This is me.
There is a story behind this photo. Looking at the photo would never give any clues to the story. I am going to tell that story now.
My father and stepmother were involved in a number of illicit activities in an urban area in the early '70's, including the sale and use of illegal drugs, and the making and selling of child pornography. I was used by both of them in these activities until I was around nine years of age.
My father met Pam while he was sleeping with various prostitutes in our nearby city. She had long dark hair, and lived in an apartment somewhere within city limits. My father took my baby sister and me to Pam's place when my mom was gone to work her shifts as an operating room RN at a local hospital. Pam sometimes let me watch a show called “Nanny and the Professor.” I had to be very good if I wanted to watch it.
Pam started telling me stories. She told me how she was locked up in a place for crazy people, and how they shocked her, and did other things that hurt her. She told me that people who say crazy things get locked up in those places. She showed me scary black and white photos of people in such a place. The photos were from a magazine my mom also had at our house, called “Life,” and the pictures were terrifying to me. Pam told me I must never say things that made adults think I was crazy, or I would be locked up in such a place.
Pam started giving me shots. I had gone through a number of surgeries on my left hip due to a birth defect, so when Pam said I needed more shots, I thought it was like at the hospital, so I just accepted it as something I must need, because the adults around me said so. The shots made Pam's words start to sound very slow, and made me feel tickly inside. I would fall asleep, and wake up to different surroundings, with different things going on. Pam would say I must be quiet and be good, so I would not wake up my baby sister.
One night, after my mom left for work and Pam came over, my father and Pam had me look outside my family's front room window toward our carport. A big truck with a boat behind it was parked there. A motorcycle was next to it. My father said that if I pleased God by obeying him and Pam always, and if I never told anyone about what he and Pam and the other adults were doing to me and the other kids, then one day God would give our family a nice boat, and a nice truck, and a nice motorcycle. The next morning, after my mom came home and my father left for work, I tried to tell her that I had seen a boat and a motorcycle, and that God was going to give them to us if I was good. She said “What an imagination you have,” and went on about her business. But she must have mentioned what I said to my father, because Pam was very angry at me the next time we went to her place. Her brown eyes were scary, like they had changed from her normal eyes. I knew I was in very bad trouble.
My Great-Grandma died, so our family went to her funeral in another state. When we got back, my Siamese cat had run away from the people who were taking care of her. I was devastated. I did not cry, though, because my father never let me cry. Instead, I let the tears gather into a big lump in the back of my throat, and I swallowed them away. A few days later, my father brought me home a little black kitten. I named him Barney, after the Flintstones' character. My father had never given me anything before. I wondered why he gave me this kitten, and why he took time to notice if I was hugging my new kitten, and loving it. I did love Barney, very much.
One night, after my mom left for work, Pam came over. She sat on my couch, and made me sit next to her. My father brought Barney over, and placed him in my lap. Pam said I must learn to never say anything ever about what she and my father and her friends did. She said it was too bad I had not learned my lesson, because now my cat was going to pay for me being bad. Pam took my hands, placed them around Barney's neck, with her hands over mine, and my father held Barney's paws. Pam squeezed on my hands, but I no longer felt anything in my hands. I could only see my kitten trying to squirm loose, struggling to breathe. His head moved, his mouth opened, his tongue moved. His eyes were misshapen with fear and struggle. It went on for a long time. Then he was still. My chest hurt so bad. “This will happen to your sister next time,” Pam said. My father placed Barney on top of some towels in the laundry basket, and put the basket into a closet. He closed the closet door, got my sister from her crib, and we left, Pam holding my hand, her skin still damp from the struggle to silence my kitten. The next day, my mom looked around for Barney. When she finally found him, my father said he must have had distemper, and gone into the closet to die, glaring into my eyes as he said it. I looked down, and saw my hands shaking in my lap. I swallowed a lot of tears.
