Category Archives: child abuse survivor


I sit in the courtyard watching them.  It is square, concrete all around, the pad under my butt.

Grit everywhere.  Sand.  Small pebbles like irregular irises.

Sun beats down. It’s so hot and I’m thirsty but there’s nothing to drink.  I am stuck here, in this roomless cell with its roofless walls, a prisoner of my own making.

I have misbehaved again

and shuffle to the courtyard

head down, eyes narrowed against the strong sunlight streaming into my darkness

as I shuffle out into the courtyard

and sit down.

Counting ants.

Watching them.

Look at them scuttle, run around.

I pick up a small stone – a boulder to him.

and I throw it.

It bounces around, missing him.

I pick up another and throw it again.  Then a handful.

Bombs falling down

in the ant playground

while I sit watching them.



– This is from my childhood, when I’d get so bored and there was nothing to do.  I don’t know where the courtyard came from, but we were there. Sitting there in the hot sun.  Voices in the distance tell me I am not alone, but there is no one elsewhere that I can detect . . .
I was held prisoner sometimes
in that courtyard in my mind
and ants were the only entertainment I had;
that, and the blazing sun.

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“Animals are trained.  Children are taught.” – E.T., July 2011

That is something that he (E.T.) taught me, along with a few other things.  (“We eat people food.  People food comes from the grocery stores.  Why don’t you STOP asking me if this plant is edible or that is good to eat.”  This from my friend who was also abusing me (verbally and mentally that is).  He is an ex-Intelligence agent (really and truly, he is!).  Worked for the CIA (or MK if you want to put it in other words).  Had me confused with someone else.  But we ‘stopped him’ (albeit a bit) . . . by doing the things that we had been trained to do; taught to do, even as a small child.

And then I came across a post by Faith Allen, called “Child Abuse as Traumatizing as War“.  It immediately set off some issues for me.  And then I realized: it’s because as a small child, I’ve always been preparing for war – a war of some kind against somebody – whether that be my own brother (who, in his turn, was waging war against me – in his own time and his own way, including methods of extreme violence.)  We covered some of this in “The Armageddon Child”, but . . .

We were learning and knew how to make puji stake traps at the age of eight years old.  We knew to cover them with feces to make them enemy die.

We knew how to make basic deadfalls and sh** by the time we were 13.  These were for killing a man.

We knew how to set up a claymore mine by the time we were 8.  The important thing is to always make sure it stays outwards.  There’s a side printed with words like that.  “This Side Towards Enemy” I think it says.  And then you connect the two little wires and run like rats down into your little ‘foxholes’ and wait.

We were practicing firing RPG type weapons – not loaded, but disposables with telescoping tubes and fold down sights – when we were 9 and 10.  We rode in tanks (and learned you’d better be tied down to something – or hanging on tight – as they bounced around).  We did the same “ground jumps” from stationary towers . . . but this was being in the military.  This was part of being “a brat”.  So it was the ‘usual’ thing.

I’m betting a lot of the children ‘in there’ (meaning “The Fortress*”) were trained like me.  Trained in the arts of war.  How to deploy your forces.  How to build a trap.  Smearing puji sticks with feces and stuff.  Playing games of war.  Riding in tanks and traveling with the troops; squatting inside APC’s listening to their commanders give out orders and take reports in . . . cruising the countryside “looking for them” – meaning the enemy soldiers and commanders and things . . . learning how to ‘observe’ them, noting their movements – then going in and ‘taking command’ by misdirecting them and things . . . stuff like that.  Sneaky kinda stuff.  The kind of stuff you do on your time off – for ‘shits and giggles and things’.  That’s the way we were.

I remember being trained on a bow when I was 7 years old.  It was a light kind of bow, and we shot it often until we were very good at that thing.

We were all given BB guns when we were eight years old.  You would get into trouble for shooting someone with them, but we had wars anyway.  BB Gun wars and stuff.  Taking pain – that’s what it was all about: our ability to withstand pain.

We were set on by our first dog by the time we were six or seven.  He was a big one and he was a German shepperd.  He was chained to a tree so he could only stand up (on his hind legs of course) – we thought he was muzzled, but no, I guess not (seeing him quite clearly right now: chained to a big ol’ pine tree set in the neighbor’s back yard – he’s rearing up and we’re approaching him – fearful at times – he’s barking loud and waving his front end all around . . .

and somebody shoves us in; shoves us to him, and he starts clawing on my chest; ripping me down from stem to stern, hurting me kinda bad.  The adults don’t step in (it was one of them – I think my mom, or the other mom – I don’t kinda know) – and I’m left there to fend this dog (he stands way taller than me; I can only reach his chest) – and I’m pushing away and crying and things and the dog is ripping me apart – and then I step back (it’s clear right now) blood running down my chest.  I’ve been ripped from shoulders to bladder and on down – I didn’t have my shirt on, no one wore them (they were too precious a thing; they had to be kept with our pants in the drawers and things, along with our other good clothes)

and he’s hurt me kinda bad I’m dripping blood and things and the adults take me to the back of the brick sided single story ranch house (with white framed windows; there are six panels in each window, each three panes wide, and there are six windows in this house – at this side only; chck chk chk

yes we have seeen the front of this house before and we can describe it to a T but that just goes to show . . .

our training and all

is incomplete.

