Long before I ever played on one of Garvey's teams, I knew who he was. At St. John the Baptist Roman Catholic grade school which I attended, he was revered as the coach of the varsity basketball team and a respected member of the parish community. Ditto at Cathedral Preparatory High School for boys where Garvey coached freshman basketball. And also at Mercyhurst College where he taught History and eventually became the college's president. He devised election strategies and advised local Erie politicians such as mayor Lou Tullio and county executive Robbie Robison, and later, mayor Joyce Savacchio and county councilman Gary Bukowski. All of them benefited from Garvey's expertise. (I apologize for any misspellings.) His power and influence were well known. As was his success. "Absolute power corrupts absolutely" and I believe it led Garvey to think he could abuse us with impunity.
When things went well and we played well, Garvey roared his approval and beamed as he looked over his creation. But I also saw Garvey prod, name-call, scream, smack, and otherwise humiliate his players to improve their performance. My performance. His players, me included, quietly accepted this treatment. It was an honor to play for St. John's. An honor to play for Garvey. He was a winner. His methods went unquestioned. But I also watched some of those older players walk slowly, reluctantly, with heads down and shoulders slumped, as they headed off to the music room. They went off to what I initially considered a harsh motivational technique and later, when it happened to me, recognized as the beginnings of abuse and acquiescence, dominance and submission. They were going to the music room to be paddled, "rapped".
As has already been reported by others in The Erie Daily Times-News, the paddling could be for any number of reasons. One way to earn "raps" was to receive a less than acceptable assessment of your classroom behavior. In those days "conduct" was rated on a scale Of "1" to "4", with "4" being the worst possible grade. A mark of "3" or "4" on your report card earned you a like number of raps. Poor grades in academic studies could also earn you raps. And not surprisingly, poor performance on the court could earn you raps that were intended to spur you on to better play. Garvey recognized the motivational power of a very basic human instinct: fear. When he sensed that we, whether singularly or collectively, were afraid of the older high school or college-aged alumni that he encouraged to come scrimmage against us, or even at halftime of a game against another team he thought intimidated us, he told us that if we thought they were something to be scared of, he'd give us something to truly fear: him. At times that meant running laps around the gym for seemingly endless periods. Other times that meant banging your head off of a locker or a smack to the head. Often it meant a trip to the music room and raps. "Raps or laps" was a common refrain. At some point I was paddled for all of the above reasons.
Once in a while one of us would do something, in or out of school, that required Garvey's attention and, as he perceived it, discipline. In one instance, a then eighth grade player, thinking he was unobserved, pinched and twisted the nipple of the breast of one of his female classmates while pleading with her to "gimme some" (if lockerroom scuttlebutt is to be believed re: the quote). His punishment when this was brought to Garvey's attention: raps. In my case I had stupidly penned something silly, perhaps distasteful but by no means profane, that was deemed inappropriate for junior high consumption. One of my teachers had confiscated the material and punished me by keeping me after school. As I had feared, when I failed to show up for practice, my teammates had told Garvey of my predicament and he appeared at the door to my classroom. After a brief discussion in the hallway, the teacher and Garvey reappeared together and I was released into Garvey's custody. I wonder what my teacher would have done had she known what my punishment would be.
Practice was going to start late. And although that was often the case because Garvey was notorious for making us wait outside the school for him to arrive, this time it was my fault. When there were no other teachers or students within sight, he cuffed me open-handed upside the back of my head. "Aw, for Christ's sake. This is dumb, Jack. Really stupid." He led me down the hall to the music room. When we arrived he was further angered by the fact that the door was locked and he hadn't brought his keys. I followed behind him as he led me to the huge custodian storage room at the elbow of the basement. The room was dusty and smelled of the cleaning supplies and floor buffers that were kept there. The air was close and I found it hard to breathe. "Take your pants down, Jack, and bend over."
