.. one of the most-wicked forms of violence that exist - that still exist today, in our so-called civilized world.
These are but the rotten fruits of that huge absurdity known as sexual repression: "the more you compress, the bigger explosion you're gonna get" - it's an elementary phisical (and meta-phisical) law..
It's easy to label'em "monsters", and chase them, but that won't terminate the problem: as long as the "monsters inside" are still alive and well-bread by a sick bigot "moral", it's gonna be a Don Quixote chase to windmills and nothing more.
As long as violence is the only way to express your fancy, as long as only madmen are allowed to express themselves fully, what else do you expect? Violence and madness are gonna be the only things you'll get.
It makes no sense to fight the effects (the rapists) without putting an end to the cause (sexual repression). Sure, it's easier to kill the monster outside, than facing the "monster" inside. But our libido only becomes a monster when it's constantly frustrated by sexual repression.
I take it for granted that it's needless to say that I'm not at all trying to justify the rapists. I'm only inviting you to read between the lines. To hate the rapists won't eliminate the problem: but to understand what turns a man into a rapist, will.
I'm not asking you to be cynical. Read Stephen's sad story with the just Compassion it demands, cry if you must, but keep your eyes open! DO hate the "bad guy", but always ask yourself WHY does he behave so?
REALIZE the absurdities. Don't simply fight their effects.
Realize that, if everybody was free to live his sexuality as he preferred, this whole terrible story would never have happened:
Stephen is a survivor. I don't believe in heroes, but Stephen most certainly goes the closest to my personal idea of a hero.
Not because he survived. But because he found the courage to speak about it. If he had died in silence (as most of the victims of rape do), Stephen would only be counted as "one more casualty in the war against dangerous monsters" - but the counting would go on forever.
Stephen did the only thing in the world that may eventually stop this spiral of absurd violence: he dared to make us all face the bloody truth.
Let's not waste his precious lesson.
Son of the Apostle
by Stephen, from his homepage
Hello, thank you for stopping by. [This] is a place I can openly talk about me and how I feel. It has been good therapy for me, confronting my past is not something I wanted to do. I have found though, that until I can come to terms with what happened, and what was lost, that I can never go on with my life. .. I am talking about this stuff simply because I hope that maybe someone will read it and it can help them. Also the scars of my past have shaped me into what I am today, for good or for bad. I have had to come to terms with the fact that I can never change what happened to me. I can only attempt to change what I am and will become.
.. I was born the son of a third generation Southern Baptist preacher. My great-grandfather, my grandfather, my father, and both of his brothers are preachers. .. For all of my grandfather's words of righteousness, his actions fell far short. At the age of 3 he began touching and rubbing me. By the time my aunt's boyfriend joined in, it had become more. They never sodomized me; they did everything but. At the age of three, I now had a lot to hide and to feel ashamed of. I cannot remember a lot of details about things, mostly gut feelings and flashes that come in the night. But for me the worst still lay ahead.
At age five .. I spent a lot of time playing in the woods behind my house. [One] summer day .. Doug found me alone inside its shadows. I should have known something was up when he was being nice to me, Doug was never nice to anyone. By lunch his fun was over; my life began its first real descent into the shadows of fear and pain. Doug must have been 14 or 15, I can't really be for sure, all I knew was he was bigger and stronger. There is no nice way to say it, so I will just come right out with it. Doug raped me, first with his fingers, then with himself. It hurt like hell and I wasn't sure what to do. I remember just sitting out there for what seems like hours crying and too scared to go home. I wanted to tell my mom what happened, I wanted her to hold me and tell me that it was going to be ok. I think I had made up my mind to do it. But when I got home I lost all my courage, and any thought of confiding in my mom ended when she saw how dirty I was and started yelling.
This was not a one-time event unfortunately, over the next 6 summers I was raped by him repeatedly. The actual sex part began to stop hurting so much, but the events were violent in nature and I always came away with bruises. My mom did ask me about the bruises. I can remember times when she wanted to know how I had gotten them. I lied and told her stuff like falling out of a tree or falling off the bike. I know I should have told her, but I honestly didn't think she would believe me. I was known as a bit of a storyteller, not a liar really, I just embellished like any kid does. Mine were just a bit over the top because I had very good Imagination. My imagination became my escape route. When things got too much to take, I would move into this world of my own making. My sister used to call it "zoning out". All I knew was it just didn't hurt so much there.
