Gang Rape

***Sex Abuse Triggers, Yadda Yadda***

All fun and games, isn’t it?

It seems real, and yet it doesn’t.  Maybe I’m hallucinating, but maybe it’s real.  It was at my grandfather’s house (or rather, in an out-building of same) – I briefly, in a different context, described the geography of the place here. The ‘byre’, as they infuriatingly called the building in question, had originally been built to house fat bovine fuckers in case it was too cold or whatever for the pointless, repellent, disgusting, moronic things to live outside (as you can perhaps tell, I fucking hate cows).

The byre had not, however, been used for that purpose for many years; although the farm was mostly still functional, my grandfather had let the fields out to others who therefore took care of the day-to-day running of it for him.  The house however, and its out-buildings, were still entirely his, and generally out of bounds for those who rented land from him.

He used the byre as a storage room.  I remember an odd fascination with it when I was very young; I would sneak into it, surreptitiously (but with surprising strength) releasing the bolt that secured its doors, and letting myself in with wide-eyed but silent enthusiasm.  It was like a treasure trove – antique furniture, decrepit kitchen apparatus and lots of little receptacles and wooden wot-sits that my grandfather had carved himself as part of his carpentry hobby.  For some reason, I’m reminded as I type that that he lost a finger and a half thanks to this interest.

A small part of the byre floor was sunken.  It was a long but narrow shaft about three inches deep, a bit reminiscent of some of the most shallow parts of children’s swimming pools.  It was designed for the cows/evil things to shit in; then their waste would pass down the shaft, which culminated in a hole to the outside world, out of which it fell into a quite sickening heap. The outside world in question was, when the byre was functional, a fertiliser garden, thus at least making the most of the evil things’ fecal matter.

By the time I first knowingly encountered the byre the shit and its shitters had long since gone (perhaps rather fortunately).  It was clean and smelt of nothing other than the sweet aroma of decaying wood, owing to its eclectic collection of antiquated furniture.

IT took place with me lying to the left of the shit-shaft (assuming the perspective of someone who had just walked through the door).  They kneeled in the shit-shaft to perform proceedings on me – sometimes comfortably, sometimes not so much; it depended on their height (as I recall).  There were five or six of them, I think (though I’m not certain), Paedo included.  I think one of them might have been one of my (Paedo-procreated) cousins, but I’m not sure – I remember clearly the person’s grotesque facial hair, but loads of people had such horrible beards and moustaches in the ’80s and early ’90s, so it could have been someone else entirely.  The faces of the others I don’t recall at all.

I remember it from a dissociated place from the ceiling, except for the hirsute one whose face I remember level with my own, contorted with his rather monstrous sexual excitement, his eyes snapped shut.  I remember being between what was either a (disused) large cooker or a washing machine (on my left) and a mahogany dressing table that had belonged to my late grandmother (obviously on my right).  I remember that on the opposite side of the room there were these large dark wooden rectangular structures with springs hanging from them – I remember being completely mystified as to their purpose, though would now retrospectively guess that they were bed frames.

I think I might have been between five and seven, though I’m not certain, and I certainly don’t recall how many times this happened.

I do recall indescribable physical pain, but even worse was the unbearable humiliation, degradation and desperate, profound wishes for the mercy of death.  Aside from The Hirsute One’s face, though, I remember very few specifics.

This is probably a good thing.

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31 thoughts on “Gang Rape

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  2. Someone needs to say something. There are no words though. But I’ve read this. You are far braver than I know how to express.

    Lola x

  3. Holy fuck, you poor thing!
    Why do horrible things happen to lovely people?
    Like Lola said, there are no words, but I hvae to say something – let you know that people care about you.

    *many hugs*

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  6. I read this too. I don’t really know what to say–there isn’t anything useful or helpful I can say–but I need to leave a comment so that you know that this has been read, and acknowledged. Your post deserves more than silence.

  7. You fucking hate cows. I fucking love cows! – seriously – along with cats i’ve always loved them, have always felt them to be such peaceful creatures…. but then reading your post I realise even more the horrible awful power of association – and I know there are things too that I hate so much, that noone else may hate, but it’s my memory linked to it that hurts so much. As with you and this. Cows. But it’s not about them at all. They are technically no more disgusting or repellent than any other animal, be it domestic or farm or wild – but they were there – or you were in their abode when you were subjected to these nasty, sick, perverted attacks. Rapes. Nothing like that should ever have happened to you hun. Not to any child. No child deserves this or asks for this. You did not deserve this. Never ever ever. xx

  8. I care about you, too. And I also know what it is like to have horrifying memories and feel torn between belief and disbelief. I think I have pretty much decided that I believe the basic premise of these memories of mine and that it does not matter if some of the details are not exact. And then there are the missing bits like how you describe not knowing the identities of the people involved. What hurts me the most is when I get into a place where I doubt the validity of the entire thing and think it must be made up entirely. I also realize that this usually happens when I am very stressed or when I feel like I don’t have enough emotional support because that is when it feels very dangerous to believe. I watched that very thing happen to you right on this blog. I think the circumstances of the times we deny outright are significant and actually lend credibility. Anyway, I just want you to know that I care about you and understand this kind of a struggle.