Next: "Rap" sessions
predafile@hotmail.com
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Sunday, June 05, 2005
"For Christ's sake, use your head"
Oddly, the quality, and sometimes quantity, of my playing time at practice was directly related to the frequency of my having "treatment". After recent treatment sessions Garvey seemed much more encouraging, ready with praise, and supportive. If I hadn't seen him in a while, his criticisms, name-calling, and belittling could be withering. In hindsight, I now wonder if I was placed in situations in which I would be more likely to succeed or fail based on the degree to which I acquiesced off the court.
Regardless, as the time since my last treatment lengthened, my game, my confidence, and my self-esteem were suffering. He repeatedly told me I was not strong enough and a step too slow. He would never allude to the treatment in public but the implications were clear: to achieve my goal I needed what only he could do for me, and to do otherwise was sheer stupidity. One of Garvey's tools of manipulation was to appeal to your intelligence, or if you didn't do as he wanted, lack thereof. On many occasions he said to me, "Jack, for such a smart kid, you make a lot of stupid decisions. Use your head. For Christ's sake, use your head." Evidently, in his mind, or more importantly in my own, I needed to link, irrefutably, avoidance of therapy with being a damn fool. I knew I wasn't stupid and I knew I was no fool, but I was too young to understand Garvey's ability to manipulate the situation and his ability to manipulate me to not only choose to submit to the treatment but to have to come to him and ask for it. And ask for it I did.
During one of my more recent trips to Garvey's residence he had told me that besides my lack of strength I also had a genetic trait, which he had noticed in other members of my family, that made me a step or two slower than I should be. He said that my protruding buttocks was symptomatic of a problem that caused my hips to lock up. "Jack, do you know the difference between 'quickness' and 'speed'? You're not terribly fast but you're OK once you get going. What we need to work on are those hips and your quickness, that first step." Oddly enough, he said my body and my problem were common in Blacks. (I wasn't mentally agile enough at the time to ask why, if that was the case, the African-americans that I was playing on the playground and those I watched on TV didn't seem slow or hip-locked at all.) He said that the exercise we performed, when I got on top of him and I rotated my hips, would "unlock" this problem. Yet another compelling reason for more "treatment".
As bizarre as this had all become, in my mind, I still blindly trusted him. I think my first real doubts about what we were doing up in his bedroom came when during one of our sessions, while I was naked on top of him dutifully rotating my hips, he told me to stick my tongue in his mouth and move it back and forth, and around in a circle. He said it would help raise my body temperature faster, facilitating the draining of my sinuses. He pulled the topsheet and blanket more completely up over the top of us as if to reinforce the need for heat. I was reluctant but I did as he said. The sour smell of coffee was on his breath and it tasted worse. His abrasive stubble grated against the skin around my mouth. I had no idea what I was doing. I mechanically moved my tongue back and forth inside his mouth and my drool began to pool where our mouths met and roll down his face. At one point he reached for the sleeve of his t-shirt and wiped his mouth clean. All the while I was still gyrating my hips.
I lost myself in the rhythmic nature of my movements and tried not to think about what was transpiring. I didn't want to think about what he was doing. The answers were not in my experience vocabulary. I was so young I hadn't even really thought about sex. It held no interest for me. Everything I knew was from one-liners the older guys bandied about the lockerroom, and that presented more questions and confusion than information. In lockerrooms everyone pretends to know more than they actually do. The lockerroom is about false bravado not the dissemination of any remotely accurate information. I waited for Garvey to say enough was enough, and eventually, he did. As usual he rolled me on to my left side and moved on to my sinuses. As had become the rule, this was followed by more upper body wrestling, which now included him wrapping his legs around mine and locking his legs at his ankles to make my escape more difficult. And this was followed by the flexibility exercises which entailed Garvey yanking and tugging as he pulled my hands behind my back and pushed against my shoulders attempting to touch my fingertips to the base of my skull.
