As the years passed by, I grew older, bigger, and easier to be controlled by others. Much of the will to fight against my perpetrators had disappeared over time. It seemed to be easier and less painful, to give into their whims.

The friend of my family who first indoctrinated me into a forced sex was the service manager of an auto agency. He became extremely fond of my mother (to the point of their having an affair) and gave her a job working for him. This meant that most days when I was finished with school I would go to the auto agency and spent several hours there until it was time for my mother to go home.

I was extremely bored and unhappy being there. That changed for the worse when this man came up with another idea. He would tell my mother that I needed to use the bathroom and that he would take me there. Once we were inside that room, I was forced to perform sexual acts upon him. This became almost a daily routine.

A few months later, I was passed along to another man who also worked in that agency. The two men would take turns taking me to the bathroom on various days. I was forced to "take care" of both of them. Each of them reminded me of what would happen should I ever tell anyone what was occurring.

There were days when the agency got new cars that had to be road tested. These two men somehow knew the thrill it would give me to go along with them. Once we were out in the countryside they would find what seemed to me to be a deserted lane into which they could pull in and park the car. They made sure we were well away from the main road, and then they stripped me of clothing forced me to take care of them again, and put their hands and other body parts wherever they wanted on me.

All of this continued on almost a daily basis, along with my visits to their place in the country. I was not happy with my new lifestyle, but I had become reconciled to living with it. I did not think it could become any worse, but it did.

It soon became time for me to enter high school. That left a problem for my parents -- how I could get home from school. After a lot of consideration, they decided that I should take a taxi every day. I do not know if it was by coincidence or something else, but the taxi agency was located a very short distance from where my mother worked. Some days I was driven home, while other days I was taken to the automobile agency.

I can remember a very rainy day when my driver radioed in that he would be somewhat late in taking me home. He then proceeded to drive to a place that was foreign to me, opened a garage door, and drove in before shutting the door. I was told that he knew some "friends" of mine who assured him that I would provide him a good time if he told me what he wanted. He then unzipped his pants and told me to take care of him. I knew right then and there what he wanted and I gave that to him.

After I was finished, he drove me to either my home or the auto agency depending upon where I was supposed to go to on that particular day. He acted as if nothing unusual had occurred. This did not happen every day, but once or twice a week.

The make up of my family was about to change. My sister was leaving college and going to take a job in the northern part of the state. My brother was about to enter college which was about ninety minutes away from where we lived. That left me at home alone with my parents.

My father was bigoted about several different issues. One of them, which upset me greatly, was homosexuality. I was upset because by this time I was aware that by only having sex with men -- even if it was forced sex -- it would still make me a homosexual in his mind. He said that if any of his children were a homosexual, he would disown him and never speak to him for the rest of his life.

Mother took an opposing view but that did not help how I felt inside. My father was very conservative and my mother was a little more liberal in some ways. Up until that time, I had not been around females very much. After what had occurred with my mother, I was scared of them.

One day my brother-in-law gave me a copy of Playboy Magazine. I thought both my mother and my father would have a fit, but that did not happen. I was at that curious stage where boys would like to see pictures of naked girls. My father thought this would be a good experience for me to make sure that I would never want to be with men. I could be wrong, but I really do not believe that either of them knew what had been happening to me.

With my sister, and brother, away from home that left just my father, mother, and me at home. My father was a traveling salesman and had to stay away from home overnight several times a week. This left just my mother and me together, which created its own set of problems.

The role my mother played in my abuse seems much less severe than that of the others who came into my life later. Nevertheless, everything started with her. As I have stated before, I was not sure that what she did to me constituted sexual abuse until I asked the therapist and she assured me the answer was yes.

My mother is no longer living. Memories of her still linger in my mind. Her acts of violence (they could not be called anything else) included my brother and sister. She committed acts of verbal, emotional, mental, and physical abuse upon all three of us. As far as I know, I was the only one who sustained the sexual abuse.