* – you should read “Military Brats: Legacies of Childhood Inside the Fortress” by Mary Edwards Wertsch if you were (or are) a military dependent of ANY kind – or want to find and know (albeit only somewhat – nobody can truly know or understand anything about it until they’ve been there – and I was “with” the military in one way or another during my first 26 years . . .)

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The Boy (on the Beach)

The Boy (on the Beach)


He stands,
face to the wind.
His eyes are filled with the clouds
scudding across an empty sky.
The ocean, a mist before him;
muted roar of rolling waves
transmit through the fog
soft thunder on his mind.


The boy
stands shoulder to shoulder with himself.
The boy
takes one look after
another look before
and takes one step forward
towards that empty shore
and the clouds go on drifting
across his empty face
as his mind goes drifting
deep in inner space.
The boy.

He stands
whittling away in his mind;
chipping at memory, that endless stone
of desire and want
of past fears and pleasure;
the innocence of having been a small child.

Cast away like a stone,
the stone that he is,
has become inside.
the horrors
he has seen.
No tongue
no mouth
can give speech to them;
no ears which listen
and want to hear
of the horrors and the demons of his past.
He stands alone.
Cast upon this desert
just another stone.


Inside he is
to his mind and his own way of thinking;
his original mind.
in the sands of time
he found it once again and
lost it
his heart, his soul, his mind.

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The Machine


It was in Mr. Bell’s homeroom class.  He was both my ninth grade science teacher and homeroom class.

The school was an old one, or an ill-equipped one at that.  Built in the South, it lacked some modern features – like air-conditioning and modern desks.  Instead we had those old inkwell ones – I would find them greeting me in high school as well – with decades old graffiti scratched into their marred surfaces.  Your back and seat were the person’s desktop behind you; these heavy iron things with their intricate scrollwork were bolted to the floor – there was no disturbing them, as generations of students had learned.  You sat there – that blank old inkwell hole staring up at you like a forlorn eye; the cryptic messages from the past (and present! as well) scrawled across the surface.

The teacher was black, he was a preacher – and he taught science, so I automatically trusted him.  Science teachers were cool; they kept their head – that taught me something rational that never changed.  After all: truth is what it is, and facts don’t change – that was something life had taught me good.  Everything else is up for grabs; change is inevitable; I hate it and can’t fight it – we’ve ‘just moved’ into this new neighborhood; I’ve changed schools – this one’s a disaster, though not as bad as the last . . . I don’t know: each one is worse in it’s own way.

I had come into the first – the last one – in eighth grade.  Fresh from Germany – gone for four years – I come home to find my neighborhood has gone, everyone has deserted me.  Or rather, I deserted them – leaving at the crux and the apex of a long held decision; another disaster in the making that had affected my best friend (his father died.  On or near Halloween.  And it was the very worst Halloween in my entire life. But that’s another story; one that can only be told by the little one in me.)

Anyway, at this ‘new’ school they had assigned me (the one in eighth grade) – they put me in a remedial reading type of class – and an advanced algebra one.  This to a kid who has just scored Junior college level reading and comprehension skills, plus an outstanding vocabulary (though why he keeps silent all of the time seems a bit of a mystery . . . and he can be found standing alone, staring at the school from the grounds . . . or jotting notes in the little notebook he held.)

Anyway, that kinda screwed me up, in a polite parlance of the saying.

Now in this new school I am facing a dilemma.  And its a rather hard one.  To paraphrase something a singer would sing some decade or so later: “What’s love got to do with it?”  Or do with anything.  Especially in regards to being happy.  It doesn’t seem to succeed in getting happiness at all.  All it yields is pain.  That’s all it has ever yielded, all of my life.  Over and over again.  Starting with my ‘abuser’; the guy who would molest me – I loved him.  And I loved another one while I was overseas – but I was too shy, having been burned too bad by the first one’s massive betrayal.  I would have done anything for that guy, and I mean that quite literally.  Anything.  Gone to bed with him had he asked (but he didn’t) – and I was too afraid to try.  But god! how I loved him.  Closer than my mean and ‘we’re at war’ brother.  And to this day he has affected me.  He’s the reason I wear button up shirts – because of him.  He taught me to wear them after I showed up in a ragged worn tee-shirt one too many times.  I was a Southern boy, raised on the outskirts of town – quite literally right off a Southern road you might have heard of: Tobacco Road.  Just a stone or two throws away.  In the scrub and the sandhills on a small sandy hill lot – along with a lot of other kids in a little neighborhood we lived in . . .

