Monday, April 2, 2007

This entry is going to be pretty graphic. And it's going to maybe go beyond what anyone should write in an online blog where any hapless person can just stumble into it and read it without some kind of warning that it goes beyond what you would most likely read in someone's blog. A person's online, public diary seems to be about nothing more than bitch fests and gossip mongering. At least the vast majority of them seem to be like that. And the day to day rumblings, which is what I mostly have here. This one's a bit different I think. Maybe I'm upping the ante, or just crossing some line that should never be crossed; I don't know.... But for any & all - you have been warned. If you want to skip this entry which has nothing to do with my regular entries I won't be offended. lol

A lot of what I'm going to discuss here concerns my father. Some of this has been documented in other areas of my website, and if I repeat myself, forgive me. You can see him, and read some of what I've written about him here

My father, David Wright, is a bit mental, which I don't even hide from strangers. He's schizophrenic. His long time girlfriend, Jan, is also disturbed. And his whole family are a bit on the edge of madness if you ask me.

He wasn't always like this. He had a very rough childhood, mostly having to do with his father I think. Things relating to my Grandfather Wright (who's actually buried on the street where I live...Wright Street) are & have always been a bit sketchy. I've gotten the impression that my grandfather was abusive, but I never knew him. He died when my own father was just a boy; my father found him dead in a chair somewhere. Creepy, huh?

Well, my father seemed normal enough to my mother's family. He & my mom (Myra) had premarital sex, which was way more shocking back in 1969 I imagine, and my mother gave birth to my older sister Janice on August 23, 1970. My father's birthday falls on the same exact day; he was born August 23, 1952 and turned 18 the day his daughter was born. My mother was born...I want to say November 7, 1950; it's the day that I have trouble remembering, not the month or year.

I'm sorry if this is all confusing, and not written very well, but it's all sort of off the cuff. But continuing on....

My parents were later married, inside my grandmother's house. That was in 71 or 72 I think. I didn't know Janice was born before the wedding until years later when I saw a picture of her, taken at the wedding. Being raised a strict Baptist, that came as quite a surprise to me, I remember. Funny how that seems so unimportant now. lol I, for the record was born in August of 1974. I was supposed to be born on August 23rd, the same as my dad & sister, but I was born early, on August 12. You can see that I was born early, as one of my ears wasn't fully formed and I have a hole that almost looks like a piercing. I've only known one other person that had that same mark on their ear for the same reason and he was gay too. Makes me wonder. ;-0)

My father had this kind of religious conundrum. A visiting pastor apparently (who was never asked back after his disasterous message), expressed that that the unforgivable sin is to take the lord's name in vain. My father obsessed about this...and my grandmother (my mom's mom) once told me that she believed this was the start of my father's mental troubles. The thought that he may have unknowingly damned himself tormented him, and nobody could get this out of his mind...and then he started losing his mind.

My fater became extremely abusive to my mother. He became more abusive with his children as well. He wanted to make sure that we'd get to heaven. If we suffered than we'd make it into heaven, he said. There were all sorts of odd rules that we had to follow. Strict rules. I'm not even sure that he told our mother about these rules, or if he did, she may have fortton all of this. She hates talking about him, and the thought of him seems to really upset her, so maybe she remembers but doesn't want to, which I can relate to I guess. My older sister remembers very little from those years.

She doesn't remember that I ate some steak at the dinner table without permission, and that our father raped her as punishment. But she remembers next to NOTHING about those years. It's really scary, actually. I stopped eating at the dinner table after that incident, and never ate with my family at the kitchen table ever again. I stopped eating all together actually. There were foods we were allowed to eat at any time, and I stuck to those. That includes potato chips, McDonald's french fries, and other random things like soup and toast. That's literally all I ate for years. YEARS. My father raped me as well. I don't remember everything from back then, so I don't know if that was for eating something or a separate offense. I remember him hitting me, and me flying across the room. I remember him hitting our mother and having me clean up the blood aftewords.

