freakofnurture
MyPTSD Pro
Okay, I already know the answers to two of these questions. But somehow I feel like I have to ask them anyways and hear the answers from someone else to finally stick the appropriate lable to this mental file and put it in a drawer. I'm really unsure what to make of the second event, and I'm embarrassed like hell by the third, which was actually a weeklong series of events. I cannot ask my husband or my friends. I've been tiptoeing around making this thread for weeks now and I doubt that I'll be able to bring myself to tell the third event in this first post. But I think I have to. This sh*t keeps distracting me. I need to label it and put it away.
The first one is the easiest one and it'll kind of show an emotional and cognitive base line that one might need to consider when trying to figure out the second event.
I was in third or fourth grade, on my way home from school, when a car stopped some meters behind me in the empty, quite suburban side street I lived in. A man left the car, stepped on the sidewalk and said something to the effect of "Hey, girl, look!". I turned, looked at is exposed, flaccid dick, frowned at the oddity of this whole scene, turned back and continued to walk home. It took quite a while for me to realise that, maybe this was a situation in which other people would find it appropriate to run. So I ran.
I told the - funny - event to my best friend at that time, who promised not to tell and then left the room and told her mom. Her mom then made me promise that I tell my parents. I chose to hand the facts over to my f*ther because I knew that my m*ther would only make a fuss about it. She explained to me later that she never told my brother and me about evil strangers because she wanted to protect us. I, too, have no idea how that made sense inside her head.
We filed a complaint at the police, nothing ever came out of it.
I remember that I later fantasised about cool one liners I could have recited at that exhibitionist to make him understand how completely unimpressive the sight of his dick was and that I was merely surprised that there are grown men who are like little boys going 'Look, look, I have a penis, a real penis all of my own!'
The second event was only a little time later. Months, I think. There was this boy from down the street and around the curve; let's call him U. I don't know why and how, but I ended up playing with him on more than one occasion and I remember it being pleasant. U's parents owned a little garden across the street from their house. It was a really cool garden with a high wooden fence around it. I remember wanting to go there for a long time before I got to know U. The area was narrow but long and sloped rather steeply downhill. There were two plastered paths, one on the right, one on the left of a dense strip of fruit trees. There was a red swingset with two seats opposing each other, and there were flower bushes, I think.
There was also a little shed, made of dark wood. It was really really little, as I recall.
Okay, so, I'm starting to get really uncomfortable now and my stomach is feeling like a rock with needles sticking out. It could just so happen that I click 'Create Thread' and go off in the middle of a sentence or so. Eff this ess.
Hhhhokay. So, U said he wanted to show me something (oooh, original!) and made me go into the shed with him. He said he'd show me his if I showed him mine. I learned that that's not such an odd thing to happen with kids that age and back then I wasn't impressed and said, yeah, okay. He was considerably less well endowed than the guy from earlier that year. Then we left the shed.
But a little bit later he wanted to do it again. Okay, I agreed, because, whatever, why not? I recall myself standing there with my trousers down, saying: 'Oh, you can make it bigger.' That's the end of that scene.
Remember, I had cut off friendships before, because of the friend's bad behaviour and it had never particularly bothered me. But with U, the next thing I know is experiencing extreme, physical, revolting disgust at the mere thought of him. I hated him so much, I wanted to beat him up, spit in his face, rip out his guts, kick in his skull, stab him with a knive, shoot his brains out, hang him, hack him to pieces with an axe - I developed hour long torture programs for him, and nothing could quench my burning hatred. I was physically unable to walk past his house, so I had to change to the other side of the road when I had to go down to that part of our block, but that forced me to be right next to the garden, so I ended up taking considerable detours. I rather walked more than twice the distance and past the eerie cemetary than force myself to walk past U's house or garden.
The first one is the easiest one and it'll kind of show an emotional and cognitive base line that one might need to consider when trying to figure out the second event.
I was in third or fourth grade, on my way home from school, when a car stopped some meters behind me in the empty, quite suburban side street I lived in. A man left the car, stepped on the sidewalk and said something to the effect of "Hey, girl, look!". I turned, looked at is exposed, flaccid dick, frowned at the oddity of this whole scene, turned back and continued to walk home. It took quite a while for me to realise that, maybe this was a situation in which other people would find it appropriate to run. So I ran.
I told the - funny - event to my best friend at that time, who promised not to tell and then left the room and told her mom. Her mom then made me promise that I tell my parents. I chose to hand the facts over to my f*ther because I knew that my m*ther would only make a fuss about it. She explained to me later that she never told my brother and me about evil strangers because she wanted to protect us. I, too, have no idea how that made sense inside her head.
We filed a complaint at the police, nothing ever came out of it.
I remember that I later fantasised about cool one liners I could have recited at that exhibitionist to make him understand how completely unimpressive the sight of his dick was and that I was merely surprised that there are grown men who are like little boys going 'Look, look, I have a penis, a real penis all of my own!'
The second event was only a little time later. Months, I think. There was this boy from down the street and around the curve; let's call him U. I don't know why and how, but I ended up playing with him on more than one occasion and I remember it being pleasant. U's parents owned a little garden across the street from their house. It was a really cool garden with a high wooden fence around it. I remember wanting to go there for a long time before I got to know U. The area was narrow but long and sloped rather steeply downhill. There were two plastered paths, one on the right, one on the left of a dense strip of fruit trees. There was a red swingset with two seats opposing each other, and there were flower bushes, I think.
There was also a little shed, made of dark wood. It was really really little, as I recall.
Okay, so, I'm starting to get really uncomfortable now and my stomach is feeling like a rock with needles sticking out. It could just so happen that I click 'Create Thread' and go off in the middle of a sentence or so. Eff this ess.
Hhhhokay. So, U said he wanted to show me something (oooh, original!) and made me go into the shed with him. He said he'd show me his if I showed him mine. I learned that that's not such an odd thing to happen with kids that age and back then I wasn't impressed and said, yeah, okay. He was considerably less well endowed than the guy from earlier that year. Then we left the shed.
But a little bit later he wanted to do it again. Okay, I agreed, because, whatever, why not? I recall myself standing there with my trousers down, saying: 'Oh, you can make it bigger.' That's the end of that scene.
Remember, I had cut off friendships before, because of the friend's bad behaviour and it had never particularly bothered me. But with U, the next thing I know is experiencing extreme, physical, revolting disgust at the mere thought of him. I hated him so much, I wanted to beat him up, spit in his face, rip out his guts, kick in his skull, stab him with a knive, shoot his brains out, hang him, hack him to pieces with an axe - I developed hour long torture programs for him, and nothing could quench my burning hatred. I was physically unable to walk past his house, so I had to change to the other side of the road when I had to go down to that part of our block, but that forced me to be right next to the garden, so I ended up taking considerable detours. I rather walked more than twice the distance and past the eerie cemetary than force myself to walk past U's house or garden.