I didn’t watch today’s hearings of the Child Abuse Royal Commission, and be perfectly Francis – although the Pope isn’t, because Frank is simply an alias – I don’t think that I ever will again.
For almost 4 decades now I’ve felt dirty, and I’m goddamn f*cking sick of it.
The perversions, the sickness, the breach of trust and of contract, the use of young boys as playthings, the hands and lips on my dick, the weasel words of warped wankers, the lies, the cover-ups, the years of ill-directed self-blame and damage inflicted on others.
I’ve had enough.
It was not my fault, and it never was, despite the fact that from the age of 12 until just a few months ago I was mind-f*cked into believing it was.
I was never gay, and to all the beautiful-hearted girls and women that I f*cked and f*cked over in a desperate attempt to prove it to myself and to the world, I am truly sorry. I never meant to cause you any pain, and if I did – and I now know that I did – from the bottom of my heart I beg your forgiveness.
I wasn’t a criminal either, though to survive through the pain and the madness I did many criminal things. To those that I stole from, or cheated, or conned I get down on bended knee and plead for your forgiveness too.
It’s no excuse, merely an explanation, but it’s hellishly cold out there on those streets as the cruel winds blow and the hunger bites and you truly believe in your pervert-f*cked mind that you are a bad kid and can’t go near the people that you love for fear of infecting them with your sickness.
So instead you wait until the normal people sleep and break into their houses and steal the things that may keep you warm, and you pretend that you want to suck the dicks of the abnormal people who walk the streets while the good folk are in the land of Nod, and you lead them down dark alleys and close your eyes and your ears when your room mates on the street knock them to the ground and steal their wallets, and you block it out just like you block out the memories of the man who hurt you so badly when you were a kid that you lost your faith in the goodness of mankind.
All this bad sh*t happened, and a whole lot more, and people like me are left carrying the huge weight of guilt about what we did after as boys we were battered, bruised and buggered for the rest of our f*cking lives.
We’re not survivors.
Only those that pretend to know our pain and think that they might make it easier call us that. They and the c*nts who want to cover up the crimes that were committed against us.
We are not survivors.
We are victims.
And we always will be, whether we have survived our abuse, died, been destroyed, or simply existed.
Some like me are lucky.
The luckiest people in the world.
The girls we f*cked and fucked over still like us, and forgive us our unintended sins.
The mates we treated like maggots still stand by our side.
The partners whose trust we abused, whose assets we attacked, whose unconditional love we trashed as they stood watching in disbelief and wondering why.
Our parents who we stole from, and swore at, and sent plunging into a sick hell that no-one who loves their kids should ever visit without knowing why.
Each of these wonderful people whose hearts are filled with goodness and love have somehow stood by me. I don’t deserve it, but I didn’t deserve what happened to me as a young boy either, and somehow they understand and they forgive.
I am the luckiest man in the world, and each day I fall to my feet and thank them for the love that they lavish on me when all that I once believed I deserved was pain.
Still I don’t sleep, but these days it’s not for fear of the ghosts of self-hate that harbors in the night and become ghouls that for 30 years attacked me in the dark. The death of one of my abusers, and the errant insanity evident by the public denial of his sins of the other, have banished those demons to the hell in which they always truly belonged.
No, they longer keep me awake while the good people sleep, for I am no longer afraid.
Not of them, not of their preying hands and mouths, not of monsters that mendaciously pretend to be real men.
They no longer scare me. Nothing does.
Yea, though I have walked through the valley of the shadow of perversion and sickness and abuse and horror and death, I fear no evil.
Why would I? Been there, done that and I’m still here but predators like Greg Masters aren’t, so you don’t need God to tell you who’s good and who’s bad, the evidence speaks for itself.
No I sleep not due to fear, but rather because I have been a bad guy for 30 years and I need to make it up, and I don’t have all that much time in which to do it. All the years of self-medicated therapy that are in reality self-abuse have shortened my lifetime by at least a score, and I am not stupid enough to attempt to deny it.
So if I’m lucky I have twenty years to go, and I am intent on using every second of every day that I still draw breath to atone for my sins, and to help others. And I will do so free of judgment and scorn and misplaced belief in the ills of others, for when we judge our fellow man all we are really doing is holding up a mirror to our own soul and all the human faults that lie deep within, aren’t we?
When then it is revealed that the craven hypocrites that lead the Catholic Church – the people that a seemingly simple but supernaturally sage carpenter warned us about 2 millennia or more ago – have sicked private sleuths onto abuse victims in a venal attempt to prove that child abuse f*cks you up forever, or at least for as long as you allow it to, I still may become for a moment angry, but in these days when I am well past the 50m mark and closing in rapidly on the finish line toward which fate makes us hurtle, I no longer wish to kill those that seek to destroy us and deny the deviance and the devils that made us that which we are.
I merely look at them with pity, and tell people like you to forgive them, for these bastards know not what they do.
Maniacs who believe in Angels and Devils and Fire and Brimstone they may well be; and the nuthouse their righteous place may be. But their imagined Kingdom of Heaven shall never be theirs, for this is I unequivocally know.
Jesus does not love them.
For the bible and the gumshoes told me so.