Chapter 1
While psychological and emotional abuse are often the precursors to physical abuse, physical abuse is frequently esteemed, pun intended, as the most significant form of abuse. However, even though intangible psychological and emotional abuse can sometimes cause even greater harm to a person than physical abuse, they are nonetheless equally imperative.
That was supposed to happen after the enticing, luring, and elusive sexual grooming.
My disengagement manifested itself in several ways. Emotionally abused persons withdraw to feel safe; avoid eye contact, and express hesitation or fear toward other people or a specific person; other times, it involved isolating myself from this wretched red planet, refusing to leave the house or speak to anybody.
Through the ghastly contemplation, it was all an attempt to avoid the abuser or disappear from their sight in the hopes that the abuse would cease; however, withdrawal caused additional major medical and psychological issues, and it persisted for an extended period. I still harbor the fear of most ridiculous things, and it only worsens the already existing mental contagium in frailty or hardiness.
When someone listens to you and makes you feel special, how could you suspect they have something else in mind? Something that galvanizes repulsion, such that even Polanski would be put to shame; a force that tends to separate things – handling abomination with calculated yet reckless aplomb.
When I felt lonely, my brother was there for me when I couldn't talk to my parents, I could talk to him when I felt worthless; he made me feel appreciated, and he understood me. I was proud of my brother, but ‘The pride hath a fall’, now, doesn’t it?
Looking back at those nauseating inducing flashes of licentiousness depravity, I missed the maleficence in his actions. I should have seen it coming, especially after my father did the sexual grooming – there, I said it out loud.
I had been through the entire process with my father, who was my adult best friend. A friend in need of plundering his harvest.
I orally communicated my feelings of poor self-worth and worthlessness by saying things like “I'm not good enough or worthy enough, it doesn't matter if nobody listens to me" or similarly articulated countenances, indicating that these issues were ongoing struggles for me. They should have named me Jonah and given me a stuffed whale plushy.
We now know that voicing these opinions might result in a refusal to engage in activities that I formerly found enjoyable or in breaking routines that I once followed every morning or night.
I remember losing weight, changing physically, and losing my appetite. As difficult as it is to confess, my relatives metamorphosed into ruffians, jibers, and harassers and eventually were so controlling that they began to monitor my diet.
They made an effort to persuade me to alter my diet and let go of the unpleasant memories. It was horrifying, especially coming from someone who was supposed to be there to protect me and only show unconditional love when I was weak. I, the abused, continued to think this way even after the events because I was still convinced that it was the right thing to do.
It was my brother's sixty-seventh birthday on April 6, earlier this year. I called him because I wanted to establish communication with him after seven years. I haven't spoken with him and for a good reason, in seven years. And that was an effort on purpose because by then, I had been trying to shake him off my entire life.
In 2016, an event occurred, which I'll go into later, which stalled all communication with him (we cut off any kind of communiqué for seven years). Eventually, by the time 2023 rolled around, I had been up in the no-contact precinct for seven years, and I finally decided to pick up the phone just because it was nagging at me like a hungry poodle. I had this little voice in my head that tugged at me to pick up the phone and call on his birthday.
The conversation was quite pleasant. And, it ended up in a way that I sent some documents to him, which were mostly related to a project that I had been working on. Ever since 2016, it was sort of a science fiction epic.
Let’s put it another way. There was another document that I sent him, which was about this book that I've been working on, and I sort of just threw it in in the end, something like what would happen to them when this thing goes up on racks. I was trying to give my family an idea of what I had been up to.
Because it is one of the hardest forms of abuse to recognize—it is covert and cunning yet seriously damaging to my mental and physical health—we are dedicated to increasing awareness by making resources more widely available, information and knowledge are power.
Frequent sobbing or the rage of burning rocks.
Because of the abuse, I would often weep and have fits of fury and irritation. I also developed severe anxiety and became extremely sensitive to other people. I began to overanalyze everything in an attempt to reduce any potential conflicts that would make my family angry with me.
