Advice needed for abusive childhood

Please can you read this and offer advice. This is a story about my child and adult life. It is very negative. Not everything in my life has been negative. There have been some good times, but unfortunately it's human nature to dwell more on the bad times and therefore they tend to shape us more.

Trigger warnings for: Child Sexual Abuse. Adult Sexual Abuse. Animal Sexual Abuse. Physical Violence. Bullying. Homophobic Bullying. Suicidal Planning.

Little is known about my father's early life, but his sister once described him as a “throwback”. Both my parent's families were extremely poor. My mother has a chaotic, noisy and overbearing family background, but she was initially drawn to my father's quiet, calm demeanour. This quickly turned to deep regret, as his cold, callous, deceitful, selfish nature was revealed in a series of extra-marital affairs. He came home one lunchtime, to find my mother having a miscarriage, only to eat at the kitchen table and leave her to abort over the bathroom floor, as my (older) brother played in the living room. He savagely beat my brother with a leather belt; my brother reportedly believed my father obtained sexual pleasure from the beating. When my brother was about 10, he came to my mother, white as a sheet and shaking. My father had apparently got into bed with him, but my terrified brother escaped before it went any further. The family, expecting another baby, took a holiday to Devon in summer 1979. One morning, without any notice, my father took the car keys and drove off alone, leaving a pregnant woman and young boy without food, money or transport in the middle of nowhere. He returned long after bedtime and offered no explanation for where he'd been or why. My parents returned home one afternoon, having bought me clothing and toys from Mothercare in anticipation of my birth. My father said, “Make sure you keep the receipt, so we can get a refund, if the baby dies”.

I knew everything about my mother's early life and indeed everything since. She witnessed the death of her father at age 3. Her mother was cold, neglectful and abusive – physically and emotionally. She decided one time, it would be funny to play dead. She waited until my mother was beside herself, begging for her to wake up, before “coming back to life” and laughing her head off at her little child sobbing on the floor. My mother has memories of being drugged and experiencing terrifying hallucinations after being given concoctions for the flu. I realise now, that, as a child, my mother used me as an emotional dustbin for the abuse she suffered herself as a child and young adult. A paedophile sexually touched her little body in a woodland, where girls had been raped and murdered. A teacher sexually abused her and other girls; he would also go into uncontrollable rages and belt the entire class. One of her older brothers “experimented” on her. As a young adult, men abused their seniority to sexually touch my mother at work. The entire message about male sexuality was clear and unequivocal: all men are paedophiles and rapists. When men have sex with women, they are secretly fantasising about having sex with little girls. I believed her. After all, my father had implied, through his actions, that this is what fathers and sons do together. It was normal for a father to rub his stubbly chin on my face, while his hands wandered down to unfasten my trousers and touch my bare bottom and groin. It was normal for a father to sit on a chair, watching his son use the toilet. It was normal to substitute love with presents. It was normal to be dropped like a hot potato without explanation.

I loved my father, but he also made me angry. I was the one having to do all the work, but I would have done anything to have his love. He would suddenly erupt into rages and lash out, before swiftly reverting to the usual detached stone-cold calm as before. Sometimes it was a punch into mouth. There was never an explanation. When other people lost their temper, their faces would turn deep red, but my father never went red. We were a middle class family with no money and a fridge empty by Wednesday. The thermostat and timer had been doctored. My father had generous leave and travelled the world, but we never visited places on the map like Hong Kong, Indonesia, the Canaries or Mauritius. My parents had a joint account, but my father kept possession of the only card. When my mother learned to drive, he stopped maintaining the car. I was the laughing stock of Year 11, when everyone noticed how badly dressed I was during the Record of Achievement presentation. Kids teased me for not being into music, but we were not allowed to enjoy music. He would place hairs across the hi-fi, to check if it had been used. We were in the car on holiday, when I warned him to avoid a flock of starlings on the road. He carried straight on; I saw them dead or injured through the rear window and felt sick at my father's smirking face as he silently kept on going. My father would disappear at bedtime and return at 4am, unencumbered by any concern for me, even when I said “I thought you'd left for good”. He bought a PC for himself, but the windows had to be kept screwed shut to “control humidity”. In the summer heatwave of 1995, I decided to reduce the screw thread lengths, before returning the now dummy heads to the frames, just so we could get some air. He returned at midnight after seeing his mistress and went, as you do, to inspect the screws. I barricaded my bedroom door, as he spent the next hour inserting new screws into the windows and sawing the heads off.

