You speak so much truth. After(oh so much) the three rapes. Let us just say I could have been an abuse too. But thank God I broke from that.

I think it would be an apt consequence. You have my permission to do it with a dull rusty jigsaw blade.

My molester got murdered later on, so my revenge fantasies came true. It didn't made an iota of difference in my recovery, I was surprised to find out. Four other people molested by him, friends of mine, talked with me about it. It didn't change anything in them either. The only good that came of his murder was to get us talking to each other about what we'd been through. Which is why I heal coming here to talk about it.

It's not a Sunday School lesson or a moral approach, it's just an experience in the real world. Revenge didn't heal me. I wouldn't have minded if it had done so, I have nothing to prove by taking the high road and being high minded or idealistic. It just didn't help.

Well I think we are kind of off point. I meant if I did something anything back then. I have not fully disclosed what happened maybe I will try in my journal today.

**Trigger Alert** Graphic description.

Oh, we're talking about fighting during our traumatic attack? Of course, that memory is the stuff my flashbacks are made of, my panic attacks. That's the memory that takes my breath away, that puts an icy grip on my heart. Even now as I write about it 45 years later, because of PTSD.

I fought my molester off for hours. It must have been seven hours, total, because he attacked me before midnight and it was turning light at dawn in winter when I couldn't fight any more. But I did put up a fight, me a ten year old boy and him a grown adult, a fierce one.

No knife or of course I would have used it, but fists, teeth, nails, getting knocked down, pinned down, rolling over, and then all of it starting again. No one to scream to. The only thing I couldn't do was get past him out of that room or I would have been long gone. If only.

And that wasn't the only time he attacked me, and every time I fought for hours. There were no authorities to report him to, because it was during the civil war where I grew up overseas and there was no law for those six years of wartime. He was military, so he could do whatever he wanted to do, and sex with kids was what he wanted so that was what he took from us. There were no cops, no social workers, no therapists, and there was nothing our parents or teachers who did know could do about it. The world had truly gone to hell.

And I wasn't the only child in my neighborhood he attacked. It was five of us, total, until finally he attacked someone bigger who had a weapon and murdered him.