly and the very opposite of being gay. I don’t know. Over the years I have developed another mindset when I’m Ginny. I feel more like whole, sane and capable. I like the feeling it creates in my body and in my mind. When I’m her, I’m able to be weak. To feel more. To feel things more intensely without switching off. When I’m her, I can see more beauty in this world. It just makes me happy. She didn’t get hurt, my father didn’t rape her.
Last weekend John and I had so much fun. It started on Friday night when he told me I was not allowed to sit down to eat. Standing straight is one of his favourite treatments for me, and in the past two years especially when I wear heels. I’m not really able to properly walk in those, but I have learned to stand straight while wearing them. They make my feet hurt and then turn numb after a while. So I was eating my dinner standing, which really sucks when you’re not allowed to put the plate down and your hand gets burned as well. I like that 🙂
Later he inserted a whole can of fruit salad into my cunt (without the can itself). The sugar caused cramps of course and I felt full to the brim when he fucked me. Later he made me eat up the fruit and his spunk while taking photographs of me.
Saturday we had to do the groceries and I was plugged meanwhile. He told me that he wanted to use hot glue on me. Because my father liked to burn me with cigars, I don’t really tolerante burns, but I wanted to please John and agreed. He burned my legs and my clit as well and the intense pain made me cum. So I guess using hot glue is quite alright for me. As a punishment for having this spontaneous orgasm he beat me until I bled with his leather strip, which almost made me cum again LOL
On Sunday he slapped me in the face all day, whenever he thought of it. It’s so humiliating to be slapped and then be told to smile, but I did, because I enjoyed every second. Later he put my head inside a plastic back and choked me until I passed out, while he relentlessly fucked me.
When I returned to work on Monday I felt bruised, used, hurt, degraded and wounded and this feeling lingers. I wish he would torture me more often like this, like really hurt and destroy me. Since Sunday evening I’m wearing a device with a catheter, so when I want to pee I have to open the catheter and I can’t control the flow. I think that’s nice, because it makes me feel helpless and under control. On the next weekend we will clean it up and insert it again. I think cleaning it once a week should be fine, as catheters usually stay in for four weeks or more.
Until now I have been three times in that gender-self-help-group (I had to skip it twice because of work). I don’t know what to think about that. Most times I feel more of a freak eversince. I try to find answers to my questions in others, which obviously doesn’t really make sense. I totally accept transpersons and I often wish I could say “I’m this and that” with their vigor, but I can’t. For example, for most transgirls it’s vital to pass as a girl. For me obviously not. I know that I have features that are too male to pass as a girl, and that’s alright for me. I don’t want to be a girl. Nor do I want to be an Alpha. Neither I’m capable to be.
When the transgirls talk about how to stuff your dick and how to speak and how to use make up to look more female, I feel strange. Like I don’t belong there. To be honest, it disturbs my inner peace. I have talked about that with S and C (C has trans issues as well), and they told me I shall give it a try some more times before I quit. I will. But I feel reluctant when it’s time to go there.
My therapist and I have agreed to continue our work until I found someone else to help me through that. It needs to be someone with experience with PTSD and abuse as well as with gender issues. In case I can’t find anyone like that, he will keep working with me, but leave the gender stuff for the other therapist. That’s alright for me. The doctor who made the first expertise has recommended another therapist for the second expertise and I will see him at the end of May. It’s a long time until then. He also recommended two therapists near to my hometown you work with gender issues. We’ll see. When I think of the way that lies ahead, I already feel tired.
To be honest, I didn’t expect that egg throwing thing to be that bad. Although John doesn’t throw eggs at my face (that would be downright dangerous and I could lose a tooth, an eye or break my nose), they really hurt a lot. It’s just like throwing stones at me. He loves that I hate it and quite often only pretends to throw them at me. I’m not allowed to shy away and I don’t, but that fucks my mind. They leave round, deep red bruises and and I quite a lot of them on me now. The bad thing is that most eggs don’t just fall apart after they hit me, so he throws them several times.