My choice of school friends was never wise. Living in an abnormal environment was normal. My brother acted strangely, repeating stock phrases over and over. He was aggressive and intimidating. I don't recall us ever having a conversation or his having a good word to say about me. One school friend had learning difficulties, while another displayed what we now call callous-unemotional traits. The boy would remove the phone from its socket, take it into the kitchen and lock the door, while I waited outside for a couple of hours, as he terrorised his mother at knifepoint. His aggression didn't seem normal to me. Normal boys faces went red, they cried, but they often denied feeling upset out of embarrassment. Not my friend. He turned anger on and off like a tap. When the terror sessions ended, my friend calmly unlocked the door and started cracking jokes, and I half-expected them to start showing me the cookies they'd been baking all that time. He would sometimes tell me I was very good-looking (I was), but later said I was ugly. That crushed me. I began to associate the way I looked with how people treated me. My friend digitally stimulated the genitals of his pet gerbils until they became erect. This wasn't for his own pleasure. He did it because he could, just as he would touch me in order to get a reaction, before telling people in the area that I was gay. The family opposite spoke about my friend sexually touching their young daughter. Another family banned him, for kicking their cat. My friend attended Year 7 at school, but refused to go back. He wasted little time in Year 7, telling a gullible head of year that I'd been bullying him. The head made me report to her office before and after school and banned me from playing at lunchtime. I wouldn't have said I had any sexual interest in boys or girls, but from Year 8 to Year 9, another boy subjected me to daily homophobic bullying. He forced the boy with learning difficulties to perform various sex acts on me, as others held me down in full view of students. My parents banned me from seeing my friend, but for about a year, unwanted taxis were called to my house, along with pizzas. We had silent phone calls. Envelopes with nothing inside would arrive in the post. My mother received phone calls from the mother of the boy with learning difficulties, accusing me of stealing. I discovered from a reliable source that his violent behaviour towards his mother continued into at least early adulthood.

My body image issues began after a mosquito bite on a day out. I must have been aged 5 and was wearing shorts. I had been an exhibitionist, but the shorts made me feel vulnerable for the first time. Boys at primary school called me pipe-cleaner for having thin legs. One boy set me up for a series of incidents that would lead me being referred to a child psychologist by the naïve headmaster. He repeatedly took property from a boy's desk and placed the items into mine. When the boy started crying, the gullible teacher would search our desks and the missing stuff would be “found” in my desk. I forgot my jumper one afternoon, but regretted not lying about it – my mother and I walked into the classroom and my secret shame was revealed. My desk had been relocated to an isolated corner, where I suffered the daily humiliation of standing out in plain sight. This was the first time I realised I wasn't safe at home or at school. My mother chastised me for “being a victim” and for “ruining” my school career. How come she was “never a victim” at school? There was nothing I could do. Nothing made sense. I felt like a bad person.

At puberty, I found my lack of sexual interest in boys or girls disturbing. Other boys started talking about masturbation and having orgasms, but I could never get an erection. The beginnings of sexual urges made me panic, but I felt a strange sense of relief when the anxiety extinguished any brief feelings that slipped through. I didn't want to become the type of person my mother spoke about. The lack of interest in girls made me worry that I might be gay. I even told school friends in Year 10 that I was gay. I stopped washing and hoped that my lack of hygiene would deter anyone from taking an interest in me. I felt uncomfortable when girls flirted with me. Sometimes boys flirted too, but I felt less uncomfortable about that. I had had a fear of being found out by my mother. From puberty until age 33, I never achieved an erection or had an orgasm. Again, there were signs. A colleague was leaving and had invited everyone out for drinks. She caught me off-guard when I got into her car. I had only seen her in unflattering work clothing, but I felt instantly attracted to see her in a pencil skirt, make-up and beautifully conditioned hair. The attraction instantly turned to panic and crippling embarrassment. I had been found out. It's almost as if I have to be nearly unconscious or completely off-guard to have feelings for women. A photography student and I got on like a house on fire, after we'd agreed to meet up for her work experience. That night, I woke up trembling with excitement, after having a sexual dream about her. But at age 31, I hadn't learned how to masturbate, so there was no way of calming myself down.

My current social isolation has its roots in childhood. I have good social skills and plenty of fulfilling interests, but no friends. Life can be very flat, when observing the friendship groups of strangers from afar. I'm a stranger in my own city; every street corner is as familiar as my own reflection, but I never see the faces of friends. I am very calm and self-controlled, which means I don't get too upset at situations, in which other people break down. I work in adult social care. When a service user died in-front of me, everyone else was in tears, but I felt nothing. I found a man dead last year, but calmly called for an ambulance and started CPR. I've learned to deal with anxiety by eliminating most of my feelings – when I cried as a child, no-one came to reassure me, so what's the point in crying now? I had severe depression and planned my suicide at age 25, but recovered independently. What's the point in making friends, if I keep selecting people who can't meet my needs? This is how my childhood has left me – with a faulty world-view and self-concept. I've met some of the most likeable, interesting people ever in my job, but professional boundaries forbid me from being friends with them. It's a very people oriented job, but I go home every afternoon to an empty flat. Modern life is socially isolating, but I have to deal with it on several fronts.

