There have been very few people who would sit still and be quiet long enough to understand that there has been an almost unending s*** storm of personal trauma I’ve been going through, throughout my entire lifetime, beginning at some point, way back when I was still in the womb. In fact, as I’ve told you, it began with a severe trauma of fright my mother and I experienced, when my father broke down the locked door of the house where we lived, with super human strength, with his bare hands, while I was “still in the oven.”
My birthday is 18 March 1951, so it was some time before that.
My father had a very violent, overwhelmingly alarming nervous breakdown, when I was in the womb. I don’t know how far along in the pregnancy my mother was at the time, because if she ever told me that much, I don’t remember specifically what she said. Unfortunately, she has passed on, so she’s not available for comment any longer. My mother was frightened for the safety of her unborn child, as well as for her two male toddlers, who were in the house with us, at the time.
Apparently, all my Dad did was knock down the door, with a sudden burst of irrational violence, and scare everybody half to death. My Grandfather Geisinger somehow got my father into a state insane asylum, sometime around 1950, when psychiatry was in it’s infancy. They gave my father electroshock therapy, and plenty of major tranquilizers. He was understood at the time for being the kind of man who would never submit himself to anymore psychotherapy in his lifetime.
That doctor was right about that assessment, too.
The second major trauma was that I was sexually molested when I was seven years old, in 1958. I was sexually assaulted by an adult man, who was a neighbor of ours in Pittsburgh, PA, when I was of that exceptionally impressionable age, going around trying to sell cookies for the Cub Scouts, unsupervised or defended. That man rolled my dice, and I was only a child, a heterosexual. My father, who was always a bully around the house, and would beat the crap out of everybody in that house, for as long as I can remember, any old time he pleased, did not raise a finger to do anything to help me get retribution against that man who openly molested me.
In fact, my father took his seven year old son by the hand, marched me right over to the man’s front door, under my personal direction about how to get to the house in question. He confronted the other abuser of my childhood, who answered his door for a second time that evening. He was my attacker, alright. I’ll never understand why my father never called the police. I will also never understand why, if my Dad was such a bad ass around the house, why he didn’t just beat the crap out of the guy on the spot. He’d always been such a bully at home, I was hoping…
I was terrified, and got no relief from The Big Bad Man of the house.
My attacker, instead of being beaten or arrested, was simply confronted verbally by my father, which report the guy, of course, categorically denied as ever having happened. The man made up some kind of lie about what a vivid imagination I must have had at the time. My father then turned to his seven year old son, in front of my adult attacker, and asked me why I told stories. I figured that if I ever got f*****d again, I’d better keep it to myself.
It was the Christmas Season of 1958.
I remember it clearly.
Somewhere around 1962 or so, the Methodist Church, who had been trying to work with my father’s lack of aptitude for the ministry, got tired of reassigning my father to yet another parish, which they had been doing annually for as long as I can remember. They finally fired my father from the ministry, which really shamed my father, and my father’s reaction was to go back to school, and earn himself a Master’s Degree, in something or other, and then a PhD in educational research.
It seems my father had plenty of academic acumen, but no ability to handle a job, whatsoever.
In adulthood, I’ve found that I’ve become unemployable, too. When I was at the university, at the age of 20, I had an overwhelming nervous breakdown, myself, when I was a music education major at Appalachian State University, Boone, NC. The difference is that I’ve never become violent toward anybody. I flatly refuse to be. It’s a question of personal honor and decency. The next year, when I’d gone back to the university, to win my girl back, and have another stab at my own Bachelor’s Degree, I began to understand that I had my father’s disability, and would not be an asset to that girl.
I ran out of money, somehow, and called home in mid-semester, to be picked up from Boone, NC, to be taken home in disgrace, from the campus, where I had made a spectacle of myself. I had grown my hair, in 1970 and 1971, and was obviously smoking pot compulsively. I dropped mescaline once, which turned out to be way too strong for me. I had already been removed from campus in a medical withdrawal from the school in mid-semester of the winter of 1971-1972. In the next fall, of 1972, I just took a whole course load of F’s, and left the campus in a state of starvation, with my mother and sister, with all of my possessions packed away in my mother’s car.