In the meanwhile I have found out why he gave me the rule with the breakfast. Each day I get the smashed eggs from the day before to eat. I am allowed to pick out the shells, but that’s it. And because the eggs were smashed before and landed on the floor, it’s disgusting as well because they have dust and bits stick to them. But sure, I do eat trash, so I try to just eat them and not think about it. Eating so much eggs makes me feel somehow bad. I’m not used to do so, but he keeps telling me that so much eggs will just make me horny due to all the protein. I guess it works as I’m horny all the time (but that might as well be the result of being so beautifully abused).
I have to wear an egg without the shell up my cunt all day. Usually I oly feel it for about an hour, then it obviously vanishes so deep inside my body, that I don’t really feel it any longer. When he fucks me, I think I can feel it somehow, but that sensation is blurry. Pretending that everything is just fine while having lunch with my family, knowing what a whore I am, makes me tickle with lust.
Yesterday we had to do the groceries for the long weekend. I was a bit irritated when John bought five packages of hard-boiled and dyed eggs, but when we arrived home, I found out why he did. Here are my rules from today on until Monday:
- each day he will put a breakfast for me on the table. I can refuse to eat it, but then I get it up my cunt
- each day after breakfast I have to take one box of eggs. I will peel an egg and shove it up my cunt, where it is supposed to stay all day (and this means: taking sh*ts is best done before breakfast)
- during the day he will throw the remaining 9 eggs at me, whenever, wherever. If I shy away, I get my clit rubbed with hot sauce
- if the egg gets smashed, I’m allowed to clean up. I must not put the eggs away, but must collect them. If it doesn’t break, I have to give it back to him, so that he can throw it at me again
Sounded like fun, but today he already threw six eggs and me and most of them didn’t break, so that he threw them at me again. I manage to not shy away from pain, but I look a bit like I looked when he fired the BB-gun at me. Like some weird kind of octopus wanted to hug me. Moreover, the breakfast was thoroughly disgusting. He just gave me the remains from his espresso and a dog biscuit.
Needless to say that my clit is drooling within the Holytrainer. I just love it if he treats me like the worthless cumrag I am 🙂
My everyday life stays quite the same through all this time of inner conflicts. I go to work four days a week for some hours. Usually I work in the shop/café, but sometimes I help with the gardening or in other departments. All in all I’m best when I can serve people and help them, and believe me, sometimes a warm cup of coffee is the best way to help people 🙂 I still attend Yoga classes, but at the moment only once a week. I do sports at home as well. I try to run almost every day and I practise Yoga at home as well. I still really suck at meditation, but that’s OK. Since we have our help, I have less things to do in John’s house, but I still clean the bathroom every day, make our bed, cook and all.
I still feel a deep connection to Lord Shiva, but over the time I have also developed a relation to Papa Legba, obviously due to my friend W, who teaches me a lot, spiritwise. I feel like Lord Shiva and Papa Legba form a certain kind of spiritual fathers for me. I know it’s not very surprising, but I’m obviously still searching for father-persons in my life. I meet W regularly to make little or not so little rituals for both of them and for W’s gods as well, but still I think only little do I know of all of that. I fear that I might do something wrong, so I shy from doing much.
In the past months Leo, John and I had a lot of trouble finding time to see us. Both of them have so much to do, then Leo was ill, followed by us, and all in all it’s a bit tricky to run such a long-distance relationship. But at the moment none of us wants to make such a life-changing decision to leave his country, so we just keep on. In June we will go on a vacation together in Italy. Just one week, but I can’t wait to be there 🙂 In April John will be flying to South Africa to play golf, but he told me to stay at home. Why? Just because he can and he knows that the thought of him fucking others will make me melt. He says he needs time for himself and will provide me with a long list of things to do (and not to do) during this time.
All in all I am quite content with my life at the moment. I have found schedules that help me pushing through.