For the first time Garvey asked me if I would like to shower before I dressed. From that day forward, he would invariably ask and I would always decline. Even though I had yet to sort out much of what was going on or how I felt about it, I knew all I wanted to do was get the hell out of there. I dressed, we got into his car, he drove to my neighborhood and dropped me off in front of my house.
I needed to think. The problem was I didn't know the questions let alone the answers. I did know something wasn't right. I was miserable. Life was miserable. I hated it and I hated myself. Although I couldn't put it into words yet, my heart, my soul, something inside me felt terribly wrong. Deeply scared. Deeply troubled. Deeply wrong. Something about Garvey was wrong. "Use your head, Jack. For Christ's sake, use your head."
predafile@hotmail.com
Regardless, as the time since my last treatment lengthened, my game, my confidence, and my self-esteem were suffering. He repeatedly told me I was not strong enough and a step too slow. He would never allude to the treatment in public but the implications were clear: to achieve my goal I needed what only he could do for me, and to do otherwise was sheer stupidity. One of Garvey's tools of manipulation was to appeal to your intelligence, or if you didn't do as he wanted, lack thereof. On many occasions he said to me, "Jack, for such a smart kid, you make a lot of stupid decisions. Use your head. For Christ's sake, use your head." Evidently, in his mind, or more importantly in my own, I needed to link, irrefutably, avoidance of therapy with being a damn fool. I knew I wasn't stupid and I knew I was no fool, but I was too young to understand Garvey's ability to manipulate the situation and his ability to manipulate me to not only choose to submit to the treatment but to have to come to him and ask for it. And ask for it I did.
During one of my more recent trips to Garvey's residence he had told me that besides my lack of strength I also had a genetic trait, which he had noticed in other members of my family, that made me a step or two slower than I should be. He said that my protruding buttocks was symptomatic of a problem that caused my hips to lock up. "Jack, do you know the difference between 'quickness' and 'speed'? You're not terribly fast but you're OK once you get going. What we need to work on are those hips and your quickness, that first step." Oddly enough, he said my body and my problem were common in Blacks. (I wasn't mentally agile enough at the time to ask why, if that was the case, the African-americans that I was playing on the playground and those I watched on TV didn't seem slow or hip-locked at all.) He said that the exercise we performed, when I got on top of him and I rotated my hips, would "unlock" this problem. Yet another compelling reason for more "treatment".
As bizarre as this had all become, in my mind, I still blindly trusted him. I think my first real doubts about what we were doing up in his bedroom came when during one of our sessions, while I was naked on top of him dutifully rotating my hips, he told me to stick my tongue in his mouth and move it back and forth, and around in a circle. He said it would help raise my body temperature faster, facilitating the draining of my sinuses. He pulled the topsheet and blanket more completely up over the top of us as if to reinforce the need for heat. I was reluctant but I did as he said. The sour smell of coffee was on his breath and it tasted worse. His abrasive stubble grated against the skin around my mouth. I had no idea what I was doing. I mechanically moved my tongue back and forth inside his mouth and my drool began to pool where our mouths met and roll down his face. At one point he reached for the sleeve of his t-shirt and wiped his mouth clean. All the while I was still gyrating my hips.
I lost myself in the rhythmic nature of my movements and tried not to think about what was transpiring. I didn't want to think about what he was doing. The answers were not in my experience vocabulary. I was so young I hadn't even really thought about sex. It held no interest for me. Everything I knew was from one-liners the older guys bandied about the lockerroom, and that presented more questions and confusion than information. In lockerrooms everyone pretends to know more than they actually do. The lockerroom is about false bravado not the dissemination of any remotely accurate information. I waited for Garvey to say enough was enough, and eventually, he did. As usual he rolled me on to my left side and moved on to my sinuses. As had become the rule, this was followed by more upper body wrestling, which now included him wrapping his legs around mine and locking his legs at his ankles to make my escape more difficult. And this was followed by the flexibility exercises which entailed Garvey yanking and tugging as he pulled my hands behind my back and pushed against my shoulders attempting to touch my fingertips to the base of my skull.
