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Faith No More – Last Cup of Sorrow


I don’t talk about it. Incest is one of those big taboos that “normal” people wouldn’t admit to. This blog is one of the reasons I write this kind of stuff though. I don’t share it with people I know. Except one and he doesn’t think of me in any kind of erotic, exotic way anyway so he’s less likely to judge.

Have patience with me. Typing this makes me nauseous. I don’t really know how to say it and it doesn’t help that my mind only remembers clips and bits. Admitting to it is worse than telling everything else f^ck3d up that’s happened in my life. I can’t even say which sibling it makes me that ill.

All these years I had to enforce that I was normal. I had to be. We were living with the enemy. My sib and I were not hillbilly scum like the babysitters’ were. Women with mustaches. Rooms that smelled like piss. Our house was not like that, neither was our family. We couldn’t let them claim our identities. I want to hold you by the shoulders and scream and shake you until you understand. But of course you can’t. We are not you. You are not us. And there was always more to the alienation than just the depression. I could never get a therapist because who specializes in all the sh!t I went through beginning with this horrid fact that determined the direction I followed.

All my childhood I was horny. That looks like a joke me writing it that way but I have no way of conveying it better as a cheap, aroused, inappropriate state of being knowing that sexual itch but not understanding it or even questioning it but just knowing it made me dirty. I masturbated in the bathroom at the age of 5 (and many times thereafter. It gave me a feeling of serenity.) I remember it. I masturbated to get to sleep. I masturbated in front of my Mother on the library floor. Her response: “Oh gee, you must be tired; time to go to bed.” My genitals burned most of my childhood. I thought I was just dirty. I stopped taking baths and showers. I didn’t comb my hair. My Mother was constantly disgusted with me. The kids called me greaseball. I was bullied. I was pathetic. I became a victim, a scapegoat, the butt of anybody’s joke. And I was invisible. That is when I knew I was worthless. My life wasn’t worth dog sh!t. My childhood was h3ll.

Everyone around me blamed me for sleeping too much. For hiding in my room, for not wanting to do anything. It was easy for my parents to think I was retarded. Most of my childhood I didn’t even live. I did what my parents insisted I do nothing more nothing less.

I would look at adult men, measuring them up and down. I can’t imagine how creepy I was. No wonder I was a loner my whole life. I wanted touch. Anything for someone to just touch me, make me feel like I wasn’t dirty. The touch would feel dirty though and I was caught in a twisted game of sickness.

Okay, I don’t think I can deal with this anymore. I think a split happened.