I’m back home from a disturbing session with my therapist. Usually I get along with him very well, but sometimes it just feels bad. I presume, there is no safe way of talking about abuse anyway, so I don’t blame him.
I was brought up in a relatively small village in the south of Germany where everybody knew each other. You could not even water your flowers without your neighbour knowing. The traditional morals were highly valued. I remember a girl in my class who got her hair cut. The tattle went on for weeks. Everything considered as “not normal” was closely and mistrustfully observed and most times judged. Being gay was unthinkable. In my hometown, everybody knew his place. There was a strict hierarchy and there was no way getting out of it. What people thought and told of you was much more important than who you actually were. My father was seen as reputable man. He was educated and knew how to talk to people. He was believed, no matter how absurd his stories grew. And whatever I did, nobody would believe me, because I had the reputation of a misbehaved, lazy, criminal lad who was nothing but trouble. And sure I was no saint. I have stolen, food most times, but even money. I did not know how to talk to people. I was shy and insecure. My father told me of what others had said about me, and althought I don’t know if that was the truth, it led me to the conclusion that everone thought I was just scum. I guess that was quite clever, because that way he assured that I would not talk to anyone about what he did. When I tried to run away from home, he faked the desperate father, and all would pity him. When he brought me back, he was the hero and I was the wretch who nearly broke his loving father’s heart.
When he did not let me go to school regularly, my teacher showed up at home. I could hear them talk from where I was. My father told him that I was such a misbehaved boy and would need a “strong hand”, the very opposite of my brother. My teacher was full of compassion for this good and honest man who had been left by the mother of his children and now tried to bring up his sons the best he could. And my father was such a kind person in his eyes, you know, always the first to help out where ever his help was needed, always polite and smiling. When I heard my teacher left, I knew he was on my father’s side. I was angry because I had liked him. He was one of the view persons I had tried to talk to about the abuse. I knew I’d never try it again.
My father had money, you know, like a lot of money. He had employees and people depend on him. He donated money to the local fire brigade, to the animal shelter and to countles others. People tend to be blinded by money. As long as you’re rich enough, you can be as perverted as you want to be. There was nobody wondering about my tattered clothes, because it was surely not my perfect father to be blamed for them. It’s the boys fault. There was nobody wondering about me stealing food or begging for it or eating unripe apples directly from the tree. The boy is insane. He’a a shame for his father.
I have tried to ask for help. And nobody would listen to me, nobody cared. They all wanted to believe the worst of me and the best of my father, so what could I have done? I tried to run away. Even when they saw my injuries, they just justified them like “yeah, you know, his father said he’s always misbehaving…I mean, just look at him and you know what he’s like!”. When my behaviour became more and more striking, they only were glad I did not show up at school too often. Nobody took the courcage to ask where I was when they had not seen me for three weeks. Nobody asked what was wrong with me when I wetted myself during the fireworks or so. It was all believed to be my fault. I was regarded as the useless, dirty, stupid son of a brilliant man.
Then I think it was just a big chance that nobody caught us in the act. The older we both grew, the more daring my father became. He did not mind fucking me in his backyard or having me sucking him off in his car. He thought it was right. When I was about 16 or 17, he regarded me no longer as his son, but his partner and possession, and he wanted me to entice and seduce him. If somebody would have asked, it would have all been my fault, of course. I had seduced him, I had begged to be taken. Ironically, I had. It did not really hurt less, but provoking him was no good idea at all. I was the well-trained whore of my father’s and I chose to be, because I did not want to die. When it all became indifferent to me and I thought I’d be better off dead, I tried to rebel. I hit him and I paid for it. When he put a gun to my head, I just shut up and did what he told me.
Even worse, at the age about maybe 12 I began to “like” what he did. I mean, I did not really like it, but my body responded to it, and my mind followed soon. Of course there’s a reason for my kinks.
Uhm, well. I just wanted to say that I don’t think there was anybody who would have helped me. My brother tried, but he was far away. I still don’t see how I could have done it better. Our session made me sad and angry today. I have already put on the collar and the cuffs, and it’s good to feel them. I guess I should run some miles instead of staying online and watching hateporn.