- Blogging from A to Z Challenge
- “A” is for Acousticophile
- “B” is for Bastinado
- “C” is for Cuckold
- “D” is for Dacryphilia
- “E” is for Edging and Orgasm Control
- “F” is for Frottage
- “G” is for Gang Bangs and Group Sex
- “H” is for Hotel
- “I” is for Inspiration and Influences
- “J” is for the Joy of Kink
- “K” is for Klismaphilia
- “L” is for Limits
- “M” is for Masochist
- “N” is for No Surprises
- “O” is for Outlaw No More
- “P” is for Public Apology
- “Q” is for Queer
- “R” is for Romance
- “S” is for Samadhi – Michael Samadhi
- “T” is for Trust
- “U” is for Unction
- “V” is for Victory
- “X” is for Xenophilia
- “Y” is for Yesterday
- “Z” is for Zelophilia
This post could be full of triggers for some people. I don’t want to jump ahead to the conclusion and give away what the discussion is about, just know that the writing is raw, the subject is difficult, and it could contain triggers.
If you haven’t heard it before, the phrase “V is for Victory” dates back to the Second World War.
The phrase, and the hand gesture associated with it, became a symbol of unity and of hope. “V is for Victory”, as both a slogan and gesture, symbolized the enduring belief that Nazi Germany and her Fascist allies would be defeated.
We defeated the Nazi’s. In theory we won. But really, there are never winners in war, only a side that loses less. I’m not sure we defeated Fascism either. I think we won the battle, but are still in danger of losing the war.
Everywhere I look I see fascism. The world that George Orwell warned us about, seems to be here. The NSA spies on our own citizens. The CIA spies on foreign governments and heads of state, even our allies.
Cameras looking at the average are ubiquitous here. In the United States there are cameras on most every stoplight, even here in the lightly populated Midwest. They were installed under the guise of providing security and protection, with the underlying assumption that they would protect us from evil.
It’s folly. Nothing but pure folly. Cameras invade our privacy, but only provide an illusion of safety. Cameras cannot protect us from the real evils in the world. Cameras cannot protect us from ourselves.
If you ask me, the real evils of the world aren’t really terrorists. Sure, radical fanatical terrorist types are evil enough, don’t get me wrong. But there are far worse evils sitting in the homes of some of our neighbors, and in some cases, even the homes of our family.
That evil is the sexual abuse of children. Streetlight cameras are of precious little help there.
I am a sexual abuse survivor. I’m not going to lie about my past, or try to hide the truth out of shame or embarrassment. I am one of the many child abuse and child sexual abuse victims in the world today.
I’m one of the lucky one’s really, as I know what I endured was far less traumatic than what most victims suffer. In some ways, I think that makes it easier to share my story.
The first thing I suffered was physical abuse at the hands of my parents. I can tell the classic stories of having yardsticks broken over me while being disciplined, and other similar corporal punishment tales, no big whoop, that stuff was happening in most every home in the 1970’s. But, as I neared my teen years, things seemed to escalate.
It started with getting a dog, believe it or not. It started with a dog that was supposed to be mine. Fat chance there when both parents undermine the dog’s training to try and win his favor for themselves. Yes, really! Hey, that’s not really abuse, but it’s where the story starts.
Max, the German Shepard, was being trained for “protection” by my Father, meaning the dog was trained to be aggressive and bite. My Dad wanted a guard dog. My Mom wanted a family dog, and she really wanted him for herself. So, from the beginning, the dog got mixed messages and screwed up training. Then one day, when Mom was disciplining me, Max decided to join in.
They are hard to discern now 40 years later, but there are small scars all over my hands from the dog bites I suffered until I learned not to even put my hands up to protect myself when I was being beat. Trying to ward off the blows with my hands only gave the dog something to grab onto and bite. Because of how he’d been trained, Max didn’t just bite, he bit and shook his head, ripping and tearing flesh.
I have a scar on my thigh where the dog bit through a pair of jeans and left a gash about three inches long and three-quarters of an inch deep. The scarring on my leg was worse than it should have been, butterfly sutures were used at home rather than going to the doctor. Seeking medical attention might have alerted the authorities to the dangerous pet, as I’d already been to the ER once and got stitches in my upper lip from being bit on the mouth.
That’s a big part of why I always wear a mustache and goatee today, to hide the scars.
There are other stories I could tell about dog bites. But that’s not really the point of this post.
Then one day, Christmas Day actually, my father flew into a rage. I ended up backed into a corner, kicking and punching like my life depended on it. That might have been closer to the truth than I’d like to admit, even to the day. The bruises on my neck, hand prints, from where my father had tried to strangle me, lasted for weeks. I was sent away to visit my aunt and uncle for part of that time, as no one wanted teachers at my school to discern the bruises and ask uncomfortable questions.
I turned to a trusted family friend for advice and comfort. I don’t think twelve year old boys can be very discerning, but for fuck’s sake, I couldn’t have picked a worse place to turn. All I ended up doing was adding another abuser to the mix.
It started with hugs. My piano teacher gave good hugs. Good hugs aren’t always easy to come by. He was a kindly seeming older guy, eccentric but brilliant. I think most everyone knows someone of that type.
I don’t think I need to go into the details of what I lived though with my abuser, I’ll spare you those stories. Like I have said before, what happened to me was mild compared to most. He convinced my family that, because he was getting older, he needed regular help with cleaning and maintenance around his house. So I was dropped off at his home, and left there for several hours every week.
He even paid me. I felt like a 12 year old whore, because my parents really liked not having to provide me with spending money or allowance now that I was “working” for my piano teacher. I only “escaped” when I turned sixteen, getting a driver’s license freed me from getting dropped off at his home. The thing is, you can escape the abuse, but the memory is a little harder to get to go away.
– – – – –
So, about now you may be wondering what this story has to do with victory, or perhaps why I’m choosing to share all of this today.
It’s complicated why I’m at this point, but a lot of it has to do with a trigger I ran across yesterday, and I wasn’t even aware at the time it was a trigger.
In playing a game similar to truth or dare (but without the dare part) with some friends, I asked a lady how old she was when she lost her virginity. It was an offhand question. I’m not sure why it popped into my head.
I’ll never forget, to my dying day the answer she gave.
Six fucking years old.
At first it made me sad to hear her answer. Then I got angry. I got very angry. I wasn’t quite myself the rest of the night. Those kind of stories, even if it’s just a number that I hear, make my blood boil.
I hate abusers, I hate them with a passion and depth that scares me. I remember saying last night, that if anyone ever assaulted my Serafina, that I would kill them with my bare hands and probably enjoy the act. I remember saying that I’d gladly pay the price of spending the rest of my life in prison, if it ended the ability of an abuser to continue hurting others.
I think I said something last night to the effect that if a certain person laid a hand on my Sinnja, I’d cut his dick off and feed it to him. That line’s a bit of a cliche. The truth is, in that circumstance, I’d rather use a cheese grater . . . .
Yeah, big talk. Emotional topic. Personal crusade. I do get carried away at times. But, in my defense, I get upset because it’s a very personal issue for me.
When the letter “V” came up in turn for today’s post, I knew “V” wouldn’t be for vajazzling after all. No “V” has to stand for victory, victory over abuse in all it’s forms.
Victory over the man who pretends to be a dominant, but is instead an abuser and predator. Victory over the man who won’t let his partner speak her mind or leave their home. Victory over spousal abuse and child abuse, emotional abuse and physical abuse. And most of all, victory over the vile individuals who prey on children.
May you all rot in hell . . . I’ll see you there!