Pam and my father still did not trust me, because the next time we were at her place, she made me sit next to a woman with short dark hair, who sometimes took pictures of us kids as we played “games.” The woman looked down at me with very angry eyes, and told me if I ever said anything to anybody else again, she would come to our house one day, knock on the door, get my mom to let her into our house, then get my mom to invite her into my parents' bedroom. While they were in there, she said, she would kill my mom. She said if I tried to tell my mom what she was going to do, my mom would think I was crazy, and put me in an insane asylum like Pam had once been in. She said that nobody was ever going to believe me if I ever tried to tell anyone about any of these things, and I would look like my mind was insane if I ever spoke about any of this. The woman left, and Pam had me go sit and watch Nanny and the Professor. I tried to let the show make my mind pretend like none of this was real.
Some days later, while I was at home with my mom and sister in our blue trailer by the crick in the mobile home park where we lived, there was a knock on the door. My mom opened it, and there was the woman with short dark hair. She was carrying a black bag, and spoke with my mom for a few minutes. She was smiling. My throat instantly constricted in fear. My mom invited the woman into our house, and told me that this nice lady was a photographer, and she was going to take some pictures of me for free. Then my mom took the woman back into my parents' bedroom, to show the woman some old family photos in there. The woman gave me one backwards glance as she followed my mom into that bedroom. I do not remember moving at all while they were in there. I knew right then that there was not a single thing I could say or do to change the trajectory of the adults around me. I waited for that woman to kill my mom. When they came back out, I was shaking. My mom had me go get a doll, and had me sit in our small rocking chair. Pam's friend smiled so sweetly, and told me to "Smile, honey." The camera clicked. The woman left. A week or so later, this photo came in the mail, and my mom placed it in a photo album. Every time I have seen this photo over the years, my mind has slammed shut the part of itself that can still feel the absolute terror and complete lack of control I felt in the moments before this shot was taken, and the horrible dichotomy of the obedient smile I displayed while staring into the camera that was being held by that cruel woman. One of the worst scenes of my life was captured on film, and I am the only one who knows what really happened and can tell the story. Why do I tell the story? Because that terrorized child in that chair needs to finally be able to let it all come spilling out, in all of its horrible, vomitus truth, and she needs to be believed. To live such atrocities was hard enough. To never be able to speak the truth and be believed would be even worse.
THE END
There is a story behind this photo. Looking at the photo would never give any clues to the story. I am going to tell that story now.
My father and stepmother were involved in a number of illicit activities in an urban area in the early '70's, including the sale and use of illegal drugs, and the making and selling of child pornography. I was used by both of them in these activities until I was around nine years of age.
My father met Pam while he was sleeping with various prostitutes in our nearby city. She had long dark hair, and lived in an apartment somewhere within city limits. My father took my baby sister and me to Pam's place when my mom was gone to work her shifts as an operating room RN at a local hospital. Pam sometimes let me watch a show called “Nanny and the Professor.” I had to be very good if I wanted to watch it.
Pam started telling me stories. She told me how she was locked up in a place for crazy people, and how they shocked her, and did other things that hurt her. She told me that people who say crazy things get locked up in those places. She showed me scary black and white photos of people in such a place. The photos were from a magazine my mom also had at our house, called “Life,” and the pictures were terrifying to me. Pam told me I must never say things that made adults think I was crazy, or I would be locked up in such a place.
Pam started giving me shots. I had gone through a number of surgeries on my left hip due to a birth defect, so when Pam said I needed more shots, I thought it was like at the hospital, so I just accepted it as something I must need, because the adults around me said so. The shots made Pam's words start to sound very slow, and made me feel tickly inside. I would fall asleep, and wake up to different surroundings, with different things going on. Pam would say I must be quiet and be good, so I would not wake up my baby sister.
One night, after my mom left for work and Pam came over, my father and Pam had me look outside my family's front room window toward our carport. A big truck with a boat behind it was parked there. A motorcycle was next to it. My father said that if I pleased God by obeying him and Pam always, and if I never told anyone about what he and Pam and the other adults were doing to me and the other kids, then one day God would give our family a nice boat, and a nice truck, and a nice motorcycle. The next morning, after my mom came home and my father left for work, I tried to tell her that I had seen a boat and a motorcycle, and that God was going to give them to us if I was good. She said “What an imagination you have,” and went on about her business. But she must have mentioned what I said to my father, because Pam was very angry at me the next time we went to her place. Her brown eyes were scary, like they had changed from her normal eyes. I knew I was in very bad trouble.