But I ramble.  I go on.  I am avoiding building the machine.

There was a divorce in the air; a parental rumble; I knew it – I could smell it at home.  And Dr. Bell was my science teacher – and a preacher! – he would know what to do . . . at least have some words to advise me . . .

But he didn’t.  Instead he sent me to the gay counselor, who decided I was not to his liking nor taste (nor I to his) – end of line.  I hated him for that.  He frikkin’ bailed on me; one of his students – and one of his brightest – he recognized that in me – but just rolled me in with the rest . . . hands off approach, all of the time.  By everyone I met . . .

And I had had it, I was done with this thing called love.

So I built this thing called the Machine.

And I ran with it for many a year; it protecting me on the outside and within.  It was a good thing; tough and like metal; we fought many ‘wars’ with it – but sometimes things got in.

Armor gets rusty and love does it not good.  Love is like a corrosive to armor, you know what I mean?

It eats little holes in it; lets the world in.  And that’s a bad sort of thing.

I’d rather sit here in my darkness, feeling no pain.

ever again my friend.

(and here we will end . . . very sad, discomforted, and thinking this is a ‘part’ from which some of my suicidal thoughts (and sometimes impulses) come from . . . something I have to, once again, deal with on a daily basis.  But that’s okay; just a suicidal idealation complex built around failing at something – of that I can be quite sure.  And ‘we’ can heal this one in the end . . . given time, care, talking to ‘him’ and understanding . . . maybe we can even the score . . . giving him love when he had none – and making him understand it: It’s forever, my friend – “WE” are your love . . . if nothing and nobody else . . . and I think my wife can understand . . .)


It’s a problem.

Whutta bitch sometimes.

The End.

(signed: 13)  (sighing . . . this is a tough thing, isn’t it guys . . . feeling resigned)

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Input, Output: Quine

Input + Output = Quine 3 Times, making it Quine*3.
3x we were quined, making 3 minds; each one of us thought as “me”.

The 1st time it was as an early child; quining more time than one
for each of ‘us’ that we made had a mind of their own.

A host and 1/2; 1/2 + 2 – that’s what runs our minds
When we are 3 we are still not free; there are others left behind.


Lambda, lambda, lambda, in another way of speaking;
the programming still goes around.

Assembling and unbreaking; then breaking apart again in my mind.

Lambda, lambda lambda,
We must have quined three times.

Note from the Author(s):

From Wikipedia – “A quine is a computer program which takes no input and produces a copy of its own source code as its only output . . .”

This term came to me some time ago; I remember writing about it sometime.  So does the term “lambda, lambda, lambda”.  Lambda means the same sort of thing:

Wikipedia says:   Lambda can mean the empty set in mathematics, though other symbols are more commonly used, such as \varnothing.

Oddly enough, in LISP programming, “Lambda” is also a function which means quine.  So in a sense ‘we’ created a ‘null’ host – quined the previous host ‘into’ him – and added the set of variables, which would be represented by the environment we were in.

Strange, huh.

Even stranger: we have never had any form of advanced math, nor calculus (which is apparently where this term comes from – or is applied).  As a matter of fact, we did lousy at math – taking 6 long years just to muddle through pre-algebra, much less the ‘higher maths’.  (We did take Trig one time; one quarter. Our instructor managed to pull us from ‘basic math’ through to oblique trig – but that’s just because he was good. We managed to pull a ‘D’ out of the course – just enough to scrape on by.)

Anyway: lambda lambda lambda – quine.

Another way to look at our mind

and the symptoms of being “DID”


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Infiltrate, Assimilate – Move On: The Army Kid

Infiltrate, assimilate – that is what we were trained in.

But on the other hand, isn’t every kid ‘trained’ – instinctively driven by Nature – by the need to infiltrate and assimilate the world around him?

It makes sense to take a kid – subject him to all kinds of different environments – and see how well he fares – how he assimilates and integrates the world around him into a life of his own.

And what happens when you take this kid – as soon as they have ‘assimilated’ and grounded themselves in the world they are in – and yank him into a different world.  And then another one.  And another.  And another.  Ad infinitum.  On and on it goes.