After my father raped me, I was broken. I had trouble walking. I bled. I was brusied and inside out; I was ashamed and scared. And I hid all this from anyone that I could. I think some people must have known, but they looked the other way. They probably saw the same symptoms in my mother and sister. Just as my mother probably saw a lot of this in her children, but felt trapped, and didn't know what to do. I don't blame these people really. It was a different time, and I think these people probably wanted to help, but couldn't. I've had hemorrhoids ever since, though they've gotten a lot better since then. I get them maybe twice a year now, when they used to be a lot more common.

Anyways, my mother eventually left my father, after he put her head through a wall. Seriously. My father had been diagnosed by that time I think. He had some pretty crazy incidents. He was hospitalized, and my mom tried to work things out with him; said they could work it all out if he'd just stay on his medication, but he didn't, and that was that. Every once in awhile he'd do something crazy and it was back to the hospital for him. Once he walked from his home in ypsi, to our house in Mooreville, at night, naked. Another time, years later on one of his monthly visits, he told Janice & I that he was going to have his testicles removed, that he was going to die and that he was going to come live with us, with my mom & my step-dad. I knew exactly what he was talking about, but pretended I didn't...I don't know why. I remember Janice crying, and telling our grandmother that dad had stopped taking his meds again, and when Grandma pushed Janice for details, she glossed over what he'd said, saying that he'd said that he was going to suffer so that he could come live with us.

Most of the time, after the divorce, he was mostly ok. When he takes his meds he's alright. He's still completely insane, but the meds allow him to be somewhat normal? He just goes off on tangents though, and it's probably really scary for people who haven't been around it their entire lives. I've met many 'crazy' people over the years who sound just like my dad, and I know it's an illness now, and people have often said that I've dealt with those kinds of people really well, but I had to deal with that all the time growing up.

When I came out of the closet, years later, quite a few people, Janice among them, seemed to think I was gay because of what my father had done. I find this horribly insulting. Like I'm gay because my dad turned me on to cock. My response to that was "Is that why Janice is striaght?". I just found all of that nonsense to be really wrong, and insulting. It actually made me hate a lot of trusted family members for a really long time.

When my hemorrhoids 'flare up' or whatever...I'm in constant pain, and it's like this horrific reminder of what I survived. It's like I'm still reliving it again and again. It's gotten less traumatic over the years. People know that I have them, and what happened to me. My boss knows, and my family, and Mark & Mollie, and even Corey knows. It really sucks though, because...I like anal sex. lol I really like to get fucked, and I can't do that when I'm this way. This whole topic is something I think people probably don't want to hear, but I want to talk about it, so I am.

And some people ask me why I allow myself to get fucked, because supposedly this can set them off, which is true to a point. If I get a lot of unlubricated action that can get them going...which I'm pretty good at avoding. But there's this part of me that feels like if I let what my father did to me kill my pleasure, then I didn't really survive it at all then. I mean, if I let this horrible thing ruin something that brings me joy, then why did I surive at all? It probably sounds all kinds of twisted, but that's how I feel.

So...I'm in pain right now. I'm pretty sure I know why. I... I just, I guess I feel, that at times like these I'm being haunted by my past, and I can't break free from it, and it depresses me a little. I swear, that mostly I'm over it. But there's this part of me that is just so angry about it that I find myself wanting to scream. And it's probably good that my dad isn't around at these times. My dad hasn't been violent in decades; he's kind of like a lost child himself. And it's like impossible to hate him, because the guy that did this to me pretty much died years ago, and now there's just this shell of man in his place. So I'm left with no one to vent on. And so I wrote it here. Hope this wasn't too vile.

Oh, and for the record, I really like to Top as well ;-0)

   posted by Bald Jason at 07:26 PM
   [Karma: 0 (+/-)] [Comments Welcome Here]