My father was incapable of forming social bonds with anyone. My mother appeared to be capable of love, but withdrew it when I came too close. She would go limp when I tried to cuddle her and even asked why I was doing it. We have a great relationship now and I've forgiven her, but the damage has already been done. By the time my form tutor described me as a “loner” in Year 7, it was already clear that I was starting to give up on attempting to form social bonds with anyone. By Year 10, I had already realised that I'd never felt close to anyone, despite wanting to. I've consistently selected friends who were incapable of providing for my emotional needs. In part, it's connected to toxic masculinity, but I still chose friends who tried to manipulate me. The issue of my “homosexuality” seemed to arise with these friends. It even lead to them “disclosing” it to others. Masculinity has never appealed to me sexually. There's too much physical bulk, too much hardness and men's bodies are a funny shape. It has no appeal. I had also unwisely discussed the possibility that I might have Asperger syndrome (which I no longer believe to be true), which led to my friends invalidating my opinions and assessments of everyday life. Two adult friends used to call me ugly on a regular basis. I can still picture the hate on their faces. I felt deep shame about that. I've actually never been short of interest from both sexes, but their comments made me discount my judgement. On one night out, someone joked about not getting raped on my way home and a friend said, “You're too ugly to be raped”, in a matter of fact way, that would have been appropriate if he'd been describing putting food in the fridge. I've ghosted a lot of “friends” and for good reason, but I ultimately recognise that avoiding social contact is a poor way of coping. I feel I have something to be ashamed about, but it's not what people think.

Hi David,

Wow, you've had a really tough life. I read your whole post, but I am not sure what to say. Sounds like you have been conditioned not to have emotions.

Have you ever tried therapy? Also, I really like support groups where I can meet people with similar problems. Maybe there's one for survivors of child abuse that you can try.

Sorry, I feel like these suggestions are pretty lame, but I'm not sure what else to say.

Wow! Thank you for sharing, David. I think you are correct in saying that dwelling on the bad may have a negative impact on how we shape ourselves and also how we recall our experiences. So why not focus on the good?? There is so much here< I am not sure what kind of feedback that you're looking for. I can relate to some of what you've been through, some- not so much and found other parts of your story interesting and good to read. I think a writing class would do you good, so that you might use your experience to express life lessons or as fuel to write a great novel. I'd recommend a paid class, so that you may get personalized attention. The Reason You're Alive is good book that I think you'd like. The book is about a veteran who lost his wife and finds that the actions of his (deceased) loved one has saved his life, and he went his life without knowing this. I wish you the best with your relationships. There is much support here. Keep posting

Thank you for your replies. I think you found the unusual aspects of my story entertaining. I can just imagine how you may have reacted, for example, to my father's remark about keeping the receipts for a refund, in case the baby died. I once mentioned this to a room full of people and they burst out laughing, but immediately gasped, in stunned silence. It's not the kind of thing people expect to hear from a parent. If I'd died, all my father would have been concerned about was getting his money back. I had a discussion with my mother about telling our family story to a wider audience and we both agreed that people would have trouble believing it.

That you find yourselves unable to think of anything to say was not something I'd hoped for, but nonetheless was expected.

At least with my father, it was easier to know where I stood. All the red flags were at full mast and it became easier to stay away from him as I got older. However, my mother was far more ambivalent during my upbringing. She thinks her attachment to me was secure, but it was more like, "I love you, stay away from me". I still get angry that she failed to spot that my father was a paedophile or make a link between his getting into bed with my brother and the possibility that he tried to do the same with me. She has always had serious flaws in her thinking style. Oblivious and inattentive. Quick to judge. Naive, as well. She never allowed me to feel happy, cry or get angry; any feeling I expressed was countered with a response about how I should be feeling or what she would have done if it was down to her.

I have been unhappy about my childhood for a very long time. Equally, I've found most of my adult friendships to be completely unsatisfying and frankly a waste of space. One of you mentioned that I may have been conditioned not to have feelings and yes, a lot of people in the real world have treated me like I don't have any feelings. If you wonder why I don't appear to have any feelings, it's because my feelings didn't appear to matter in childhood.

