Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder Support Group

I have found, and been seeing, a very good psychologist. She insisted on working with me even though the funding from my insurance has stopped.

Many of the issues I'm dealing with are both difficult and complex. I find it almost impossible to talk about them with anyone, including my psychologist. I feel they are very sensitive, and I am all but repulsed by some of them.

I have to force myself to write about what has happened to me. It is not easy, but few things truly worthwhile in life come easily.

Many thanks to those of you who have taken the time to comment on my journals and give me your positive support and encouragement.

I have always heard that there were two sides to every story. With that in mind, I sometimes wonder what my abusers would say if they could read what I have been writing. I have no doubt that they would try to justify what they had done to me.

Looking back at that time in my life is not always easy for me. Reliving bad times are seldom easy, nor desirable. One often has to go through the bad times in order to get to the good.

After spending a week of abuse with all those men, I tried staying home as much as possible. Whenever the phone rang, I shook with fright dreading, who might be at the other end of the line. I was afraid one of my abusers would want me to see him again.

My gut feeling said that I would not be let off that easily. I did not have many friends at that time, therefore I often had to make up excuses to tell my mother whenever I went somewhere on my own. In some ways, the older she got, the easier this became. On another level, there were times when she wanted me to stay with her all the time. To try and do otherwise would be to raise her suspicions about where I was going and whom I was seeing. I was walking a very fine line.

One day, the phone rang and I answered it. A voice at the other end identified him by saying that he had met me on that "fishing trip." He said he wanted to see me that very day, and gave me a location and time. I tried telling him that I could not just drop everything on the spur of the moment in order to please him. He said that if I knew what was good for me, that I would do just that. I reluctantly gave in to his demand.

If I remember correctly, and I am pretty sure that I do, when I arrived at the location that he'd given me, he was waiting for me with a couple of his friends. I was taken into a house, my clothes were removed, and they began abusing me for the better part of the afternoon and evening. By then, I ceased protesting too much because I knew it would not get me anywhere. I had zero physical strength with which to fight them. Trying to plead with them for mercy was no option. The mere word "mercy" was not in their vocabularies.

The treatment that I was receiving soon became a regular thing. I wound up seeing different men almost every week. This became worse as time went on. Not only would I have to see the original men I met on that trip, but they, in turn, would pass me on to friends of theirs.

My life at home was not exactly easy as well. There were many days when my mother abused me in her own way. She would often fondle my genitals, while I was in bed, or get handfuls of ice, and pour it over my genitals. At other times, if I had an erection, she would give me a towel and tell me to "cover your shame."

Being sexually abused, both while away from home and at it, left me without any kind of physical sanctuary. The only safe haven I could find was in my mind. For a while, I could go there to find peace and harmony. I could become another person and do many pleasant things. After a certain length of time, even this was not enough, because my thoughts somehow turned to sexual fantasies in which I was an unwilling victim for the pleasures of other demented people. I still have such fantasies even to this very day.

I almost felt as though my life was entirely filled with sexual abuse. There was little pleasure in my life, and almost nothing about which to be happy. As the months passed by, I became increasingly depressed and soon felt as though I was in a dark hole with almost no light in sight. I could not think of a way out of it, so I began considering the possibility of suicide.

For whatever reason, the massive number of phone calls I had been receiving suddenly turned into a trickle. Within a few months after that, even the trickle stopped entirely. To this very day, I do not know what caused it, but it was as if I had received a new breath of life.

It had been many years since I had been able to live without fear of being abused by others. At first, I could not believe what was happening. I no longer had to be afraid whenever the phone rang. It was this lack of fear that somehow led to even more fear that everything would start again just when I least expected it.

After a few months, I decided to try and venture out on my own and in a new direction. I saw an advertisement in a newspaper telling of an organization of disabled people that was looking for members. I joined that and soon developed a means of socializing with other decent people much like myself.

I soon felt my self-esteem rising. I was associating with good people who thought about the welfare of others. This was in stark contrast to the slimy gutters, from which I had previously been immersed.

My interest in women grew, as I trusted them. I even got to the point where I dated a few of them -- until they began talking about marriage. I was not ready for that.

That part of my life continued until my mother died in 1994. Her death shook me up considerably. I was saddened and alone for the first time in my life. I suspect that was a large part of what led me into a lifestyle laden with drugs.