My Great-Grandma died, so our family went to her funeral in another state. When we got back, my Siamese cat had run away from the people who were taking care of her. I was devastated. I did not cry, though, because my father never let me cry. Instead, I let the tears gather into a big lump in the back of my throat, and I swallowed them away. A few days later, my father brought me home a little black kitten. I named him Barney, after the Flintstones' character. My father had never given me anything before. I wondered why he gave me this kitten, and why he took time to notice if I was hugging my new kitten, and loving it. I did love Barney, very much.
One night, after my mom left for work, Pam came over. She sat on my couch, and made me sit next to her. My father brought Barney over, and placed him in my lap. Pam said I must learn to never say anything ever about what she and my father and her friends did. She said it was too bad I had not learned my lesson, because now my cat was going to pay for me being bad. Pam took my hands, placed them around Barney's neck, with her hands over mine, and my father held Barney's paws. Pam squeezed on my hands, but I no longer felt anything in my hands. I could only see my kitten trying to squirm loose, struggling to breathe. His head moved, his mouth opened, his tongue moved. His eyes were misshapen with fear and struggle. It went on for a long time. Then he was still. My chest hurt so bad. “This will happen to your sister next time,” Pam said. My father placed Barney on top of some towels in the laundry basket, and put the basket into a closet. He closed the closet door, got my sister from her crib, and we left, Pam holding my hand, her skin still damp from the struggle to silence my kitten. The next day, my mom looked around for Barney. When she finally found him, my father said he must have had distemper, and gone into the closet to die, glaring into my eyes as he said it. I looked down, and saw my hands shaking in my lap. I swallowed a lot of tears.
Pam and my father still did not trust me, because the next time we were at her place, she made me sit next to a woman with short dark hair, who sometimes took pictures of us kids as we played “games.” The woman looked down at me with very angry eyes, and told me if I ever said anything to anybody else again, she would come to our house one day, knock on the door, get my mom to let her into our house, then get my mom to invite her into my parents' bedroom. While they were in there, she said, she would kill my mom. She said if I tried to tell my mom what she was going to do, my mom would think I was crazy, and put me in an insane asylum like Pam had once been in. She said that nobody was ever going to believe me if I ever tried to tell anyone about any of these things, and I would look like my mind was insane if I ever spoke about any of this. The woman left, and Pam had me go sit and watch Nanny and the Professor. I tried to let the show make my mind pretend like none of this was real.
Some days later, while I was at home with my mom and sister in our blue trailer by the crick in the mobile home park where we lived, there was a knock on the door. My mom opened it, and there was the woman with short dark hair. She was carrying a black bag, and spoke with my mom for a few minutes. She was smiling. My throat instantly constricted in fear. My mom invited the woman into our house, and told me that this nice lady was a photographer, and she was going to take some pictures of me for free. Then my mom took the woman back into my parents' bedroom, to show the woman some old family photos in there. The woman gave me one backwards glance as she followed my mom into that bedroom. I do not remember moving at all while they were in there. I knew right then that there was not a single thing I could say or do to change the trajectory of the adults around me. I waited for that woman to kill my mom. When they came back out, I was shaking. My mom had me go get a doll, and had me sit in our small rocking chair. Pam's friend smiled so sweetly, and told me to "Smile, honey." The camera clicked. The woman left. A week or so later, this photo came in the mail, and my mom placed it in a photo album. Every time I have seen this photo over the years, my mind has slammed shut the part of itself that can still feel the absolute terror and complete lack of control I felt in the moments before this shot was taken, and the horrible dichotomy of the obedient smile I displayed while staring into the camera that was being held by that cruel woman. One of the worst scenes of my life was captured on film, and I am the only one who knows what really happened and can tell the story. Why do I tell the story? Because that terrorized child in that chair needs to finally be able to let it all come spilling out, in all of its horrible, vomitus truth, and she needs to be believed. To live such atrocities was hard enough. To never be able to speak the truth and be believed would be even worse.
THE END
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