Shame, cont.

It started when I was 15.  Well, it probably started well before then, but the event that set me off down the path of shame happened when I was 15.  

I’d gone to a party with some friends.  It was the night before I was set to be shipped off to go live with my father.  That’s a whole other story, for another day.  The party wasn’t a send-off, it was a party some strange kid a few neighbourhoods away was throwing, and some of my pals invited me to go with them.  I knew a number of the kids at the party.  One of them, was a young man named Adolfo.  (Note: this was in Spain in the early/mid ’80’s.  The memory of Francisco Franco was still strong, and there were still many Spaniards who not only remembered him, but missed him and his regime.) Adolfo’s two brothers, I shit you not, were named Benito, and Francisco.  In hind-sight, I should have known better, but I was young, and frankly, an idiot.  Adolfo was very handsome, tall, blonde, fit, with a wicked smile.  I’d seen him around for a few years, but never got to know him.  He was very friendly to me at this party, and I of course, was flattered to no end.  He was a sought after guy, and that he’d be paying attention to me, was quite exciting.  

There were a lot of beers, and other drinks drunk that night.  Probably some pot smoked too. Sometime late in the evening, I wanted to go home.  Adolfo, gallantly offered to walk me back to my apartment.  I was thrilled. Even knowing that the next day, I’d be on a plane headed to Belgium, and that I’d probably never see him again, didn’t phase my excitement at the attention I was getting from him. To get back to my neighbourhood, we had to walk through some abandoned lots; overgrown with weeds and scattered with debris.  We came up to a bench of some sort may not have been a bench, for all I know, it was a boulder or a tree trunk…all I know is that it was something that he pulled me down onto and said he wanted to sit for a bit and talk. 

I don’t remember any talking.  Perhaps there were some platitudes said, I don’t know.  I do remember his hand on the back of my neck, and his forcing my head down towards his lap.  I remember his erect penis being pushed into my mouth, and I remember not being able to get free from his grip.  I threw up.  I threw up all over him.  He let me go, he cursed at me, and he walked off back in the direction we’d come from.  I was left there, in middle of this field/lot with puke all over, drunk, and alone.  

No one ever knew this happened.  I was ashamed of it. I was mortified that he’d acted as though he liked me, only to treat me that way.  

Up until that night, the only intimate contact I’d had with a boy, was a kiss.  One single, solitary kiss that I’d exchanged a few months earlier with a boy in school, on our first, and only date. To go from something sweet, and cherished to that…..well….it was quite appalling.  

The entire next year, I lived with my father and bonus-mom in Belgium.  It was a good year.  My parents have a few horror stories about my behaviour, and I have a few memories of fights with my bonus-mom, but overall, it was a fine year.  

In 1985, I moved to the States with my mother and step-father.  I wish to hell now that I hadn’t. I can’t begin to imagine how different my life would have been if I’d simply stayed in Belgium.  

We moved to Chillicothe, IL.  The armpit of the nation.  

This was now my Senior year of high-school.  There isn’t much harder than moving to a small, tiny town in middle of nowhere the last year of school, when everyone in the school has known each other since the womb practically.  I was an outsider, no doubt about it.  I did make a few friends, but it for sure wasn’t my favourite year. 

A few days after I graduated from High School, my mother, step-father and sister went back to Spain for a few weeks.  I was left behind to care for the dog and the cat.  Nice huh? That pretty much summarizes my life with them..but that’s a whole other can of worms.  (See a pattern yet?). 

Here I was, 18 years old, house to myself, and a heart full of disappointment, anger and spite.  I did what thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of teenagers had done before me in the history of teenage-hood.  I had a few friends over for some drinks.  And that’s how it starts right? One of these ‘friends’ was Kevin Aldridge.  I’d been pals with Kevin all year and never in a million years thought that he’d turn out to be the kind of guy he was.  Kevin spiked my beer.  

All I know, is that I came to, only to find my girlfriend hitting Kevin over the back with a baseball bat as he fucked me.  Every girl dreams of losing her virginity this way.  I’m sure of it.  He was chased out of the house, and he skipped town soon after.  I never saw or heard from him again.  Granted, I left that same town within a week or two after that happened, and I have never been back, never looked back, never given a shit about it since.  

So, what do you get when you mix anger, fear, betrayal, loneliness, confusion, anxiety, despair and shame all together? You get me.  

Something snapped inside me that summer.  Maybe it had snapped before, on that empty lot with a rapist named Adolfo, but my present day person identifies the snap as having happened the summer of 1986. 

I need a few more days to muster up the strength for the next part.  

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