When the anxiety the fear surfaced, they were triggered by filthy memories that became too much to bear. I would cry uncontrollably in response to the flashbacks – that would light up the dark room with their bright colors – or thinking about being punished or abused again for making further mistakes or for no reason at all. I had what they needed; it was that simple. Age? Consent? Incest Rape? Who is that?
Of opportunities, they had a handful. It was plain ol’ Babylonian decadence.
I was frequently expressing anger instead of sadness in angry outbursts, emotions and feelings of violation developed throughout the abuse coming out because I feel safe enough to let it all out now, after so many years.
At one point, I started blaming myself (sometimes, I still do and snap out of it as quickly as I can). I ask you, is it normal for you to apologize to inanimate objects like a chair or a sofa after you accidentally bump into it? Do you blame yourself for small things or things out of your control?
My persecutors; my family, often tried to shift all blame and guilt onto me, making me believe that it was my fault that things went south, and guess what? After some time of reciting as a prayer and the supposed reinforcement of outside events, I came to believe this. At the time, it was sort of me automatically blaming and apologizing for everything, even when there was no way for me to control or know about the situation at all.
The Law Enforcement officers were another sign that you may have been emotionally abused or someone near you was emotionally and sexually abused is an unfound or extreme fear of law enforcement officers. My family knew that what they were doing was wrong, and they were aware of the consequences of their actions, which is why they looked for ways to prevent me from getting help. They made me believe that the police are bad or something bad will happen if I call them.
It is a well-known fact that not everybody likes the police for different reasons. Still, there is something to be said when it comes to extreme fear of them. I would indeed have bad experiences with the police, but that was me being reckless. Those years left me traumatized.
I prayed sturdily that someone would reach out to me and then reach out to a mental health professional or anyone who could help, emotionally and psychologically, when I was older.
The help that would’ve paved the way for me to become stronger, to leave the abusive relationship as if my parents and my brother had never happened. It was scary to reach out for help, but reaching out for help was one of the best ways to end the cycle of abuse and get my life back. But I did not reach out for anything but money being thrown at me as I lay in bed, covered in the after-party of a porn star.
I can say that Rocco had a go or twenty at me.
Always remember that you are worthy and you deserve to be happy, so get yourself help and don't look back. Easier said than done, but look what happened to Bob Dylan (‘Dont Look Back’, a 1967 American documentary film directed by D. A. Pennebaker), the psychodrama about a photographer whose songs tell a different story to that of his perception.

My dad would take me out so I could talk about my school stress, my issues with friends, or my fights with other members of the family, and he'd find a way to make me laugh. I always thought when Mother acts like a lawyer, I can plead the fifth, and it'll hold up in court. Court or the set of a 1970’s John C. Holmes film?
Tower of Power – Sex Emporium
However, here, Mum was as complicit as him, not Ron Jeremy but Father. Sometimes there would be a gift. Should that have made me cautious? I remember when he asked me if I was dating anybody yet. I didn’t find that strange. Well, why not? Because guys look at me. Guys, look at cute girls, he would say. Guys go after girls with curves, he would say. “Your skirt length and your neckline get all the attention.”
“Alright,” I was getting freaked out as each word brought him closer to me. Yup, that’s my father, the hero.
He talked about sex a lot and my body. He said if I showed them what they wanted to see, they would not come near me – that isn’t what I wanted. I did not want the boys to keep away from me, but he did. It was weird, but he made me feel more confident in myself, and so I told myself it was normal to talk about things like that with someone close and for them to touch me in ways that do not feel right, but you're not sure that they're wrong and for them to make normal situations feel uncomfortable. When I realized that my relationship with my family members wasn't normal, it was too late.
“Why don't we go down to the beach and have some fun?” he asked me once.
“Mom's expecting us home.”
“We don't have to be long.” He had said.
