The past few weeks have been very challenging for me. During talking therapy, we talked about the influence my father still bestows upon me, and it left me so sad, confused and desperate. I know that the younger you are when the abuse takes place or starts, the more disastrous is the effect it has. Sometimes I have no idea of who I actually am! I have friends to talk it over, I have the best husband I could wish for, but still I feel so trapped by my father and what he did. When I went to the mental hospital for the first time, I asked my brother why he sent me there, and he answered “to help you”. I had to laugh at that, because I was convinced nothing or nobody would ever be able to help me. But there has been help. It was good to talk it over, you know, good in a certain kind of way. I didn’t enjoy it, but it was good that they believed me and just let me talk. It was good to understand why I did so many things the way I did, like hiding bananas under the couch and whatever.

In the past few weeks, I kept asking myself where I can still see my father taking influence on me, almost 20 years after his gutless suicide. Anyhwere. He is anywhere, in me, in my world, in my dreams and thoughts. I still feel the urge to please him, be a good boy, take care for his moods and needs, keep still, spread my legs, be his fuck toy. The weird thing is that when people criticize him or call him names, I tend to defend him. Like “oh yes, sure he put a gun to my head, but, you know, all in all he was my father, right?”. That’s poor. My therapist told me that’s the survival strategy of an abused child, identifying with the abuser and take the role of his lawyer.

Things are so confusing, even more as the physical feelings connected with him are so confusing as well. Most times, my first impulse when thinking of his touches is to push him away, hit him, shout at him, but it needs just one second more to have me horny, in an angry way. Why? I guess because he didn’t let me take control of my body, but took what he wanted. I found no other way to cope with it than sexually. And the only thing that helps me to control this anger concerning my mind and body, is physical pain combined with sexual relief. I fully understand that all I like in bed is just a reenactment of what he did: being tied down, being hit and hurt, being fucked relentlessly.

My therapist often asks me: “what about you? what do you like?” and I always tall him, I don’t know. I have no idea. Isn’t it me who likes to be beaten and used? If not, than I don’t know if I even exist. Sometimes I think if I weren’t that down-to-earth-guy, I’d have already gone mad. I guess I’m lucky to have my family and my job, right? I even don’t know what would happen if I just let him go, dismiss him from my life. Would it all tumble down? I see that allowing Ginny to come out was the first thing I really did for myself, for my own identity in long years. It’s not like Yoga or running, you know, althought both help, but being Ginny just feels so right and comfy. When I’m her and in her dresses, I can feel myself better, I feel vulnerable and adorable at the same time.


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