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I found myself bitter, resenting the good life my children had, that everyone seems to have. I had no more purpose if I wasn’t heroic dad, and all that I thought I had resolved came crashing back into my life. After my daughters went on to successful lives I fell apart. This was spectacularly good for her, and in some ways tragic for me, because I lived within an inauthentic, self-denying heroic bubble for decades, convincing myself I had nullified everything by being a good dad. I became a single parent at 20, and I devoted myself to my daughter. I had a nervous breakdown in college that I “walked off.”
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For years, I invented layers of “self” to seem ordinary, to “get over it” all on my own. I re-entered the world of ordinary suburban 9th grade, at a time when America could not face the truths about girls and women being raped, much less boys and men (we still blame the victim, and excuse the rapist). But every day is still that day, that cell, those faces and hands.īeing brutally raped changed everything about my life. I was “lucky” because the judge decided to let my mother take me home at my hearing. I required corrective surgery later for what they did to me, including an anusectomy. All the things ignorant teen boys, themselves brutalized, can do to pretty, younger boys when guards permit unfettered control, day and night, in a locked cell. It has taken me over forty years to be able to speak of this. With the help of corrupt guards I was made to take my turn in a cell with three older boys, who raped, tortured and humiliated me for five days and nights. Louis, in a “lost cause” facility where boys from 8 to 17 were waiting for sentencing, almost always to infamous Boonville (the former long-term director blithely described to a reporter (see below) how boys were raped in hallways and in the cafeteria, and there was nothing he could do with such animals). I was in jail at fourteen, in 1970, for being an incorrigible runaway.