When Mother heard later, a sinister smile loomed on her face. In any other matter, she'd blow up like how she would do all the damn time, but we just stopped fighting.
“Oh, you're no fun.” He had said.
It's so easy to spot when it's happening to someone else all the teasing and sex talk and gifts and touching, but it’s all gaslighting. I didn't want to get him in trouble (not knowing that Mother had similar intentions). I just wanted things to be normal again, but I didn't think it could be normal anymore because I'd let it go on for so long.
I thought it was my fault. I spent months thinking I would have to keep it a secret forever; I couldn't tell my family or hide from them. It was my bloody family’ that was making my life a living hell.
I stopped answering calls. I was going to pretend everything was normal during the upcoming holidays, so I did the only thing I could think of.
One day, I went to Mother and said, “Mom, could we talk?
“Yeah, honey, sure.” The same repugnant smile surfaced on her face.
“Never mind.”. I had walked away, desolate.
Now, I understand that abuse can come from anyone, even a close relative. Sure, my parents showed me affection, gave me gifts, and allowed me to confide in them, but I do not exactly remember when it went too far. The moment I started to feel extremely uncomfortable and started paying attention to how others made me feel when I realized something was wrong; and that's when I had to say no and did whatever I could to be safe. I got slapped around, but it was better than being touched by Mother south of the equator. I had no idea what was coming.
I tried not to get caught up thinking about what might happen if I told someone. As a teenager, I was still trying to do what was best for me, and that, more often than not, resulted in any sort of an escape. Rather, it was a terminal sentence for me.
I mean, I could not even get help from an adult I trusted (by that time, trust had vanished completely). Now that I reflect, it was naïve of me to think that adults were responsible people who would listen no matter what the circumstance. And I was right; adults are as feeble-minded and confused as I was. The most they would do is push me back into that dungeon I called home, for my father to fuck me, for my mother to cheer him on and also hit me, and get her kicks. Then there was my brother, who joined forces with them in annihilating my young body and my psyche.

I suffer, I suffer lifelong psychological consequences, such as sadness, thoughts of suicide, sexual dysfunction, and self-harming tendencies. Discomfort brought caused by a lot of tension. I am aware that this increases the likelihood of… let's not go there. I was now thirty-five times more likely to encounter sexual assault again for several reasons, making me significantly more susceptible to it than someone who was not molested.
When I was being sexually abused, I frequently felt bad about myself, and I felt humiliated because I thought that I should have stopped the attack or that I may have earned it conditionally, which is problematic in and of itself. Additionally, because potential offenders occasionally target victims of this nature, there is an additional factor that raises the likelihood of victimization: I developed maladaptive coping mechanisms after experiencing sexual abuse as a young child, which led me to self-medicate by abusing drugs or alcohol. In my case, this self-medication involved pornography.
I had adapted that way.
However, the problem is the stubborn nature of happenchance, which transmuted into a vicious circle – I was sexually abused as a child. I ended up doing what I ended up doing, but that puts someone at a very high risk of being revitalized again because I was vulnerable to, and finally, the severity of the abuse.
As a child, if you're sexually abused, that is a predictor for victimization based on whether there was force in the abuse, whether there was penetration, there were threats, whether the abuser was a loved one or a person that I used to trust because that has very long-lasting consequences in the parable unfolding.
My tormenters were my family. What else do I say?
Just that I thought that was the only type of interaction that I deserved, that they were ready to have, and that probably would be normal for me to experience later in life; if or when I ever lower my guard, I will be at a higher risk of being victimized.

(Brother’s Name)
My brother called me back. We started calling back and forth frequently, too regularly. I could look at my phone log. It hurt exactly when he would call; I have a vivid memory of those exchanges.
One of the documents that I sent him was a massive file on this science fiction epic and then a single-page document, which was the outline of what I had done previously on the subject of my life story, which was having been emotionally, physically, and sexually abused by my family, in the early 1960s.
I told him that I was thinking about writing a book. And I said, “So what do you think about all those do