Since I really started dealing with being sexually abused, I have had moments when I just wanted to face him and ask him why he chose me. Why? What did I do? What did he see in me that made him choose me? I’ve wanted to know things that I may not remember like, how did he “groom” me? When did it start? And mostly it goes back to “why”? So…I did something stupid. No, I did not contact him. I checked out a book from the library called, “Conversations With a Pedophile. In the Interest of Our Children”. The book is written by a woman who was a victim of incest and she worked as a musical therapist to inmates in prisons. She got to know a pedophile who was in prison and they talked for years. She collected his writings and the purpose of the book is to ultimately (supposed to be) to help people protect children from pedophiles. The authors states that this guy wants to help too so that’s why he helped her and no money from the book went to him. I thought that this would give me what I needed: answers. I thought that if this book was meant to help protect children and educate society and parents and other adults and to help teach children how to protect themselves or tell on someone, that it must be ok to read. I thought that if I read her interviews with this guy, he would explain why I was hurt, what I did that made my uncle pick me. Let me state right now, that I could not actually read the book. I tried but it was too horrible. I felt anger towards the author when she expressed any kind of respect for this man’s willingness to open up. I was surprised at how angry I was at her that she was able, being a victim of abuse herself, to listen to this thing, this monster. I don’t know if anyone has read this and if you found it helpful then so-be-it but I am ill, sick to my core right now. There was one gratifying point I got from this monster and it was that he acknowledged that he was never abused himself. He admits that he made up his own reality where he was a victim and nothing he did was his fault and therefore he felt no guilt. I was glad he made no excuses but I wanted him to die. I skipped to the end hoping to read that he died. I couldn’t even manage that because what I had read already had made me so sick I wanted to die. I wanted answers, but I shouldn’t have looked for them. I made a huge mistake in thinking that, if the author who was an abuse victim herself could handle this discussion, then certainly I could handle reading it. I’m glad I didn’t finish the book. I’m glad I put it down. It didn’t feel right to read his thoughts and insights when I knew he had destroyed so many lives. I wanted to cry for every child he hurt. So I put the book down because it felt like I was betraying his victims by allowing him to recount what he did like it was a conversation over tea. For some reason I hate the author too. I don’t understand her at all. I feel…I don’t know how I feel, there aren’t words. So, here I am and even though I read some words in that book, I still have no answers for myself. I still don’t know why. I still don’t know why me? I still don’t know what he saw in me that made him choose me. And now I have the burden of what I read in my head and that’s my fault because I thought it would help, because I thought I could handle it and I couldn’t. I should have known better and I feel like an imbecile because I didn’t know better. I just wanted to understand why. I just wanted to know what my uncle saw when he looked at me, when he interacted with me. What made me look weak to him? I don’t understand. Maybe a stronger or more mature person could have handled that book, so maybe I’m just weak. I feel the need though to highly stress that I would NOT suggest reading that book or even trying to. My opinion.
I used to pride myself on being a strong person. Not physically, but in the ways that count: emotionally, intellectually, morally. But I’m not strong. I was never strong. I thought I knew who I was and I was wrong because someone, years ago, when I was very little, saw weakness in me and moved on it. I’ve never been strong. I’ll tell you what I did today. I took that baby doll that I searched for on Ebay and bought. The one that looked like the kind I’d had when I was little? I took that doll and I pretended to be my abuser because I wanted her to be me and I wanted to know what he saw when he looked at me, when he was abusing me. What did he see!? How did he know that I wouldn’t tell? How did he know that he could do those things to me? I got no pleasure out of the exercise. You know what happened? After I finished, I grabbed the doll by the neck and tried to strangle her. I don’t know why I did it except that I hated that doll so much that I wanted to kill her. But she’s just a doll and you can’t kill a doll. I messed up a lot today. A lot. I’m more confused now than I was before and I didn’t know it was possible to hate myself more but apparently it is.
I’m supposed to do my therapy homework today which is to say something I like about myself. Well, I’m all out of ideas and it only took what? Two days? I did nothing good today. I like nothing about myself today. I want to hurt every evil person that has ever even thought about touching a child and I can’t do that. I want to die because I feel so sick inside, and it’s my fault for trying to read that book. No, I’m not suicidal. I just wish I wasn’t alive. Funny isn’t it? But there is a difference between the two. But…I’ve got to do my homework! So, tai, what do you like about yourself? What did you do today that you like? What skill do you have that you like? The answer: I put the book down. I didn’t finish reading it. I can’t erase what I read and I found no answers but I didn’t read the book. I feel sick and I feel like death. I feel like I don’t deserve to be around humans because I’m not human, I’m something else. And the worse part is that it’s my fault that I feel this way. I’m an idiot who thought she was strong and she was wrong, wrong, wrong.