For the first time Garvey asked me if I would like to shower before I dressed. From that day forward, he would invariably ask and I would always decline. Even though I had yet to sort out much of what was going on or how I felt about it, I knew all I wanted to do was get the hell out of there. I dressed, we got into his car, he drove to my neighborhood and dropped me off in front of my house.
I needed to think. The problem was I didn't know the questions let alone the answers. I did know something wasn't right. I was miserable. Life was miserable. I hated it and I hated myself. Although I couldn't put it into words yet, my heart, my soul, something inside me felt terribly wrong. Deeply scared. Deeply troubled. Deeply wrong. Something about Garvey was wrong. "Use your head, Jack. For Christ's sake, use your head."
predafile@hotmail.com
Thursday, June 02, 2005
"Carpe diem"
Naive as I was, I knew that I did not like the new twist that my relationship with Garvey had undergone. He began regularly directing me to the "music room" after practice. He would stand behind me and pin my arms to my sides or hold me by my wrists, sometimes pulling my arms behind my back. I was to fight against him to gain my escape. Fight I did. As before, in his bed, I pulled, twisted, grunted, and struggled. Sometimes he would tell me that if I couldn't break away, I would be "rapped". I struggled harder. Other times, inexplicably, I would free myself after a relatively short session. I had yet to approach puberty and I was no match for a fully grown man, even one with arthritis like Garvey. I never understood why sometimes he made it so hard and other times it was much easier. I still don't. Invariably, in the course of this wrestling, my towel would fall from around my waist. He would tell me to leave it where it lay and I would continue my session naked.
He began ending these sessions by taking hold of my wrists and stretching my arms behind my back in an attempt to touch my hand to the back of my head. Even at the age of eleven I was nowhere near flexible enough to perform this stretch but time after time we would go through this painful pulling on my arms and shoulders until months later I could finally do it with relative ease. I tell you this to point out that the "treatment" never stopped. It evolved. There was always something.
Perhaps the physical pain was a test, something to toughen me up. Bad as it was the toll these sessions were taking on my soul was much more serious. I hated the grueling contests. I tried to avoid them. I tried to avoid him. Avoid the situations that led to these sessions. I showered quickly and tried to get out of the school before he would come downstairs from the gym to the lockerroom. I left without showering. One day he caught me in the hall and I got a lecture and he forced me to take a shower with only the cold water turned on. He stood watch and would have held me under if I had tried to get out. He'd done it before.
Not long after, I think sensing my attempts to avoid him, he cornered me in the boys' basement bathroom where we showered. I was using one of the two urinals when he came up alongside of me to use the other. "Are you familiar with the saying 'carpe diem'," he asked me. "No, of course not," he answered his own question. "It's from the Latin. It means 'seize the day', 'seize the opportunity'. Mr. Hughes, Jack, you have an opportunity in front of you. I don't do what I'm doing for you for just anybody. You have worked hard for what you've gotten. It's not enough. Do you want to be mediocre? Is that what you want? To settle for mediocrity? We haven't worked on your strength or flexibility lately. You aren't fast enough or strong enough to compete with those other guys out there. Most of them are already going through puberty. Are you going to throw it all away? I don't offer my services lightly, Jack. Make up your mind. And remember, 'Carpe diem'." He'd started to walk away when he turned and said, "And how's your head? We haven't been working on your sinuses, either. Don't neglect them. That'd be a big mistake." He turned and left.
I considered my options. None of them good. I wanted that for which I had worked so hard, and always seemed to be just out of my grasp: to play and to play well. How had that ever come to this?
predafile@hotmail.com
He began ending these sessions by taking hold of my wrists and stretching my arms behind my back in an attempt to touch my hand to the back of my head. Even at the age of eleven I was nowhere near flexible enough to perform this stretch but time after time we would go through this painful pulling on my arms and shoulders until months later I could finally do it with relative ease. I tell you this to point out that the "treatment" never stopped. It evolved. There was always something.