After my brother and sister left home, I was the only one who remained behind with our parents. With dad traveling every week, that left me alone with mother. Sometimes she acted just like any other normal person. Then there were the times when the abuse became more frequent.

Our mother was an alcoholic. I never liked the sound of that word and I still do not. When she drank heavily, mother would roam through the house after shedding all of her clothing. Sometimes she will go to bed in her own room, but she would often come into my room and get into bed with me. I knew this was wrong, but I was unable to do anything about it.

She would press her body against mine, squirm about, and touch me in various places. Her explanation to me was that I had poor circulation and she was just trying to keep me warm. I did not buy that one bit.

Although I am sure my father was aware that she frequently got into my bed, I am positive that he had no idea that anything sexual was taking place.

I wanted help, but was afraid to say anything to my father. I was not sure that he would believe me. I was also afraid of any possible retribution that I might get from my mother. She could become violently angry, and I was very afraid that she would hurt me.

During that year, I remember having a week off from school. My parents said that I could spend the time out in the country with my "friends." When I got there, they were smiling and grinning. They told me it was time for me to experience something new. I did not think I was going to like that, and I was right.

There were four men there that night. They put me to bed and took my clothes off. I was put on my stomach, and the men took turns raping me one after another. The pain was excruciating and I thought I was going to die. They kept telling me that it might take awhile but I would get used to it eventually.

While this was occurring, someone began taking pictures. When I found out about that, I really became scared. I knew then that I would do whatever they wanted because I could never let anyone in my family know what happened.

My life was ruined and I knew of no way to get it back to the way it should be. Looking back upon it, I knew that what was happening was cruel and demeaning. My mind keeps telling me that I should have thought of a way to escape all of this, but I still cannot figure it out, and cannot understand what I did to deserve it. I am filled with guilt for a lot of what happened to me. They often told me that I brought everything upon myself. There have been times during the past year, when I have cried just thinking about this. How could I have allowed myself to become someone I now despise?

(I was going to discontinue with my journal entries after the last one that I wrote. Some of the things I wrote in it brought back painful memories, and I did not think that going onward would accomplish anything. Although some doubts still linger in my mind, I now believe that it will be best to get rid of this burden by revealing as much as I can remember. I may not have all of my memories in chronological order, but I will do as much as possible to see that they are not too far out of context.)

After that night during which I was repeatedly raped and introduced to anal sex, I had hoped that it would end my abuse. That was not to be. It just turned out to be the start of more of their perversity. From then on, I was expected to take an active part in their sexual and abusive activities.

When I returned home at the end of that week, a number of changes had been made within me. I carried numerous scars that could not be seen by others, but which were felt by me. The guilt and shame that they had imposed upon me seemed to cry out loud. It was as if I were carrying a sign with me saying that, "I am of sexual pervert."

Nothing changed in the weeks and months to come. I spent the weekdays at home with my parents, and some, but not all of the weekends with my abusers. I did whatever my abusers wanted without any protesting. I felt that I had now become one of them. I was told that I had become a full-fledged member of their family.

During the summer months, I spent more time with them because there was no school that I had to attend. There were times when the people who were using my body changed, as new ones were occasionally brought in. They did what they wanted with me, and I had no recourse but to fulfill their every desire.

This went on throughout my school years. After I graduated, there was a two-year gap before I went to college. My abusers were not happy with the knowledge that I would be leaving town in order to attend college.

I picked a college that was about half an hour away from where I lived. Despite that, I decided to live on campus in one of the dormitories. I thought that would end my association with my abusers. However, that was not to be. They often "dropped in" to see me now and then. During those visits, they would take me out in their cars until they found a deserted place in the country where they could enjoy themselves with me.

During this same period, they somehow managed to find some college students who were gay and practically drooled over the opportunity to have me there for their use and abuse. I felt as if I were being passed around from one group to another. As time went on, I saw less and less of the original men who I had been with for so many years. They were replaced by the college students.

