well, that's unsettling.

 There's literally a slide picture that my mother took where my father's hand disappears under my lucky blanket, my pants are partially down, he's slouching, I'm sucking my thumb, he's got his eyes closed, face relaxed, as if asleep. 

I may not specifically have memories of abuse, but that's about all I don't have, really. 

It's possible that the early sexualization, so early in fact I didn't know to hide it at first, started the isolation that led to my becoming socially deprived and unable ever to catch up. The extra whammy of a narc mother pleased to support the bully agenda and keep me to herself was not to my advantage! By age eight I was already feeling suicidal. I remember trying to imagine myself to death.  I also found it a good way to go to sleep. I suffered such terrible insomnia.

Sometimes when I tried to sleep, I'd suffer a weird night mare that would seize me out of sleep instantly and leave me bolt upright staring in the dark. The substance of the dream as it faded was always extremely abstract.  A grainy black and white film animation scene of toothpicks in rows, then q tips in rows, and back and forth, like a pattern, or a line of them, just enough to fill a frame, then switch.   Well anyway, there something about the q tips that was horrific, utterly unfathomable. and it came with the taste of cotton sheet in my mouth. and it didn't make sense.  Eventually it stopped and I never resolved it except to think, as an adult, it's rather like a phallus getting large while I"m gagged with a sheet.  But then I didn't have any physical signs of abuse, so maybe it never went to penetration? Or it did? or.  Frankly I don't mind that I don't know and I guess that's why I don't remember.  

But the thing to process is the grief of hauling my dad's memory off his pedestal and sending him over to sit on the "group W" bench, ala "alices restaurant" by Arlo Guthrie.  It helped to frame it that way in my mind.  He's still him.  He's still my dad.  He's still all the good things, but now?  He's on the bench with all the "mother rapers and the father rapers and all kinds of mean nasty ugly things that they'd been doing to get on the group W bench."  and it helps with the grief of losing what he meant to me. I mean, with some abusers, it's acts of affection. The kid feels the affection.  The abuser may even be physically careful with the child so the child does not experience pain and does experience pleasure.  In such a case, like a dog you pet often, the child will be very attached to his abuser.

And that's ok. But problematic for resolving the past and the ripples of harm that got larger as they spread through my life.

No but seriously, I kind of mapped the joints of his hand and my body in the picture.  As a trained artist, this is not hard. There's no proof we weren't just asleep and he was just resting his hand on my tummy to hold me. Also possible. 

But I was so sexual at such a young age.

and other things I won't tell the internet.  Not anyone really. But secrets in my head. things I refuse to consider acting out, but which rage in my mind at private times and leave me feeling like I very much need to figure this out.

I've been told more than once that you need feel shame only for what you did, not what you wanted to do.

It's just that I respond wrong to stories of abuse. All wrong.  And while it stays with me and stays between me and me, I still don't like it morally or ethically.  It feels wrong to get that kind of response from someone else's suffering. 

Then I started personalizing my imaginings.  Using that photo. Visualizing from there. building false memories, not true ones. Just making them up willfully and finding them shockingly not sickening.  Again, it seems I should examine this.  I need to work through it over time. But just writing it here, however discretely I've tried to word it,seems to help me accept the recent revelations a bit better.  I don't still fully accept this as the base cause of anything, nor the identity of my abuser, although there could indeed have been both of them, possibly even a neighborhood boy as well as opa.  

The trouble is, such sketchy memories. Was I abused solely by that kid in the dugout fort? Was I being held or "tickled to sleep" in that picture?  Did Opa enjoy his grand children too much in the way some opas do? Especially if his son, my father, was like that? Was that a family secret to calming babies?  

then there's this whole business with the european elites.  Now you see, my opa left a noble family.  He ditched the wife to whom he'd been assigned and ran off with my oma, and lived in sin with her.  They raised two boys, my father and uncle.  During this, the Nazis marched through.  Word is my father spent one summer ranging the countryside begging for food. Possibly from nazis.  Certainly attractive to pedophiles.  But then did his father leave his family because of the depravity just under the surface? Were they anything to do with the network of wealthy pederasts and satanists?

if so, perhaps I'm actually fortunate they went NC and my father had no interaction with family.  One girl was sent here to check me out once when I was still a pretty young thing but it was nothing and if there was anything sinister in it, I've no good reason to suspect it.

Well anyway, I've reached the point of actually allowing the possibility, even probability, that my father usedsexual molestation to quiet me, at the least. More than that I still don't know, but it's a chance that's enough to have *fucked *me *up. Hard.