Perhaps the physical pain was a test, something to toughen me up. Bad as it was the toll these sessions were taking on my soul was much more serious. I hated the grueling contests. I tried to avoid them. I tried to avoid him. Avoid the situations that led to these sessions. I showered quickly and tried to get out of the school before he would come downstairs from the gym to the lockerroom. I left without showering. One day he caught me in the hall and I got a lecture and he forced me to take a shower with only the cold water turned on. He stood watch and would have held me under if I had tried to get out. He'd done it before.
Not long after, I think sensing my attempts to avoid him, he cornered me in the boys' basement bathroom where we showered. I was using one of the two urinals when he came up alongside of me to use the other. "Are you familiar with the saying 'carpe diem'," he asked me. "No, of course not," he answered his own question. "It's from the Latin. It means 'seize the day', 'seize the opportunity'. Mr. Hughes, Jack, you have an opportunity in front of you. I don't do what I'm doing for you for just anybody. You have worked hard for what you've gotten. It's not enough. Do you want to be mediocre? Is that what you want? To settle for mediocrity? We haven't worked on your strength or flexibility lately. You aren't fast enough or strong enough to compete with those other guys out there. Most of them are already going through puberty. Are you going to throw it all away? I don't offer my services lightly, Jack. Make up your mind. And remember, 'Carpe diem'." He'd started to walk away when he turned and said, "And how's your head? We haven't been working on your sinuses, either. Don't neglect them. That'd be a big mistake." He turned and left.
I considered my options. None of them good. I wanted that for which I had worked so hard, and always seemed to be just out of my grasp: to play and to play well. How had that ever come to this?
predafile@hotmail.com
Monday, May 23, 2005
"Treatment": the molesting begins
With Garvey, it's all about "treatment". Gym-rat that I was, over the years I observed Garvey administering minor first aid to his players. He applied pressure to bloody noses and massaged or otherwise manipulated bruised and pulled muscles. In the latter case, some Atomic Balm and an ace bandage were usually employed. I thought nothing of it when he offered to help me with my particular recurring pain: headaches. Although I was too young to play on any team, I got the impression that he liked me and when he offered to rub my head, I was flattered to get his attention in front of the older guys. He instructed me to lie down on the bleacher and rest the back of my head in his lap. He then proceeded to "drain my sinuses" as he had diagnosed the source of my problem. This involved rubbing my forehead and temples and then using his fingers in a squeegie-like fashion to push the loosened mucous down towards the back of my nasal passages where I could swallow it. In addition (and this part was extremely painful) he would apply increasing pressure, with the fleshy portion of his thumb, to my eye in an attempt to force the mucous out from behind my eyeball and socket. More massaging, more squeegie-ing, more thumbing, more squeegie-ing. The thing is, bizarre as it sounds, it worked.
I have a history of headaches. From as early as first grade I had episodes of head pain so severe that I would throw up. Ordinarily that meant an afternoon with my head on my desk or in the nurses office until one of my older siblings could take me home because my mom worked. My third grade teacher sometimes gave me a ride home on such occasions. Several years later, when I was eleven years old, I had a headache. I was in the principles office. We were talking about my being excused for the day but she wanted to call my parents to make sure that I was allowed to go home and be there all by myself. Garvey poked his head into the office and took the chair next to me across from her. He intimated a knowledge of my headache history and let it be known that it was pretty much my own damn fault because if I came to him more regularly for treatment this was avoidable. He convinced her that he would take care of me and assured her that I would be fine.
We got in his car, a new gold Ford Torino, and drove to his apartment which was in a cul de sac nestled between Pine Ave. and Old French Rd. off of Parade St. Blvd. Once there he directed me upstairs to his bedroom where he said I needed to work up a sweat to get the mucous flowing and thereby more easily drainable. It was the next instruction that shook me. Instead of reclining with my head in his lap as had become customary, he now wanted me to take my clothes off. I hesitated. I was scared and confused but here was this man that I trusted, that everyone respected and trusted. He must have seen it in my eyes because he said something like, "Get in the bed and let's get this over with. I don't have a lot of time. I have to get back for practice. If you want me to help you...". He told me to take off my underwear, too. I complied.