I wrote my last entry here on January 6, 2008. That was almost four months ago. Less than a month earlier, I had been physically injured in an accident, and I became sidetracked because of that. I am still dealing with some of my injuries, but I am now able to begin writing again.

Part of me does not want to write anything more in this journal. Yet, there is another side of me, which says that I will never be fully healed until I write as much as I can remember about these events. I do not know what to do. I feel as if I am in the middle of a tug-of-war, with each side trying to drag me one way or the other.

My psychologist has been urging me to keep writing. She says there is a lot more that happened to me, and that I need to get it out into the open. Admittedly, I have not yet told her everything. I will do that, but it will take much more time.

If anyone is still reading my entries, I would like some opinions as to whether I should keep writing here or not. If so, should I begin a new thread? This one is now far longer than I ever thought it would be.

I know there are other people here who also have problems with PTSD. Part of me keeps thinking that they deserve to have more help than I do. Yet, another part of me keeps saying that I deserve to have happiness in my life as well.

What I really need to know is how the other people feel here about whether or not I should keep writing. Personally, I feel that I should continue moving forward. I think that to stop now would be the same as letting my abusers have control over me. I am still filled with flashbacks in which I see these people as they cause me much hurt and anguish. I do not want to have to put up with that for the rest of my life unless it is necessary.

I hope you continue to journal both in your profile and here in the PTSD community because I know how healing that can be.

Please, don't make your choice anticipating what other people might want. If you do, you are taking away their right to choose. So please, make your choice based on what's in your best interest, not others. ;-) (Hope you don't mind me being so blunt. I mean well.)

Hi Jim,

I've been in therapy for years to deal with my abuse. The support I've received on here and the validation of my feelings is worth more therapy than I've ever had.

I too feel self-hatred, shame, and confusion at not hating my abusers. Reading your story is helping me to feel more normal. Thanks for that.

I also wanted to say that you can take your time in writing your story. Jim, you've said that you feel self hatred. I know that feeling is normal with abuse victims. I feel it.

There is absolutely not one thing in your story that makes me hate you or feel anything less than empathy for you. You were a victim here. You were powerless. You were also very smart. Learning to submit to your abuse is a survival tactic. It's quite a clever one, too. You might not be here today if you'd fought back then.

Just wanted to thank you for sharing your story here. I think every feeling you expressed is very common. I was sexually abused also, and had a hard time identifying it as abuse. In my case the person wasn't a family member, but someone i was emotionally attached to. You were taken advantage of and are so much more significant than the abuse that you endured. Keep coming back. There's lots of people here to support you. Personally, i feel nothing but compassion and gratitude for you and what you shared.

Thanks to everyone who left a comment here for me. I have decided to try to begin writing again. It is very difficult to reveal some of the abusive treatment that I received throughout the years. I feel a lot of shame and embarrassment for what happened to me, but at the same time, I do not know of anything realistic that I could have done to stop it.

I know that I have to pick up my writing where I left off, partially because I have begun having flashbacks and nightmares, of what occurred throughout those years. At times, I wake up in sweats, sometimes screaming, and often in the midst of a panic attack. My life seemed to be getting better when I was writing about these experiences. Now that I have ceased writing, part of my life seems to have gotten worse. It is time for me to try and remedy that situation.

When I began my first year in college, I felt as though I was embarking upon a new journey in my life. I thought that by moving to a new town, I would be getting away from my abusers. Little did I know that they were aware of where I was going, and would drop in to see me with little, if any, advance notice.

In the beginning, I was filled with the anticipation of starting classes to aid me in my educational pursuits. The idea of going to school because I wanted to, rather than because I had to, was foreign to me. I thought that it would open up untold opportunities for me. I was also excited at the idea that I would be meeting new people who would treat me in a kind and humanistic way. I navely thought that I had left all of my troubles behind me.

Getting settled into dormitory life was somewhat awkward for me. I was suspicious of almost every person I met. I practically kept looking over my shoulder every minute of every day, thinking that one of my abusers would be standing there. When I did not see anyone, I almost, but not quite, believed that what I had gone through was a dream. In truth, I knew it had been a reality.

