Discussion – Do victims only face more injustice…

bullying/child abuse/domestic violenve

Do victims of “BULLYING / DOMESTIC VIOLENCE / CHILD ABUSE” only face more injustice through the political policy of attack the innocent to protect the guilty? What do you think?

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One Response to Discussion – Do victims only face more injustice…

  1. Rich says:

    Perhaps if I wasn’t bullied in high school so much I could’ve avoided being molested and raped by a Catholic priest, who taught my Religion/Human Sexuality class. I was 13 years-old when I started high school, and would turn 14 in a few days. Within my first few days in an all-boys Catholic high school in Northeast Philadelphia, I told another boy in one of my classes that he was cute. I never identified myself as being gay to anyone, but I had flirted with boys my age in the past and my gaydar was going through the roof whenever I was around this boy in my class. Needless to say, he was not receptive to my compliment and by the end of the school day, everyone in the school, including priests and staff, knew I was gay. I was bullied immediately. The “tough kids” waited for me outside of school to prove how strong they were by beating up the faggot. The priest, who taught my Religion/Human Sexuality class, chased the boys off and walked me back into the school. From that day on, this priest protected me and I thought it was the greatest thing in the world. I felt totally protected when this priest walked me down into the cafeteria, which is where I was usually bullied the most, used a key to open up the vending machine and got us a couple of free sodas. As it turned out, his soda was free, but I would have to pay for mine.

    Father said I was failing Religion/Human Sexuality class halfway through the school year and I needed to spend my lunch period alone with him in his classroom. The doors were closed and posters blocked out the narrow side windows on each door. Sitting in a chair next to Father’s desk is when he started to reach down with his hand and rub my thighs. I was so uncomfortable and I tried to pull away, but he grabbed me only inches away from my crotch, and he push down on my thighs, tightly sinking his strong hands and sharp fingernails against my slacks and into my flesh. He made me unbuckle my belt and unzip my slacks and then he fondled me while kissing the side of my neck and breathing his hot smelly breath of butterscotch hard candy and I just wanted to throw up. When I tried pulling away, but he grasped my testicles tightly. When I threatened to tell my Mom and the school principle, he clenched one of my testicles between his thumb and index finger and squeezed as I tried to yell out from the horrible sharp pain shooting through my lower abdomen, but he held his other hand over my mouth. He took his penis out and told me to hold it in my hand and then to put my mouth on it. He grabbed the back of my head and thrusted me forward. I was gasping and trying to breathe air, but he kept pushing himself farther into me. I choked and felt like vomiting. It was humiliating and I felt so degraded and ashamed. I only had to do that to him a few times, because he mostly did it to me. I hated myself because it gave me an erection and I was so confused because I didn’t feel good and all I knew about sex was that guys get erections when they feel good. He told me if I masturbate until I orgasm then I won’t have any sexual thoughts for the boy I like in school for the rest of the day. He even explained in detail the genitals of the boy I liked, and it occurred to me that he was doing the same thing with him. I was always confused. I thought it was only me, but then I started to believe this was normal and Father told me that guys do this stuff with each other and God wanted me to do it and enjoy it.

    Father said I could buy stickers from him for $1 and I would recieve one-half point extra credit on my final grade, but the $2 my Mom gave me for lunch every day wasn’t getting me close to a passing grade. I sold bus tokens to try to make more money, which only gave me an extra 4 miles to walk home every day. I searched relentlessly through my parent’s coat pockets for extra change before I left for school in the morning, but it was never enough to payoff Father so he would leave me alone.

    Many, many times Father followed me to the boys bathroom and pushed me in the door, locking it behind him. He shoved my face up against the wall and the front of my body into a urinal. He told me to unbuckle my belt, unsnap my pants and pull my zipper down, and he reached down behind me, slid his hand in my underwear and force his finger inside of me. I screamed as loud as I could, but it was muffled by his other hand gagging my mouth, and I couldn’t get away with his large and strong frame pinning me up against the urinal. Father would sit at his desk in front of the class and sharpen his long fingernails on his long thick fingers, and as he was digitally raping me I could his fingernail stabbing me like a knife. He would digitally rape me for what seemed like hours, even though it was most likely just a few minutes. I disassociated so many times during the abuse. I went to other places in my mind that felt safe and pain-free. I lost so much time when I was 14, just drifting in and out of reality, always wishing and dreaming that I was some place else, far away from here and I was happy. Sometimes the pain was unbearable and my mind wouldn’t drift off and I’d be stuck in the moment and it has become a pain that my body continues to feel 20+ years later. All these years later and I still feel a crud-covered film over my body. I feel his hands on my thighs, and his hot smelly breath on my neck. I can take 10 showers in a day and nothing will wash him off of me.

    I thought Father wanted to protect me from the bullies, but now I know all he wanted was my soul.

    I reported what happened to me to the District Attorney in Philadelphia, PA in early 2009, and in June of 2009 I took my story public. Even though I came to find out from the D.A.’s office that father is now deceased, I still got to expose this creep for who he really was, and my voice became several other voices when more of Father’s victims came forward, because they saw my story in a newspaper or on TV.

    I hope Father is rotting in hell, and I hope the bullies are ashamed.

    Peace out!

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