He took off his clothes except for his white T-shirt, briefs and dark socks. For years I had stolen glances at the raw, red patches at the base of his neck and hairline that were visible above his collar. I inwardly screamed when he would lean back in his desk chair and, baring gritted teeth, picked at his scalp. What I saw now, horrified me. His entire body was a patchwork of red, scaly psoriasis sores. He didn't seem to notice my reaction. He removed his glasses and reached across the bed and placed them on the nightstand. When he was lying on his back on the bed, he instructed me to get on top of him, torso to torso, face to face. He pulled the topsheet and blanket over the top of us and told me to begin rotating my hips in an oval lateral fashion. I must not have done it right because he put his hands on my hips and directed me. This went on, rhythmically, uninterrupted, for what seemed an eternity before he said I could stop. Then he rolled me over on to my left side and, from behind me, began to rub my sinuses.
Other than our position, this part was no different than any other sinus session. He workrd my head and my headache went away. Or at some point it had. What happened next surprised me. He wrapped his arms around me and pinning my arms to my sides made me struggle to gain my freedom. I struggled. I grunted. I fought. And when I felt a sense of futility, because every time escape seemed near he reasserted himself, I whimpered. He told me that if I quit and didn't break free, he would "rap" me, I struggled until I had no more to give. Eventually, he let me go. He called me weak and told me we'd have to work on it, my upper body strength that is. I dressed in silence and we drove to practice together.
predafile@hotmail.com
I have a history of headaches. From as early as first grade I had episodes of head pain so severe that I would throw up. Ordinarily that meant an afternoon with my head on my desk or in the nurses office until one of my older siblings could take me home because my mom worked. My third grade teacher sometimes gave me a ride home on such occasions. Several years later, when I was eleven years old, I had a headache. I was in the principles office. We were talking about my being excused for the day but she wanted to call my parents to make sure that I was allowed to go home and be there all by myself. Garvey poked his head into the office and took the chair next to me across from her. He intimated a knowledge of my headache history and let it be known that it was pretty much my own damn fault because if I came to him more regularly for treatment this was avoidable. He convinced her that he would take care of me and assured her that I would be fine.
We got in his car, a new gold Ford Torino, and drove to his apartment which was in a cul de sac nestled between Pine Ave. and Old French Rd. off of Parade St. Blvd. Once there he directed me upstairs to his bedroom where he said I needed to work up a sweat to get the mucous flowing and thereby more easily drainable. It was the next instruction that shook me. Instead of reclining with my head in his lap as had become customary, he now wanted me to take my clothes off. I hesitated. I was scared and confused but here was this man that I trusted, that everyone respected and trusted. He must have seen it in my eyes because he said something like, "Get in the bed and let's get this over with. I don't have a lot of time. I have to get back for practice. If you want me to help you...". He told me to take off my underwear, too. I complied.
He took off his clothes except for his white T-shirt, briefs and dark socks. For years I had stolen glances at the raw, red patches at the base of his neck and hairline that were visible above his collar. I inwardly screamed when he would lean back in his desk chair and, baring gritted teeth, picked at his scalp. What I saw now, horrified me. His entire body was a patchwork of red, scaly psoriasis sores. He didn't seem to notice my reaction. He removed his glasses and reached across the bed and placed them on the nightstand. When he was lying on his back on the bed, he instructed me to get on top of him, torso to torso, face to face. He pulled the topsheet and blanket over the top of us and told me to begin rotating my hips in an oval lateral fashion. I must not have done it right because he put his hands on my hips and directed me. This went on, rhythmically, uninterrupted, for what seemed an eternity before he said I could stop. Then he rolled me over on to my left side and, from behind me, began to rub my sinuses.