.. When I was 9 my parents decided to send me to boarding school so they could go have more freedom to travel the country speaking at conferences and such. So off to Texas I went.
.. I was the smallest; I had always been small. I was also quiet, and very introverted. These were very bad characteristics to have in this school. My first weekend there I was gang raped by 3 boys. I didn't fight back and little did I know that was like asking everyone to do it. Over the next two years almost every kid on that floor and some from other floors raped me. I also racked up a long list of trips to the infirmary and ER.
I did fight back once; it earned me my first broken arm and a concussion. I decided it was safer to just "take it like a man".
.. Where were the adults you ask? .. They knew; some saw it. One teacher walked into the bathroom when I was being raped, when I saw him I really thought it was finally over, but he turned around and walked back out. I knew then I was on my own, nobody cared what happened to me. Others had to know by the injuries I kept suffering. I do know that one doctor who treated me at the ER submitted a "suspicion of abuse" report with the police (I know this now because of an investigation what was done on the school), but nothing ever came of it.
My second year there was no better then the first. It actually got worse. I was thrown through a second story glass window. The only thing that saved my life was that I landed in a tree and not the concrete. I spent the next 10 days at the hospital recovering from 3 broken ribs, a concussion, and broken arm. I had no memory, and still don't, of what happened with the window. The only reason I know is because of what other students told me of what they did. Even after I went through the window the kid who started it just laughed and walked away. When I woke up in the hospital I called my mom, I asked... no, begged her to come down because I was scared and I hurt. My mothers response was to give the phone to my dad and have my dad tell me that they were to busy to come down at that time but would see me on Thanksgiving holiday. I was fucking 10 years old! They also forgot my birthday that year. My only visitors over the next 9 days were my sister, and a police detective who seemed angry because I couldn't remember how it happened.
I was scared to death to go back to that school for a third year of hell. In two years I had racked up 3 ER visits, multiple trips to the infirmary. I had had 3 broken ribs, a long list of cuts, burns, concussions, and was having problems hearing out of my right ear. I had convinced myself I would not survive the year; and I felt that was a good thing. At age 11 I was ready to die, I even welcomed it. Little did I know my life was about to take another major turn.
.. On the 3rd day of school I got trapped in the bathrooms with Jeremy (brother of my roommate that year) and Willis. Before I knew it my head was smashed up against that wall and I was being punched. I felt my uniform pants drop and I knew what was going to happen. When my face hit the floor I went to that imaginary place I seem to always go to when it happens. I prepared for the worst and hoped it would be over soon.
.. I never heard the door open. The first sign I had that something was going on was when Willis hit the floor next to me holding his face. (Please excuse me if I get graphic here but this is a good memory for me) I looked over and saw the blood gushing out between his fingers. I had had my nose broken enough to know what he felt. Jeremy joined me on the floor with a blow to his crotch. I watched out of the corner of my eye as both of them took several painful kicks to various parts of their body. I was to damn scared to look up to see what exactly was going on, but it was cool seeing someone else get the shit knocked out them for once. As their beating slowed and stopped I began to prepare for my turn. I guess it was habit, I just expected to get the shit beat out of me too.
.. Instead of a blow to my ribs or back I felt a soft touch. I heard a voice ask me if I was ok, followed by a "can you get up?" I turned over still half expecting to get hit. I didn't look at his face, I just remember .. realizing it was another kid, I really expected it to be an adult. My first words to him were "Are you going to hit me?" .. He told me he was not going to hit me, and seemed a bit annoyed that I asked that. He told me my nose was bleeding, and helped me wipe some blood off my face and get my pants on somewhat.
.. I still hadn't looked at him in the face, I used to never look people in the face. I was setting on his bed with a tissue shoved up my nose when he told me his name was Mike. I looked at him for the first time. To this day I have never seen anyone so beautiful in my life, he even smiled at me.
