Life of Struggle - Anonymous

To quote Bill Cosby, “I started out as a child.” Of course, we all did. I do not know how this is going to progress or come out, but this is a part of my story, where it all began. The only tease at the beginning is this: Every word is 100% the truth. This isn't fantasy. This is me. My earliest memories of a fetish nature go back to about the age of 8. I learned recently, that this is about when most people first know, though most don't really know what they know for years. I remember dreams, gender “wars,” capture or be captured. Of course, at that age, young and innocent, I did not know what any of it meant, cells, restraints, beautiful women, Wonder Woman's rope … Of course, the dreams did not go very far because I was too young to have a concept of what the different bodies were for... interesting, but in the end, empty.

So far, so good... on my way to growing up, older day by day, on the road to my future. I was raised in a very religious family, much to my everlasting regret. I was so proud to follow in my father's footsteps as an altar server in the local Roman Catholic parish. I spent five years doing that... while being molested by the local priest. I was always taught that a priest was God's representative on earth. Things didn't feel right, like him, face twisted by a stroke that left half his face and mouth paralyzed, leaning in to kiss me, or trying to climb into bed with me. But... how could a representative of God do something that was wrong, even if it didn't feel right.

Twenty years later it was explained to me. The contradiction, the confusion, was so overwhelming my mind shut down. It blocked the memories because they were beyond my ability to comprehend at that young age. Ah, how proud my parents were of the attention a priest was paying their son. This must be good. A Mistress I belonged to explained to me that as a defense, when overwhelmed, the mind will curl up in a fetal position for protection. She explained that when the danger passed, mine never got out of that fetal position. Thus, the depression that haunts me.

Anyway, memories buried, I continued to grow up, high school, the church became an uncomfortable place, though I didn't know why. It was easy to stop going, working late nights, I was able to schedule a later service than my parents and just not go... until they figured it out. It was a rough summer before college.

To get more on point, I left the Church, and over time left all religion. I went from the person thought most likely to be a priest, in school to abandoning all faith, all religion and spirituality. There is no Divine, only this mortal coil. One day I will shuffle it off, and for the first time since about the age of 10 or 12, I will find peace.

The summer before my Senior year in college, I was in the shower, it was August, and I had the radio going. New Flash! Father James Porter, two towns away, on trial for molesting children. Suddenly it all came back. Horror, shame, disgust, hate, swirling around... my knees buckled, tears. I spent hours talking to one friend, trying to cope. Even then, even years before when it was happening, I knew my parents wouldn't understand. I couldn't go to them, they would choose the Church over me. Sadly, I was right.

Junior year in college I started to explore my fetish side. My girlfriend got a set of handcuffs as a gag gift. The times were fun, though the relationship didn't last. She was insane. Another relationship, more experimenting, etc. Struggling with the memories, struggling with the pain, loss of innocence, exploring power, give and take. It was, and is, a need. Driven by desires I didn't understand while overwhelmed by memories of betrayal and hurt. I tied the two together. How could I enjoy these activities? Isn't it about love and tenderness? How could I enjoy playing with cuffs, floggers, paddles? I was in my thirties before I realized that my fetish desires were not a sickness. I wasn't twisted, dangerous, a predator because I enjoyed these things.

Oddly, it was the internet that saved me. I was in a one dimensional chat environment where I first was able to meet and interact with people with the same needs, wants and desires that I had... I wasn't sick. I was normal, just a little different. At that point, it was still a struggle, but there was hope...I would be able to learn, grow, find my way. At the same time, more self hate. Then, I identified more as sub than slave. I kept seeing things I thought were “extreme,” things I couldn't comprehend wanting or needing. Things I couldn't understand anyone else needing or wanting, “I could never do that...” I was proven wrong over and over and over again. It is amazing what one can do for someone they love.

