I just returned from Twitter, and discovered such beauty and inspiration.  I had to return here to tell you how impressed I was by what you do there.  A place that can turn sad feelings in happy ones.  I’ll return here if I’m needed, but I’m going to spend some time on your Twitter stuff for now.  Congratulations and more power to you, Anita.

While I was writing the post about the Stonewall Riots, you were writing also. This is a reply to your question.

My Blog makes it absolutely clear that there’s only ONE person involved: the person named on my birth certificate as the FATHER (and who never deserved that name).  A SADIST who liked raping and beating his children.  Scariest one: having my small hands held close to the flames of a gas stove.  I have details, they don’t bother me any more.  But I’m not going to describe some things, even if asked.

Since you used the term, I have to emphasize: I NEVER HAD PARENTS.  Once again, it’s in my Blog, Anita.  Very very clear: the person named on my birth certificate as the MOTHER (and who never deserved that name) was the ENABLER.  She caught him with me in the basement MORE than once.  That should be all you need to know, OK?

Be careful what you ask me unless you’re prepared to hear the answer you don’t really want to hear.

I was eight years older than Allan.  I recently watched the movie “Stonewall” about the part of NYC that many teenagers fled to in the 1960’s for the gay culture/lifestyle.  That’s where he went.

Why do I think he was gay?  Many things came to mind once I started thinking about them.  Most significant were his clothing choices.  I didn’t pay attention back then, but remembering things like that now proves how I was living in a fog.

But I never thought about gay stuff.  I was turned off by years of rape and beatings.  For 72 years, I thought I was heterosexual, married twice, adopted a baby girl, but this past July, at 73, my brain woke up.  For the first time, I began to question my sexuality.  I started writing, and it turned into a blog.  I was hoping to get my answer about what I should be by the end of my writings, and it would be the end page. It didn’t take that long, and it became the fourth page of my Blog.

Memories (some suppressed for 50-60 years) intruded my thoughts when I let them.  I always related to boys, never to girls.  I had crushes on boys, but held my feelings back.  I paid no attention to girls, and they never approached me.  In high school, I was marked, somehow.  They knew what I was, even if I did not.  Dances, Senior Prom?  Not for me.  I never dated anyone.

The year after Allan died, I moved out on my own.  One day, a co-worker invited me to dinner at his house.  It was a setup.  His divorced daughter was there.  Uh huh.  Sex followed.  It felt great, because it was my first time.  A virgin at 26, but finally, I was “normal.”  After seven years, a no fault divorce followed her cheating on me.

I got married again, to a wonderful person.  She died (after  29+ years), after an eight-year battle against lung disease. For those eight years, and the four years (alone) since, I’ve had a lot to think about.  It all came together in my head in July.

Once I told people and obtained their understanding, I finally became free of my horrible past, when I confined myself by hiding everything because you’re supposed to hide.  From whom?  Think of the abusers out there, guilty, and hoping to escape punishment.  MILLIONS of them, dear Anita.

Numbers that I have seen published indicate that one out of every four females is in some way, a survivor of what was done to them as a CHILD by an ADULT.  Boys?  One out of every five is a survivor, I’ve read.  I am one.  Allan took the easy way out.

We’re called “victims.”  Such an inadequate word.  Brutalized, terrorized, made to feel worthless, because the abusers want it that way.  So we’re afraid to rat them out.  So we’ll be quiet.  Because, guess what?  Some really stupid people put the blame on the CHILDREN, because MAYBE they asked for it.  Maybe they even enjoyed it.

I was FIVE years old, in a darkened corner of the garage at my grandma’s house, watching my cousins playing in the sun outside, the first time.  I did not “enjoy” myself, but my sadistic rapist did.

Well, as you can see, I am no longer hiding.  I am hoping my Blog will reach enough people to save kid in time.  I was hoping to stay anonymous, but don’t care anymore about that.  So I posted here, and sent out a Tweet.  At the current rate, perhaps 11,000 people a year will click on my ANTI-suicide Blog.

Allan is still with me, in a way, and his death was not for nothing.  I’ve seen to that, I think.