Holes in my socks - 100% Triggers on kid abuse

Troy, I just read through this thread (your comments only), I am so sorry that this happened to you. I can just imagine how you felt everyday. No child should have to suffer like that. How could all of these people have their hands in this. Was there no love anywhere with these people?

10 years old.

Before school, at recesses, and after school the bullies beat me severely and took off my clothes on the playground so they could spit all over me. Cuts, bruises, and black eyes were my normal look. Everyone knew it. The teachers sometimes watched from the windows.

After being in trouble in class one day I found out that acting up in class got detention for recess and lunch period, so I latched onto that as a way to save my life. Every day, the teacher kept me in detention, but she had to stay with me and occasionally would not keep me in. I could arrive late to avoid too much hassle before school, and I could run from the school at the end of the day. But it was important to get detention during the day.

Teacher became more and more frustrated. One day she took me to her office and locked the door and paddled me with a huge two handed paddle - holes in it the size of quarters. She was furious that I would not cry.

For a few days I wore cardboard in my jeans to protect myself, but when she discovered it she went berserk. Unbuckle your belt, she yelled, and she jerked the cardboard out. Whack. I still would not cry. Drop your jeans. Whack. No crying. Step out of your jeans and drop your underwear. Whack. No tears. I was bent over. I had my hands on my private parts for protection. Whack. Bleeding knuckles. Mover your hands, you little bas****.

An electric shock went through my whole body when she hit my testicles and I fell against her desk, but no tears. I was not going to let her win this fight.

As I fell against the desk I looked down. I saw the blood on the floor from my bleeding knuckles and then I saw the holes in my socks.

The holes were so embarrassing I did start to cry. Uncontrollably. I sat on the floor sobbing and covering my feet. Of course there were holes in my socks. The soles of my shoes were worn through. One sole was taped to the top so I wouldn't fall on the flapping leather sole. The only shoes I had and she made me take them off.

She sat in her chair and made me stand in front of her while she tried to get me to promise to be good in class. I would not talk. Then she tried to get me to say I would not tell anyone because I would get a belt whipping from my dad if he found out that I was bad in school (and she was right, it happened everyday my parents found out). I would not talk.

Then she said, it was all your fault, you know. And besides that you really liked it didn't you. I would not talk. She said, you know how I know you really liked it? I would not talk. She said, I can tell you really liked it because you have a hard on. Can you imagine. A little boy 10 years old. And she laughed. And put her arm around me and tried to hug me. I couldn't get away from her.

Someone was at the door so she made me get dressed quick. And remember your promise not to tell, or it will be worse next time.

We went back in the classroom with me wiping tears from my face. She started to teach and write on the board. All the kids were watching me. I made a huge spit ball, and when she turned I threw it at her face. All he kids laughed. They howled. And I laughed with them through the tears.

She wiped her face and said something like. Remember your promise.

The next day was almost the same, but when we returned to the classroom, I did not throw the last spitball. When we went to her office the third day, she locked the door and just looked at my belt buckle. I knew what she wanted and took off the jeans. And she only gave me one whack with that paddle with the holes in it. And then she sat in her chair with me half naked in front of her and she hugged me and told me all would be ok if I would behave in class. And she always looked at my little 10 year old penis and laughed. You really like this don't you.

I thought I had won the battle by not crying. But she won the war. She won the war. The tears and panic are uncontrollable as I remember this. Like that first day as I sat on her floor trying to hide the holes in my socks. Only now, the terror is accompanied by guilt and knowing that I could have avoided all of this, that it was my fault, and that I should have told someone.

When I read what others have been through, I feel like such a wimp. I feel stupid for letting this affect me all these years later. I feel that this teacher is somehow connected to the horrors of combat. And the guilt multiplies.

You can imagine that triggers for me today include socks with holes, paddles with holes drilled in them, the number 10, and the words she made me write over and over and over thousands of times, "I am sorry ..."

From this teacher I learned one thing. When you go into battle, make sure your socks have no holes. They can cover your body with whelts or shoot you full of holes, but you won't break down embarrassed about your poverty. She won the war. *tears

And there are plenty of tears for each of you who read this ... tears and anger against those who hurt you. I apologize for being such a wimp. Thank you to the couple people who have listened to me try to tell this in chats. I am so afraid of posting it in this public place. I'm no longer in control of this secret.

I will try to leave this post up if I can hit the submit button.

Ocasionally, I feel that desperation today, find myself illogically crying about things from the past,