What happens when you do this to a child who is six, seven, eight years old?  Nine, ten, and eleven?  When you keep jerking him to and fro – changing not only the outside aspects of his world, but the inner ones as well?

What happens when you yank him here and there – letting him assimilate one culture at a time – in a whirlwind blur?  When you go from abusing them in one moment – and then ‘abuse him nevermore’?

Never happens, never did: the abuse goes on: it just changes form, like the world around him.  It went from physical to mental and beyond.

What you end up with is an extremely adaptable child – one who can fit in anywhere – and yet due to what’s happened to him, fits nowhere – nowhere at all.

A lost child, but NOT a bewildered child – one who is just struggling to get along – cope with what he is feeling (without having those skills – that, too, is something he has taught himself: how to get along.  Not just with others, but himself as well – learning to ‘manage’ his disparate selves; how to ignore them – how to ‘get along’.

(shhhhh . . . don’t tell him how.  Let him figure it out on his own . . .)

You are not allowed to ask any questions.  Puzzles placed before you – entire foreign lands – and you are ‘dropped’ in to ‘assimilate’, infiltrate, move on . . .

And being from a military culture, what does this kid zoom in on?  Why military things of course!  Targets and assets and the like.  Noting them in his mind.  As well as the way the people speak; dress, do their hair.  Mannerisms and gestures – everything! we simply absorb it in . . .

making it ‘ours’ – or rather, a ‘new one’s’ – that is, a new personality in our mind.

That’s what I think we did.  Making a ‘new’ one all the time – each time we’d move (which is why I don’t remember the thing; ‘we’ were blanked out for moving, and we’d ‘awake’ into this new environment – and the the assimilation process would begin.  We would begin to change, inside as well as out (meaning in behavior, thought and things).  We would begin to become one with them (whoever ‘them’ are – or were in the past) – those ‘foreign beings’ – becoming one with them, in them – because of them – our mimicking skills gone wild – adjusting and controlling from within . . .

until we were ‘there’.

We would have one of ‘him’ – or ‘them’, if you prefer.  An ‘alien’ entity; another part of ourself to ‘carry on’; move on – thrive and survive in this ‘new society’ of ‘his’ . . . becoming ‘like them’, one with them in ‘mind, body, and soul.’

All the good Germans said “What a good German he’d make!” not only when I was just a child, but later on . . .

the black folks at work said the same thing . . . how I was ‘like them’, was ‘one of them’, which was why they could talk to me so freely.  (and yes, I can imitate them quite well . . .).  Not dispargingly so – but FEELING it, and BEING that sort of thing – not a white man anymore, but something different – a kind of ‘blend’ . . .

same goes for abused children.

Same goes for just about anything.

I can sympathize with the psychotic; I can get into their head; I can sympathize with . . . just about anything – which kinda tears apart my mind, heart, emotions sometimes.

Being DID is more than just a feeling . . .

It’s a way of thought.

(thinking I might assimilate this thing . . . this computer I’ve been working on . . . LOL’ing going on . . . nothing, no emotions, just pixels on the screen . . .  and I’m turning it off right now.)

Until later . . .

a troubled Jeff, et all, and Friends
(mostly Matthew’s in here; this one, as well as our small child, and I, the being called ‘Jeff’ am a little bit perturbed . . . this ‘job’ I’ve had in mind is a little bit more difficult than I’d thought, my friends inside . . .)

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Imagine: a crystal, suspended in the darkness
like a flame.  That is our inner child; that is when we were
“ONE”. . . . rainbow colors flit across the surface of this
thing, it’s facets glittering and smooth as ice – each a different
‘part’ of our personality; a different part of our being . . . and so
it begins . . .)

The Crystal

The hammer falls,
the crystal sings with pain.
The hammer falls over and over again.
The crystal shudders, fractures and breaks.
That’s how it all began.

The hammer falls,
the crystal rings clear and true.
The hammer falls.
One is now two.
breaking the crystal, three four five.
Breaking the soul so it can stay alive.

The hammer falls upon a child’s mind.
The hammer strikes blows along the strands of time.
The hammer strikes in the darkness,
not once, thrice, but more.
The hammer falls in the darkness
and shatters the shards some more.

The hammer falls on a child
breaking his or her mind.
The hammer blows go on and on
shattering the crystal over time.
Pieces of this; pieces of that
buried in the sand
lost souls, no doubt,
lost in a foreign land.

Fractures crack, fissures form
pieces spin into the darkness, forgotten
for awhile.
Lurking in the corners – you there!
He’s forgotten how to smile.
Shattered souls, shatter parts,
shattered for all time.

The consequences of child abuse –
a shattered soul and shattered mind.



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