I fell in love with a young girl who was working for me as an aid. She told me she was an alcoholic, but failed to mention anything about drugs. It did not take many months for me learn about those. After a year or so, one of her friends invited me to try some marijuana with her. I soon liked it, and did not want to stop using.

One day the aid I had helping me asked if I wanted to try some crack cocaine. I said sure, why not. I liked it so much that once was not enough. I began using it now and then, then weekly, and finally almost every day of the week. I was soon addicted to it.

The drug led me to one kind of trouble after another. I can honestly say that it completely ruined my life, causing me to lose almost everything I had that was worthwhile, including my family. There came a time when I knew that if I did not stop using it, that it would kill me. It was then that I decided to pull up stakes and move to Denver, Colorado.

(I have concluded the first part of my true story concerning my bouts with sexual abuse. I will begin writing the second part shortly.)

I don't know how to start here -- Part Two

I left Virginia on a bright sunny day with temperatures in the 60s. Although I would pass through the state on various trips in the coming years, I would never live there again. I knew that I was in the process of leaving behind countless numbers of people I had come to know and cherish. They had good hearts, and were kind to me in many ways.

All of these things were running through my mind as my plane shot down the runway and then rose into the clouds, leaving the sites to which I had been accustomed well behind me. Nearly four hours later, and one plane transfer, the plane on which I was then seated slowly dropped down through thick gray clouds, heavily laden with snow.

Because of the quickness with which I had decided to leave my home in Virginia, my family had been unable to locate another home in Denver. For that reason, I was placed into a nursing home for what I was assured would only be a short time. To my later dismay, and anger, that turned out to be nearly one year.

Some of my grandparents had died in nursing homes, and because of that, I was afraid to be in one. I lost most of my freedom, while there. I was told what to do, when to do it, how to do it, and almost anything else, to which I had been accustomed to doing myself at my own pace. I now had to follow the orders of others. That did not set well with within me.

I shared my first room with an older man, who got cold very easily. He kept the room temperature at about 85°, which was way too hot for me. After nearly a month of this, I began making several complaints until I was moved to a second room, which I had to myself. I thought it was too good to be true, and as it turned out, that was the case.

After I had been in that room a couple of days, I awakened in the middle of the night to the feel of hands touching my genitals. I tried asking what that person thought he was doing, and heard a voice saying that he was checking to see whether I was wet. I told him that had never been my trouble, and to get away from me.

I had just started to shout, when I felt a hand clamped over my mouth, and a voice telling me to keep quiet. I was filled with a combination of anger and fear. Of the two, the latter won by far.

There were two men by my bedside, and I heard them softly speaking to one another. I was told not to fight them, because the door was locked and no one could get in to help me anyway. I tried, but could not figure out how this could be happening in a nursing home.

Hands and fingers probed my body from head to toe. I had been wearing a hospital gown, but it was taken off of me to give my abusers easier access to me. I tried biting the hand that was over my mouth, but all that achieved was to get me a slap on my face. After that, someone gagged me.

I heard the sound of zippers being opened and saw pants being lowered. Two sets of hands quickly turned me onto my stomach, and both of my hands were tied to the sides of my bed. I knew what was coming, and I knew that there was no way I could stop it.

Each of the men took turns climbing onto my bed and raping me. I was filled with pain and shame, and my eyes were soon brimming with tears. Although I may have been in a new state, I was still filled with the same old humiliation.

When each of the men was finished with me, my hands were quickly unbound, my hospital gown was placed on me again, and then my gag was removed from my mouth. Before these men left my room, they said that they would be in charge of my room several nights a week, and that they would be paying me a visit much like the one they had paid me that night. I was warned to keep my mouth shut about what had happened unless I wanted to have more such visits on each of the other shifts.

After they left my room, I lay there in stunned disbelief of what had occurred. In my mind, I was sure that they would be caught and that I would never be seeing them again. In actuality, I was wrong about that.

(My last entry here was in February. Shortly after that, I promised myself that I would never write another entry. I was filled with shame and humiliation about many of the things that I had written concerning the abuse I had sustained throughout the years. The things that happened to me as a child were bad enough, but to admit that the abuse had continued while I was an adult was almost more than I could handle. I felt that a child was not to blame for any abuse that was inflicted upon him/her. I also felt that as an adult I should have been able to somehow stop what was happening to me, and that by not doing so, I was actively cooperating with the abusers. I somehow managed to overlook the fact that I had, and still have, a physical disability, which prevented me from escaping the perverts who abused me. To me, that was not a viable excuse. To this very day, I still feel that way to a certain extent.

