In the past few months I’ve been thinking about justice regarding what my father did to me. Whenever we confront traumatic situations during therapeutic sessions, I tend to ask myself whether I have gotten equity. I don’t think so. First of all, in my opinion it was just gutless that my father ended his own life to avoid prosecution. I thought I knew him very well and I would have never guessed he would do so. When my brother found me on the street and told me what had happened, I just felt nothing. I could not believe it. And I did not want to believe it. I think, after all, I had still wished for him to be punished in some way, and his suicide seemed ways to easy and painless. I am not a bad person. I don’t like people getting harmed, but in his case, each and every single form of torture would have been okay for me, as long as it really would have hurt him. When I was in the mental hospital, they told me I should strive to forgive him in order to make it easier for me. I have tried. I really did. But I found that I don’t even want to forgive him. He hasn’t done anything to earn forgiveness. He was just a bad person, rotten to the core, and even if I don’t believe in hell or purgatory, I hope he’s in a place of eternal torture and pain. Not to clean his soul. I don’t care about his soul. Just to suffer. Does that make me a bad person?
After all these years, it still makes me angry to look at my body and see the marks he left. I’m not fond of the scars I left on my own skin, either, but each one he left tells a story of being used like
Yeah, like what? I was not cheap, I was for free. He kept better look after any of his possessions. I was just a free whore, a punching ball, a toy. Who would I be today if he had been a father to me? If he had loved me? If he had kept himself from doing what he did? I don’t have the slightest idea. I guess I would not be almost autistic in so many concerns, I probably would have a normal job and so on. My therapist keeps telling me mourning what I do not have does not make sense, but I tell you, it makes. It helps understanding that how I see and rate the world is just connected to what my father did. How I see the world is just a mirror of what he did.
Sadly, I believe in everything he told me. There was no time when I was told I’m a good person, a beloved son. I grew up believing I’m his whore and that I deserve and want it. Even worse, I wanted it at some point. It was familiar, his body over and in mine, haunting me, using me. I know I’ve fled to places inside myself and I wished for it to end, and because I knew he would not stop until he’s finished, I hoped for my life to end and tried to hold my breath long enough to die. I came back when climaxing, because I did, even as a kid. He knew how to touch me and yes, I liked it. My therapist keeps telling me I did not like it, I just came to think I liked it. But I know he’s wrong. I really liked it. Coming somehow was my reward for all the pain, and the more it hurt, the harder I came. The worst thing though was when he gave me BJs, because I always feared he would bite it off, because I don’t deserve to have it and because he might decide I’ve had enough fun.
There have not only been violence and pain. My father inflicted sweet feelings on me. Yes, he did. He could be very tender and because he knew me so well, he knew how to arouse me. I guess in 30% of all cases, I slept with him because I wanted to, because I was horny, because what he did felt so forbidden and therefore so well. Believe me, my therapist is wrong. I was not only forced.
I feel guilty because of it all. I feel guilty for keeping certain photos and videos and watching them sometimes. I feel guilty for who I am and what I want, especially for what I crave from John. He’s ok with it all, it’s me who struggles. “Don’t blame yourself”, he keeps telling me, “you just need it”. Oh, I do. I wonder how I would feel without that guilt? Would I be able to enjoy myself, without having to hate myself? Sometimes I think I just want to mess it all up, you know, like interchanging normality and perversity, just to be able to tell myself that it’s ok to do what I did. Regarding myself as guilty puts so much pressure upon me and being told that I did not like it and just thought I would by my therapist is not true. I wanted it. I enjoyed it. To be honest, I love John most when he is sweet and violent to me, just like my father was. Nothing gets me going like that, but even worse, nothing makes me feel so secure than that! It’s the equivalent of being tied down. Violence makes me feel myself, my body, my soul.
I wish he had not done what he did. I wish I had not felt what I felt. I wish these dreams of us would not make me cum sometimes. Seeing my cum on the sheets makes me the kid again, torn between guilt and lust. Hurt me, so that I feel lust, then hurt me again, because I felt lust. There is no justice in that…
It’s so much easier to talk about it in English.