As the first few weeks went past, I was able to relax more than I had in several years. I was enjoying meeting new students and teachers, and learning more educational skills. I began to believe that I was living life the way it should be lived. I felt at peace.

One morning the phone rang and I answered it. There was an unrecognizable voice at the other end telling me to be sure and check my mail that afternoon. When I went to check my mail, there was an envelope for me. I took it back to my room and opened it. What I saw inside shocked me to death. Placed inside the envelope were several pictures of me. It was obvious that I was not wearing anything, and that I was lying on a bed entwined in the arms of another man. Each picture showed me involved in different sexual acts.

There was a note with the pictures telling me to enjoy them. It also gave a telephone number that I was to call within an hour. I was frightened, panicky, and did not know what to do other than what I had been told.

I made a phone call as ordered. A man answered and told me that if I did not obey him, and some of his friends, that copies of those pictures would be sent to my family. He said that after my classes ended that week, I would be spending the weekend with them. If anyone asked where I was going, I was just to say that I was going to be seeing some friends. He said that they would be picking me up after my classes were over.

My hands were shaking by the time I was done with the phone conversation. I knew that I was in serious trouble, and that the only way I could get out of it was by going with these people. I also knew that I was in for a bad experience. As things turned out, it was only the first of many.

(Each time I write something in this journal about the ordeal I went through, I end up feeling dirty, ashamed, embarrassed, and worthless. I have seriously thought about ending my journal entries now, but that would not help some of the other members who have read this and told me that it has helped them. For everybody's sake, I must continue moving forward with my writing.)

During the early part of that first year in college, I was forced to spend a weekend with my abusers. I did not expect it to be a friendly get-together, and that was good because it was anything but that.

I was picked up after my classes ended on a Friday afternoon, blindfolded, and driven to a house. I did not know where I had been taken, nor did I ever find out. That was the least important thing on my mind.

Several men carried me into the house, and placed me on a wooden chair. They removed my blindfold and I could see everything around me, not that there was very much worthwhile to see. I had not seen these men for several weeks. They asked if I had missed not seeing them. The truth quickly slipped out of my mouth, and I said no. I paid for it by being slapped several times.

They carried me upstairs to a bedroom and placed me on a bed. As I pleaded with them to leave me alone, they began pulling my clothes off of me, and laughing as they did so. Once I was naked, I felt their hands start invading my body. Because of my disability, I did not have much strength with which to fight them. I was forced to perform oral sex on each of them before they rolled me onto my stomach, tied my hands behind my back, and proceeded to take turns raping me. The more often I cried out, the more they laughed. My cries for help went unheard.

As the day turned to night, their activities slowly decreased. I was finally left alone shaking with fear, exhaustion, and very intense pain. Now and then throughout the night, someone would come in and wake me up. Whoever that person was used me as a sexual object again. This happened many times throughout the time that I spent with them.

Sometime during that weekend, a small number of women were brought in to my room. Each of them took off their clothing came over to where I was laying, and began abusing me. I was forced to lick and suck at their various body parts. If they were not satisfied with what I had done, one or more of the men would come to me and start hitting me with their fists before taking turns forcing me to perform oral sex on them again, and they would later rape me repeatedly as the women watched.

That was probably one of the worst weekends I had ever spent with them in my life. I was not only hurt and tortured by the men, but by the women as well.

Not only did I learn to hate and fear the men who abused me, but I came to feel the same way about the women too. It turned out to be my indoctrination into my fear and mistrust of both men and women. Those fears are still with me today.

Those same actions were repeated throughout the years that I was in college. Some of the faces changed, but the behavior was the same, and at times worse. I was left with serious internal scarring to the point where I was no longer sure of my sexual identity. I did not know then, nor do I know now, whether my preference is for men or women. I fear and mistrust both.