At the same time, I needed submission, I hated it, and hated me. Why would anyone CHOOSE to be submissive? Why would anyone want, need, desire to be treated that way? Why would I want to feel a flogger, to be made to kneel, dragged, collared on a leash, address someone as “Mistress,” acknowledging an inferior position, let alone comprehend this fascination Dommes have with chastity belts and strap-ons. And yet, one by one, each limit, each protestation, gradually gave way to acceptance, then need.

In time I married. We moved into a new condo in November, and the phone call from my father. “A lot of people have done a lot of nice things for you recently. If you want to make your mother happier than any gift, come to Midnight Mass with us.” Don't you love an elegant guilt trip? At the time I hadn't set foot in a church in over a decade. My parents didn't know what had happened. They just knew I didn't go. I talked to my wife, a Hindu. She offered to go if it would get me out of it. I waited a couple of days, called my father from the road, asked if he could meet me for lunch, I really needed to talk. He couldn't. He was setting up cameras to record the holiday services. So, I spilled the story of the abuse, crying, in a break down lane, on a cell phone. I guess the lane was for more than cars breaking down that day. It was another knife, too. I was falling apart, told him because I was guilted into a corner... My parents chose the Church before me. I was betrayed again and the Church won, again.

For the first time in my life he agreed not to tell my mother something until I gave permission. I wasn't ready.

Then it happened. I was working, selling on a route. I was in an account, and there, the newspaper rack. That twisted face, I hoped I would never see again. He had been outed. A family shattered. A man told his family what happened to him at the hands of this priest a decade before me, at which point his two younger brothers told him they had the same experiences. The parents thought he was a great family friend and had named their youngest son after him. I still get shivers thinking about that family. I fell apart. I called my boss, told him and went home. I called my father and told him he could tell my mother. Life has never been the same.

The next morning my father was, as is his wont, at Mass at 7AM. The pastor mentioned the story and told the congregation that he had no information but that the Archdiocese had asked him to collect information. My father went and told him my story. My parents chose the Church before me. I was betrayed again and the Church won, again.

My mother responded, by calling a former priest from the parish who was/is still a good family friend and told him my story. My parents chose the Church before me. I was betrayed again and the Church won, again.

A few weeks later my parents wanted to talk to me about what had happened. They came to my place. My wife, in the next room, support, but giving me space. Then came the question, my mother asked, “I don't understand why you didn't tell us when it happened.” I answered, “because at the time I couldn't understand or comprehend it myself. When I was finally able to, I didn't, because I knew you wouldn't believe me. When it started to become public, I knew you would choose the Church first.” My mother, of course, denied this, they would support me completely, I was their son. I asked, “Then why is it when you both became aware of what happened to me, the first thing each of you did was talk to a priest?” She said, “But the Church has a right to know.” My parents chose the Church before me. I was betrayed again and the Church won, again. I went off and explained to her that the Church was the perpetrator, I was the victim, their son. The Church should not have found out except on my terms, through my chosen representative, on my time.

All those years before, when I realized I couldn't go to my parents. I hoped I was wrong. I wasn't. I was right. For all eternity, I was right.

In time I learned to reconcile the pain, though I have not gotten past the depression. I learned, in time, through pain, to embrace my submission. The best Mistress I ever had taught me that when I give of myself, if I hate what I am giving it loses value. It means also that I hate what I am receiving, the Dominance, the gift of my Owner. That was a slap, but right on target. I soon learned to embrace who I am. I learned that I can give of myself to a depth and level I never could have comprehended. I learned that submission requires incredible strength and isn't for the weak. The weak become doormats, open to be abused. I learned to submit to One, not to a society. I learned that even as a submissive I have the right to respect, courtesy, to be loved, treasured. I learned that I have the right to love myself for who I am. I learned there is dignity in submission, in giving wholly of oneself to one who loves you equally and gives deeply of themselves to you. I learned to accept that I am who I am, and though a life I would not have originally chosen, can be a fulfilling vocation.

A life of struggle. Maybe now I can find my peace, find the life I want to live. Maybe now I can move forward, bury the ghosts of my past and find a future that is worth living.