My mother always believed she had squandered the tuition money, but I learned a lot about life at Appalachian. Throughout the following decade, I made pilgrimages to ASU on the Greyhound Bus, looking for my sanity, but could not quite figure out what I’d done to it. I walked all over Boone and Blowing Rock, NC, looking for myself, but finally had to give up and go home, under threat of prosecution for trespassing on the campus when the campus was closed.
The only decent thing for me to do, in the Fall of 1972, was to break up with the love of my life, at the mutual age of 21, and set her free to have a normal life, with a normal husband, if that’s what she wanted to do. I broke up with that girl abruptly, after being counseled to, by my Higher Power, in silent prayer, when I was with her for the last time in my life. I’ve been alone almost my entire lifetime, ever since. I’m still in love with that same girl to this day, and she did, in fact, marry another man, and gave him two girls, whom I’ve never met.
I managed to graduate from a community college in Maryland, with an Associate in Arts Degree, Dec, 1987, and when I finally told my father, who had endangered all of our lives, to achieve a PhD, that he had flatly refused to ever put to use to get even a junior professorship with, though mother broke dishes against the walls, in 1964, out of sheer exasperation; he scoffed at what he called, my “little Arts Degree,” and I wrote the man a letter of indictment about 1964, sometime after 1987, and mailed it to Florida, for him to shove it up his a** about his perpetual insolence.
In the summer of 1962, when I was 11 years old, I found a couple of pornographic magazines along the side of a country road, next to a cow pasture, just outside of Scottdale, PA, where I was accustomed to riding my bicycle, alone, which was my accustomed state throughout a large portion of my life. That road was not far from the Parsonage, where we lived at the time. I didn’t understand what to do in that situation, being so young like I was, and I was terrified of being discovered by my father, whom I’ve always believed to be a monster.
I rode by that way frequently, independent of the momentary presence of those few magazines. I experienced a very uncomfortable and very painful response to those pictures, which I had never encountered before, in my experience. I had no idea how to calm myself, except to go someplace where I could hide, clueless, until my body calmed down by itself. I’ve had an addiction to pornography ever since. I began feeding my pornographic addiction when I was a teenager. There was a place I used to go to that had Playboys when I was a teenager.
At the age of 11, all I did was just lay down my bicycle in the tall grass, in a special hiding place I chose for that occasion, fearing desperately that I’d be found by my father, and be ruthlessly beaten, for having a rise in my Levi’s. I had no idea, at the age of 11, how to help my body calm down. I also had no idea, at the age of 11, that my physical response to those pictures was perfectly normal. I only discovered how to manage relieving my discomfort, by the time I was 13 years old, to the consternation of both of my brothers, who had to share a bed room with me at the time.
I found those magazines remained in that same spot in that gutter alongside that country road, for two or three days thereafter. After that period of time, those magazines simply disappeared. Someone disposed of them somehow. I kept trying to figure out how to give myself relief from my overwhelming discomfort, given to me by those pictures, on those few occasions when I compulsively looked at those pictures. I experienced that same discomfort, which I suffered from frequently, throughout my youth, but I was without options until I was older.
After we moved to Aberdeen, I finally figured out how to auto-irrodicate.
In a couple more years, after the discovery of the pornography, in June of 1964, I was playing while I was alone in the woods, in the same town of Scottdale, PA, being of the impressionable age of 13, and not really being anything but still a child at that time. All of a sudden, there were all these older boys trampling through the woods, where I was pretending to play soldiers, alone, with a stick for a gun. I asked them where they were going, and one said, “Why don’t you come along with us and find out?” So, I did.
I thought they were going to smoke cigarettes or something.
I hadn’t had a cigarette in quite awhile.
We went, under the cover of the dense woods, to a construction site, where we mounted the first floor of an unfinished residence, that had only the main floor, and even that was not completed. It was covered with bare plywood. There was a ladder going down through an opening in the bare, plywood floor. Once again, I was dared to be the first to go down the ladder. When I asked what was down there, the answer I got was, “Why don’t you go down there and find out?”