Jim, I feel such empathy for you. You have been forced to deal with so much more than what I would consider should be expected of a human being, yet all of your emotions surrounding this I can completely identify with. I have questioned my sexuality because I wonder if being exposed to sex at such a young age forced an attraction to men at a physical level only. I cannot connect to them emotionally. But this could be because I don't trust them.

How are you doing now? Is telling your story getting any easier? Are you able to put it away for a bit so you can catch a breath?

Hi Sam,

Each time I write something in this journal, I swear to myself that I will never write another entry. It is difficult, time-consuming, and embarrassing for me to tell others of the things I have gone through, and the emotions that I felt both then and now.

Telling a part of my story does not make it any easier for me. I still have to live with the past, and that is easier said than done. There are times when I feel like crying because of what I went through, but I cannot -- or will not -- allow my emotions to be expressed that way.

After I have gone to bed at night, I often hear someone brush my front door as the person passes by. It both startles and frightens me. Something in my mind tells me that my abusers have come back to taunt and hurt me again. My mind swirls about as I envision what they did to me in the past. It is almost as if I am reliving the whole thing all over again.

Now that I have begun writing again, I feel an internal need to keep doing it on a regular basis. The more often I write, the sooner I will get to the conclusion of my story. I do not think reaching that point will end it for me. I wish it would.

Both my social worker and a psychologist have cautioned me that it may take six months to a year or more before I can finally get through all of this. I am not sure that I have the mental stability to put up with it for that length of time. That frightens me too.

I am going to try and make at least one, or more, Journal entries each week. I am deeply afraid of what others here will think of me as I keep revealing more of my long-hidden secrets. Despite that, it is beyond the time when I can turn my back and quit. I have never been a quitter, and I am not going to start to be one now.

Thank you for reading my entries. I hope they make more sense to you than they do to me.

During my first year in college, after I was forced to spend that first weekend with my abusers, I was terrified and afraid of almost everyone I met. I could not tell friend from enemy. It was difficult to tell whether I had any real friends. The number of people that I trusted was at an all-time low.

Living in the dormitory was difficult at best. Many of the other students there tried to become friends with me, but by that time, I was fearful of almost everyone. I kept away from other students. Most of the time, I remained in my room, locked behind my door. I felt panicky each time someone knocked on my door or when my phone rang. Most the time, I made no responses.

No abusers contacted me for three or four months. I was becoming relaxed by then, and hoped that I would not hear from them again. By then, my mind was more at ease, and I lowered my guard. Looking back on it now, I know that it was a mistake.

I remember a night when I was asked to play some cards with a small group of students. They seemed nice, so I agreed to that. After a short length of time, the person on my left began stroking my left leg with his hand. I was startled and looked around to see if the others had noticed. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention to me.

This student soon began making stroking motions near my groin. He looked at me, and said something about wanting to show me something in his room. We left the other card players behind and went to this student's room. He said he knew all about me, and then mentioned one or two names of my former abusers. I was told that we were going to have fun, and that he did not want me to struggle with him.

He lifted me out of my wheelchair, placed me on his bed, and took off my clothes. As he started taking off his, there was a knock at the door. He opened it, and the other card players walked in. It was then that I realized I had been set up. The card game had been a hoax to get me to the point that I was relaxed and would go along with them.

All of the students removed their clothing, and took turns raping and otherwise sexually abusing me. I could not say or do anything to make them stop. Their abusive treatment of me continued that evening and night. It finally ended at daybreak. They put my clothes back on and put me in my wheelchair. I was told that they would see me on another night, and that we would continue where we had left off.

(Similar situations as this continued throughout all of the years that I was in college. I was caught in a bind and I had no recourse. During those years, some of those students left, and others joined in the group.

I cannot see where anything can be gained by my writing about each of those years. It is bad enough just remembering them in my mind. By the time I graduated from college, I had been abused enough that I no longer trusted either males or females.

Although I have not written about every single thing that occurred during that period, I am going to skip past the remainder of those years, and pick up this story (which is true) and move ahead to where I left that state, moved to another, and began working.)