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  10. “I remember it from a dissociated place from the ceiling”

    That leapt out at me, will explain why in a min but bear with me for a sec . Cows are living things, they aren’t objects and their living breathing shittingness also reminds us of our own animal nature , bodily functions and mortality but if we havent built up enough layers of self-esteem – ego strength , emotional chain mail, whatever – because we’ve been traumatized in some way we tend to disassociate . I was also systematically abused as a kid and I can vividly remember that looking down and observing what was happening to me experience that you describe. As to memory, I was younger and in a care home but my sister , in same home, told a relative the man running the home was hurting me and my mother and a crowd of men turned up at the home to burn it down and we were moved overnight . Years later it haunted me and I had to keep going back to people checking that the incident happened as the dissociated looking down at myself bit was a weird memory to deal with , like alien abduction , astral projection or out-of-body experience but the incident at the home at least, did happen , other people independently verified that it did without prompting, and I remembered what the man who ran the home did, correctly remembered – again independently verified – what his and his wife’s names were, remembered the inside of the home , the stair-rail , the sense of space in the large hallway where the abuse would normally start when his wife , who knew full well what was going on , dragged my sister out screaming which is why she told. I obsessed over what happened as I grew up and revisited it in my mind and called at the home one day thinking it might help if I looked around. I told the social worker type who answered the door that it was first place I’d lived in ( self censorship ) and could I just look around but she treated me like a lunatic , made some officious excuse and just closed the door. Anyway I eventually phoned the police as I was haunted by thought that there had been cover up when the crowd had turned up baying for the guy’s blood , children’s services were and probably still are infiltrated by determined paedophiles, and the policewoman I spoke to took my details and got back to me later and , I think, said he’s not in position to harm anyone now and I took it to mean she was telling me he was dead. Suppose she wasn’t allowed to say outright. It was a weird callback days later. I imagined it would be bigger deal but it wasn’t. Like closure .Then I started to obsess about getting some kind of explanation from his wife and was even thinking of writing play about a grown up abuse victim kidnapping the wife of his abuser without saying who he was so that she would really understand magnitude of her actions/inactions, not to hurt her , there wasnt intention to physically harm, when victim eventually said ….. this is what you helped do to me. Then I had a shrink and I told him look I need to find this guy’s family to explain what happened, I’m haunted by this and he was mortified and gave me the ‘its not right to visit the sins of the fathers on the sons’ lecture , saying they are entitled to be spared suffering , it was a very Christian outlook, but child abuse seems to me more the stuff of Classical Greek tragedy, and i imagined the same guy in fatherly role gently tussling his kids hair as he opened the door to take them out to the park or some other experience that would help them get on in life. I still look at the home on Google maps and its that same looking down view but I’m not there I’m here , horrendously fast forwarded without much to show for it other than lines in a world momentarily horrified by child abuse but which quickly moves on – remember the furore over the Pope’s visit with Stephen Fry squaring up but not quite relating the abuse to mental health ? – or tells one to be Mindful, to focus on the present , each now being entirely separate and distinct from the last and next , that all is illusion, a fiction, and that there is no way that past events, no matter what, can register at the molecular level when I’m pretty fucking sure under certain dire circumstances they can and do.

    Which isn’t to say people from such abuse backgrounds can’t Recover or at least stabilise , and i guess that’s where you’re at, but it’ is difficult as the societal response is perverse. If you had blogged that you were gang raped last week as an adult people would react very differently and probably involve the police yet shrinks collude with the abusers, they ignore the fact that it’s a crime. People want to forget that such horrors occur, they don’t want to be reminded , like the cows and the shit, and that makes it a real struggle to remember righteously , I mean facing people full on at home, at work , amongst strangers and in a deliberately resource starved mental health system that tends to define ‘deserving patients’ as those with some socially causeless chemical imbalance or straightforward genetic issue . It probably is advantageous to just forget , to let it go , to let time heal , to embrace amnesia but I have no idea how to do that as I’m too aware of watching myself think because I react badly to any kind of incoming pressure.

    But the cows are innocents in all this

  11. Oh Pan, and you say you aren’t strong. I know you don’t feel it, but you survived THIS and other horrific things and became this wonderful, vibrant, amazing person. That’s strength xxxx

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  14. Again, I don’t know what to say, and I doubt there is anything to say but I’m thinking of you both Pandora and Dave. No-one deserves that and you both deserve to heal now. x

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  16. I know it seems inappropriate for me to “rate” this post as “good” (5/5) but I did anyway because its braver than you know Pan.

  17. Thank you all very much indeed for the support and kind words. It means a lot.

    Side note: I always hated cows; I don’t think that this has much if anything to do with it. They’re pointless, stupid creatures, and their perpetual habit of staring at people reveals their deeply sinister nature. I quite like bulls, but the female of the species is teh ev1L. Me hates.

    It’s become something of a running joke between A and me 🙂

    Thanks again lovelies, I really appreciate each one of you. ❤ xxx

  18. I have another friend who was horrifically abused by her grandfather and his ‘friends’ … so even if this didn’t happen to you (allowing for your opening para), it happened to someone … and it shouldn’t happen to anyone. Feeling utterly inadequate as I read … I want to head out there with a shotgun and blast those men to pieces, starting at their groins … to meet their evil with evil…

    Screaming inside and sending my love xx

  19. I am catching up with your blog and with you. I am so sorry Pandora that this happened to you. You could not make this up…the bed springs, the shit shaft…and as a child you would have seen the sexual excited look but not known what it was. It was beastly what happened to you.

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