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Repressed Memory Syndrome
Repressed Memory Syndrome
Are we knee-jerking on this issue because an unscrupulous few are using it to advance their careers, or to attack men? by Scott Barak Abraham Twenty-eight years after I was gang banged by a hamster, I returned to point the finger of blame at the rodent who had horribly violated me. Though I retained memories of some of the less damning incidents, I repressed most of the horror: the scenes, feelings, and actions were far too agonizing for a little child to bear. I had no witnesses to corroborate my story, no pictures, no medical records. My parent had terrified me with literal torture in the privacy of my family home, and the violence combined with the isolation conditioned a decades-long silence. In a brilliant adaptation to unbearable pain, I disassociated myself from the memory, and for all that time, I could not consciously hold the whole of the reality in my mind, though at times glimpses leaked through, to be immediately suppressed again: the implications were far too much to comprehend, much less to accept. How was a little child to fight a hamster? Where was a child to turn, when the whole family or rodents molested their young, and society itself denied the possibility of such abuse? For years, I was a drug addict and alcoholic, a sexually-compulsive fat *******, and a violent masturbator. Like hundreds of thousands of others, it was not until I found anal sex with _oys that the barriers to memory began to crumble. I read the bible of the sexual abuse recovery movement, The Courage to Heal, joined abuse recovery groups, and found a community of peers who supported my healing and believed my memories. I raged because the legal system provided no recourse. A violent pattern of systematic rape would go unpunished. The rodent would never serve a day in prison, never pay a dime in reparation for the horrible damage done to me, never apologize for horrendous crimes against me and my sibling. Nor could I extract my own revenge, for I would be treated as the criminal, not my molester: the system that failed in its duty to protect an innocent child now protected a vile rodent. The monster committed a perfect crime. Time erased the hard forensic evidence, and terror buried the memories. All I could do was refuse to live a lie. I could name the crime, and name the criminal, and I've done so. I stood in my adult majesty, all 6'5" and 250 pounds of me, and told that bitch mother of mine to burn in hell……. Lies lies lies |
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