Other than our position, this part was no different than any other sinus session. He workrd my head and my headache went away. Or at some point it had. What happened next surprised me. He wrapped his arms around me and pinning my arms to my sides made me struggle to gain my freedom. I struggled. I grunted. I fought. And when I felt a sense of futility, because every time escape seemed near he reasserted himself, I whimpered. He told me that if I quit and didn't break free, he would "rap" me, I struggled until I had no more to give. Eventually, he let me go. He called me weak and told me we'd have to work on it, my upper body strength that is. I dressed in silence and we drove to practice together.
predafile@hotmail.com
Thursday, May 19, 2005
I am not ashamed any longer
Some (not all) people are telling me to keep quiet, keep my mouth shut, be careful. They say Garvey is a powerful man, he has influence and resources beyond my imagination. They cite the seriousness and number of allegations against him, from which he came away relatively unscathed. He remains listed on the Mercyhurst directory, draws over $120,000 in compensation while in "retirement" and is still being appointed to civic positions. Barry Grossman, an Erie mayoral candidate, lists Garvey as one of his heroes. It seems, like Richard Nixon after the McCarthy fiasco, he'll weather the storm and he'll be back. My friends may be right but this is too important. Too important for me and Garvey's other victims. Too important for other victims of pedophilia who need the support of a familiar voice. And too important for anyone out there with children. This plague of predation must stop. No more victims.
What these well-meaning people do not understand is that Garvey built me up and beat me up. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, on a day to day basis and a long term basis as well. He tricked me into his bed and abused me. Perhaps worst of all he isolated me from my friends, teammates, and even my own family. He made me feel ashamed of myself. Not him. I didn't realize that until later. Ashamed of myself for wanting something so badly that I believed he really was acting in my best interests. Ashamed that I had been so sexually uninformed and naive that I had no idea what he was doing until it was too late. So ashamed that I couldn't tell my parents or teachers what he was doing to me.
While the sexual abuse one suffers at the hands of a pedophile is debasing, dehumanizing, repugnant, and evil, it is not necessarily the aspect of the abuse that wounds longest or deepest. That is the the scar of manipulation, deceit, and betrayal. The loss of one's self-esteem and confidence. The loss of one's ability to trust. The loss of one's ability to commit. The loss of one's ability to love. Things that take years or even lifetimes to rebuild if ever at all.
This is why I'm writing. To tell those of you out there who like me have lived the self-loathing and pain that comes from the multi-faceted abuse received at the hands of Garvey or any other abuser: YOU HAVE NOTHING OF WHICH TO BE ASHAMED! We are the victims. I freed myself of the physical abuse years ago. This is part of healing myself of the rest.
predafile@hotmail.com
What these well-meaning people do not understand is that Garvey built me up and beat me up. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, on a day to day basis and a long term basis as well. He tricked me into his bed and abused me. Perhaps worst of all he isolated me from my friends, teammates, and even my own family. He made me feel ashamed of myself. Not him. I didn't realize that until later. Ashamed of myself for wanting something so badly that I believed he really was acting in my best interests. Ashamed that I had been so sexually uninformed and naive that I had no idea what he was doing until it was too late. So ashamed that I couldn't tell my parents or teachers what he was doing to me.
While the sexual abuse one suffers at the hands of a pedophile is debasing, dehumanizing, repugnant, and evil, it is not necessarily the aspect of the abuse that wounds longest or deepest. That is the the scar of manipulation, deceit, and betrayal. The loss of one's self-esteem and confidence. The loss of one's ability to trust. The loss of one's ability to commit. The loss of one's ability to love. Things that take years or even lifetimes to rebuild if ever at all.
This is why I'm writing. To tell those of you out there who like me have lived the self-loathing and pain that comes from the multi-faceted abuse received at the hands of Garvey or any other abuser: YOU HAVE NOTHING OF WHICH TO BE ASHAMED! We are the victims. I freed myself of the physical abuse years ago. This is part of healing myself of the rest.
predafile@hotmail.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)