David you tell a dark story that needs to be heard. I'm wishing i could write my story. Once you become aware of incest in your family and the lack of protection from it, it tends to shape the world we grow into and the personalities we become. It never really leaves us because no one acknowledged the harm in it. I cam somewhat relate to your position on sexuality. The last man i was with was the first where i had ever felt raped. I even went back to him a couple times after. Its been over a year and i have no desire to find a partner under any conditions. I have wondered if this is what it feels to be a nun. 🤣 im here to remind you that there is a social group out there waiting for you to discover. Whether it be a writing group or perhaps a different artistic endeavor. I can see you are very intelligent, and even likeable. Whether it be a group of gamers, the local theatre group you have something to give the world. Thanks for your share!

Thank you, Nilu, for your kind and thoughtful reply. It made my day to read it. Sometimes it's reassuring to be acknowledged. I've felt very alone at times in my life. The worst thing about the world is the indifference of people. I grew up in a very male oriented family, where expressing one's feelings was deemed weak, destructive and dangerous. Expressions of happiness were countered by the argument that I was being overconfident or simply jumping ahead of myself. I was told never to get angry or to shout. If I cried, no-one came and gave me the hugs and kisses I craved. Being intellectual was the only thing my parents approved of, hence I live in my head and therefore kept alienated from the world of emotions. I sometimes find it hard to understand the body language of others or recognise their intentions, because I never grew up with an emotional vocabulary. I feel very much engaged with my feelings tonight, because your post acknowledged and validated my personal account. If someone hadn't validated me, I would have just switched off.

I can't really say that any single incident of abuse was catastrophic; I was never raped or knocked unconscious. The entirety of emotional, sexual and physical abuse, including bullying by peers, has had a cumulative effect on me. As an adult, it's very hard to shake off the belief that my feelings are unimportant. Maybe when so-called friends verbally abused me, they assumed I could take it, because I didn't outwardly crumple or retaliate? I often find it hard to recognise my own feelings or relax sufficiently to allow them to surface. No wonder it took me 33 years to discover my sexuality and learn how to enjoy my own bodily sensations. I went on a night out with colleagues a few years ago and the alcohol made me relaxed enough to feel attracted to one of the females in the group. I enjoyed the closeness of her body when she sided up to me for a double selfie. Some women do have sensational bodies. Most people take these kind of feelings for granted. They certainly wouldn't write about them, but this was perhaps the first time I ever felt 100% relaxed about finding someone attractive. Positive sexuality is very new to me and I greatly appreciate even the simplest and fleeting of sexual experiences. Survivors of abuse often say that they are stuck at the age in which the abuse happened and I certainly wouldn't counter the idea that I often feel like I'm still at the very beginning of adolescence.

The blame and shame belong to the abusers....never on you.Iknow that is difficult, because as a child we take on the responsibility of what is going on in the family dynamics. Once we become adults we have to fight those old lies/tapes. I wrote my life story, and won a scholarship at age 60......proof that we can and should overcome the traumatic past. Did you ever see or consider seeing a therapist? That could help. The Verbally Abusive Relationship by Patricia Evans saved my life.

I have considered seeing a therapist, but the NHS in the UK has long waiting lists and the quality of psychiatric care is inconsistent. Private therapy is very expensive.

I recently had a discussion with my mother about the unwanted sexual touching by a male childhood friend, but unfortunately her responses were marred by sexual assault myths. She asked, "why didn't you fight back?" and "why did you not hit him? I would have hit him". I said that I'd been conditioned by our family environment to expect and accept anti-social behaviour. My mother responded that, "your father didn't touch you. He wasn't homosexual".

As we know, survivors often report not "fighting back" or saying "no" out of fear. I had witnessed my friend terrorise his mother at knifepoint. It was not for me to "fight back", it was his responsibility to refrain from sexually touching me. No wonder people don't report sexual abuse, given such ignorance. My father was not homosexual. Young boys can be very pretty and lack the masculine features preferred by gay men. Men who abuse young boys, if they have an adult sexual orientation, are usually heterosexual. Adult sexual orientation has no connection to the gender of prepubescent victims. I have met an adult gay male, who sexually abused a prepubescent girl and enjoyed it, but was still a gay man. It's only relevant with adults who abuse underage teens. In these cases, for example, adult men who abuse pubescent boys, who also have an adult sexual orientation, are more likely to be gay. Men who abuse teen girls are usually heterosexual.

I am so sorry for those ignorant comments. I was molested as a child, and my mother didn't say anything (or call the police) about it. She said, "I thought you would forget about it."