.. We talked for along time, he wanted to know why the boys were doing that. When I explained that they always did it, he wanted to know why I let them. That pissed me off, we had our first fight. When I explained the way things were he informed me that no one was going to touch me again, if they did he would personally beat the shit out of them. Then he did something I was not ready for. I had not cried through this whole episode. Well when they bloodied my nose my eyes got watery, but I didn't cry. Mike reached up and cradled my head and brought it to his chest. I broke, I couldn't stop the tears, I resisted the move at first as well as the emotion, but I gave in and just cried. For a person who trusted no one, I was now putting my life in the hands of a 15 year-old that I didn't even know his last name. Because my roommate was also one of my rapists, Mike decided I would be sleeping in his room from now on. .. I would never sleep in my own bed again there. Over the next 4 years we became more then just friends. Mike spent them beating the shit out people who made comments to me or about me.
.. When Mike found out that some of the adults knew what was going on and didn't stop it, he went nuts. He wanted me to go to the police and tell them what was going on, but I just couldn't do it. They never said anything about me not sleeping in my own room or in Mike's bed, and the next year we were put in the same room. I don't know for sure, but I am guessing Mike threatened a call to the cops or to a lawyer.
I can honestly say those 4 years where the happiest of my life. Mike was my first boyfriend, and the first consensual sexual relationship I had had. He helped me get over my fear of water, he didn't mind my bedwetting, and held me through my night terrors.
.. July 29th 1993, I can never forget that day as long as I live. On his way home from my house a drunk took Mike away from me. I lost everything I lived for.
A month later I started back to school, I lasted 4 days. I decided I couldn't live with out him and took a knife to my arms. I was lost, hurting, scared. I had to come to depend on Mike for so much in my life, I couldn't see going on with out him. The school released me and sent me back to my parents who decided to home school me the rest of the way. I became a prisoner of my own pain and sorrow. My parents could not figure out why I had become so depressed. I was trapped. I began to reconstruct the stone wall around my life that I had destroyed with the help of Mike.
I cannot really describe how I felt back then, it really defies words or explanation. Only someone who has felt such grief and pain could ever understand what that feels like. My emotional problems worsened. My bedwetting increased and I avoided people more and more. I was slowly killing myself emotionally. I needed to open up to someone, to tell someone how much it really did hurt. Looking back with the power of 20/20 hindsight, I was giving off all of the major signs of an abused traumatized child. The problem was that no one thought to look inside of the home of such a well-respected minister for a dying child.
A few years after Mike's death, the school was investigated, and my name came up, Out of nowhere the FBI showed up at my door and wanted to talk to my parents. They not only informed my parents of the abuse at the school while I was there, but also about my relationship with Mike. My mom just cried while my dad screamed. I was so scared, mom and dad on one side of the table and the FBI on the other, I pissed all over myself. I ended up having to testify in court about it all. I guess I should be happy that someone got in trouble for all of the stuff that happened, but I just don't think the right people where on trial, only the school staff was charged with anything, the kids who did the actual raping and beating were not charged, infact there names were never brought up. I think that was wrong.
.. My parents convinced me that I was possessed by demons that made me gay. I went through deliverance and spent the next few years trying my hardest to act like a man. I struggled through the next few years, until the depression grew too much.
To this point my parents only knew of the sexual activity at the school, they had no clue of the things that went the summers I stayed in Louisiana. One night I wrote my parents a letter, and left it in the kitchen for them to read. It told everything, and explained how I felt. My honest intention was not to be around when they read it, but they got it before I did any harm to myself. My dad burst into my room as I was loading the gun, all he could say was that I was a liar and a faggot and to get out of his house and never return.
They were leaving on a trip. .. He informed me that I was to be out of the house when they returned in three days. I thought about just going ahead and killing myself, but decided to just leave, I found an apartment and moved. I took all I could with me, but had to leave my dog Chica, My sister was going to pick her up the morning of the third day and keep her at her house for me. When she arrived, the locks were changed, what was left of my stuff was in a fire in the back yard, including my dog.
That was almost a year ago, a lot has changed in my life. I have established myself on my own, and I feel comfortable with who I am again. Even my relationship with my family is improving. They still cant accept me as gay, but we have reached a point where we no longer discuss it. I never bring up the subject and neither do they.
I won't say that I am over the pain of the past, but I do believe I am on a path to conquer it. I have faced death many times, by the hand of others, and my own, and still I am here. God must be keeping me here for some reason. I know the future will not be easy, but I am willing to face it now, for the things that have not killed me, have made me stronger..
See also: the homosexuality factor in the youth suicide problem