Well, I still, honestly believed we were going down there to smoke cigarettes.
There were about 15 teenage boys who went down that ladder after me that day, in that crowd, and it was only the oldest one who kept doing all the daring. When all the other boys got down that ladder after me, they all started dropping their drawers.
The oldest guy, who was still upstairs, pulled up the ladder too quickly for me to escape. All of a sudden I was trapped, and I was “it.” All those boys worked at me all day, both ends against the middle, until the sun was finally going down, and it was finally getting too dark in that unfinished basement, when the oldest boy came back and put the ladder down again.
I was convinced that if I didn’t cooperate, they would have killed me on the spot.
I was trapped. There was no way out, without the ladder not being there to climb out. They hadn’t even laid the cement floor in that basement yet. I wore a thin pair of sneakers, which was very little protection against the coarse gravel which was the only coating on the basement floor of the unfinished residence, at the time. Now, I was a heterosexual male, of the age of 13, who had never even begun the process of experiencing most of the bodily changes of adolescence yet.
I was curious about girls, not boys, but I had to go through that course of treatment, anyway.
That was in June. In August of that same summer, 1964, my father deserted the family, in a flurry of violence against my Mother, which resulted in my father breaking my mother’s arm with his bare hands, in front of all four of his teenage children. He split, and we ended up in Aberdeen, MD, under the protection and care of my Mother, my Aunt, my Grandmother, and my Grandmother’s Sister.
Of all things inexplicable, when my father came searching for me to say goodbye to me, up in Scottdale, he found me working my newspaper route, explaining that he was on his way to Florida to get some rest, after exhausting himself finishing his Master’s Degree and his PhD. I asked him to take me with him, of all irrational things for me to do. He declined, thank goodness, and disappeared into the morning while I considered committing suicide for the first time in my life. I finished my paper route with no heart for it, whatsoever.
It was the well-spring of my ongoing disability, which became inescapable in my adulthood.
There have been many times, since August, 1964, when my father left us to starve, with no visible means of support, when I’ve considered committing suicide again. It’s always been linked to some kind of rejection or other. Whenever I get vivid suicidal ideation, I’ve learned to go to the ER and tell on myself, prior to acting out, because I’m spiritually opposed to committing suicide. I’ve learned that, if the ideation gets too vivid, I’ve found that I need professional help on an emergency basis, because getting suicide ideation can be dangerous.
Dad took all of Mother’s savings with him, to fund his desertion of his marriage and his family, as well as taking the only family car. He never really succeeded in supporting a family of four children, but he never seemed to care that we were his sacred responsibility. The only thing he cared about was being Obeyed by everybody.
He always ran his church services over by a half an hour.
His nonsense about obedience, was why I always did the opposite of it, in almost all circumstances, ever since, until my Higher Power came and began by threatening my life, in relation to taking another swig of a perfectly good beer. The only visible means of support we had at the time he deserted us, was my measly little paper route, and a lousy $300 a month from Grandpa Geisinger. Mother was forced to call her sister, in Aberdeen, MD, on Aunt Vi’s birthday, 14 August, 1964, to ask for help, in desperation.
Mother explained the situation and asked to come live with Aunt Vi, Grandma, and one of Grandma’s elderly sisters, because she found herself destitute, with a house full of teenagers, in Scottdale, PA, where there were no job opportunities, and Dad had taken all of her savings, to fund his desertion. Aunt Vi did the right thing, and drove up to Scottdale, to get us and take us in, in our hour of need, the whole way to Aberdeen, MD.
Now, with all that background, and let’s not forget the guy my own age, in Aberdeen, MD, who always pressured me into homosexuality, throughout high school and at university, where he stalked me to, after high school – is it any wonder why I have a mental problem and a psycho-sexual problem in my solitary adulthood? I’ve had to revert to desperate measures to keep myself passive and decent for a lifetime. Believe me, it’s been a challenge.