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