By not writing anything further after my last posting here, I have not accomplished anything worthwhile. I still have the shame and humiliation because of what was done to me. The only noticeable difference is that this has increased due to the fact that I kept secret more things that were done to me during the following 12 years. I was afraid that by revealing such information, I would lose the friends I had made during the time since I became a member of DS. I now realize that no matter what the risks are, I must finish what I had started by telling the remainder of the abuse that occurred to me after moving to Colorado. Some of what I will reveal my cause me to lose some friends, but that is a chance I must take in order to maintain my sanity.)

In my last entry here, I told of being raped by two employees of the nursing home in which I was staying. Prior to leaving me that night, they said that I would be seeing them again at various times. Since I had been with such predators prior to that, I believed them entirely. They kept their word, and usually returned two or three times each week. As the days and weeks went by, I saw that any type of struggle on my part was futile. It was a complete waste of what little strength and energy I had. I finally gave in to their wanton desires, and let them do whatever they wanted with me.

After I'd been in the nursing home for a few months, I was given a pass that I could use to leave the facility for part, or all, of a day. That included part of the evenings. Because I was in a city that was new to me, I initially had nowhere to go. As the weeks wore on, I made it a point to go out as often as possible, as I went about the business of trying to find somewhere to live other than the nursing home. I filled out, and filed, several housing applications with the state. After that, it was a matter of waiting to see which one of them, if any, would come through.

It was during this waiting period that the two rapists "invited" me to spend some of the days at their homes. Actually, it was more of an order, or ultimatum, rather than an invitation. I found myself going to one of their homes, or the other, during the late mornings. Once I was there, I was forced to perform oral sex on them. Then I was stripped of my clothing, placed on a bed, and raped repeatedly. This usually occurred two or three times a week.

There were several times when there were more than just the two of them. Now and then they had friends come over to indulge their lusts by using me as if I were just a piece of property. Whatever they wanted from me, they got. I had no say in the events that occurred. I was made to feel that I was a worthless piece of trash. I became extremely depressed and did not want to go on living.

I gave in to their perverted lusts and desires because I had no other choice. As the days and weeks turned into months, I noticed that the more I cooperated with them, the nicer they became toward me. They somehow managed to convince me (I now know that they brainwashed me) that what I was doing with them was natural, and that there was nothing wrong with it. They said this could be proven because of the good feelings my body was having. I still cannot understand how I came to believe practically everything they said.

Now and then when I went to their homes, some women would be there. They would watch me having sex with the men, and then make fun of me. There were times when I was told that I was a "faggot" and one or more of the women would slap me across the face. I would then be made to perform oral sex on each of the women.

I remained in the nursing home for nearly a year, and these activities continued for most of this time. By the time I left there, I was afraid of both men and women. I still have much of that fear this very day.

At the end of nearly a year, I managed to get out of the nursing home and into an apartment, thanks to the help of local home health care agency, which works primarily with people who have physical disabilities. However, that was not the end of the sexual abuse. In some ways, it got worse shortly after that.

hi Jim,

i'm relatively new to this site; this is my first post to this group. i'm sorry you had to experience everything that you went through. i started reading from the beginning of this post, but have to admit that i have not read everything yet. i have to go back and finish reading.

you're very brave to share your Story. maybe it doesn't seem like "bravery" to you, but a sort of cathartic healing - something that you have to get out before it kills you inside? regardless, there are many who will find hope and inspiration from what you share, the least of which is that they are not alone, or "crazy" in their experiences.

like i said, i have not read all the comments to this post (which would include your replies to others') so maybe i have missed something. i wanted to suggest that perhaps you should join the Sexual Abuse group, here on DS. that was the group i first started in, and i have been IMMENSELY helped by it.

i was just suggesting this, because i don't see that group mentioned in the list of groups that you belong to, on DS. just a thought.

again, thank you for sharing your Story with us. it's terrible that we have to "meet" under these circumstances, but i think the alternative (i.e. not having a safe forum like DS) would make life a lot harder for most of us. perhaps we would never meet at all.

i wish you the best Jim, as well as each and every member in this group. thank you for letting me be a part of this community.

~ joey