My First Freak-out

Recently a comment reminded me of an author from our earliest days of OOTS. Indeed this revelation appeals to our very beginning efforts allowing our authors to explore their past with a measure of release, awareness and potentially forgiveness. This selection is deep from the darkest corners of the OOTS Library. It is comprised of 3 parts. The following is the very first story submission from August of 2010 (currently never released on OOTS4U). Due to the sensitive nature of the saga, the Author chooses to remain anonymous,. I feel this power trilogy explores some valid and thought provoking issues for us to ponder or compare. 
Eric-

Prologue-

As I write this, I do it knowing full well that some things are traceable. It's terrifying, but I've been reading for a few a long time now, and I guess I think it's my turn.

I have a lot of stories, so I'm submitting them all in succession as I write them, but maybe they'll be broken up, I'll leave that to the admin. Some of them are short, and they're all weird.  They're all solo, or if they involve another person, that person didn't know. 

Before I get to the stories themselves, I'll give them some depth.  I found out when I was about 15 that I'd been sexually abused for years. After that, a lot of things I'd been doing to myself made more sense to me, and I also . . . I can't really find a suitable phrase . . . I guess I shut myself off; that is, the idea of anyone ever touching me again became repulsive and terrifying.  In fact, I'll segue into my first story there.

My First Freakout:

 As I said, when I found out I'd been molested, I just cut myself off.  It wasn't conscious, I can just look back 12 years and see that it happened.  I just stopped wanting to be touched; not just sexually, but at all. My nuclear family has always been very touchy, though.  My mom has always "rubbed" us, and we've always rubbed her--scratching backs, massaging, running fingernails over skin.  It sounds sexual in my meager language, but I'd liken it to ape grooming.  I am extremely averse to insulting anyone, so even after I became so repulsed by touch, I never told my mom to stop, and if I got uncomfortable I'd just find an excuse to get up--a glass of water, something on TV, whatever.

  One evening, I was sitting on the sofa with my mom beside me, dad in his chair, and my little brother on the other sofa.  Everyone just watching TV. Typical zoned-out suburban evening of everyone in one room and no one aware of anyone else. My mom began absentmindedly rubbing my leg (I was in shorts) and it began to drive me insane.  It felt like: If you were ever held down when you were a kid and someone took your own hand and did the "stop hitting yourself" thing, or if you've ever been smothered or couldn't breathe.  Extend your arm, and scratch the inside of your elbow for a minute or more. 

 It felt like those things.  I was going crazy with desperation, trying not to be a jerk and trying not to give away how pent-up-animal I felt; I broke.  My extreme passivity thus far explained, I also become vilely nasty, sarcastic and caustic, wheedling, make-people-cry with looks and words when I want to. Broken, feeling like a horse locked in a burning stable, "stop it," I hissed, pushing my mom's hand off my leg.  I wouldn't look at her. My mom is ignorant.  She isn't stupid, but she has absolutely no sense of a person's status until she's walked neck-deep into a situation like Goofy.  She thinks she's funny and she's not.

"Welllll, sorrrrry!  I thought you liked to be rubbed, you always have," she said in mock emphatic tones.

"I don't want to be touched."

"Ohhhhhhhh, well, if only I'd known," she continued in her idiotic fake voice. 

God, I could have jack-slapped her. I went nuts.  She wasn't hearing me.  My voice could have cut a steel rod in half but I was talking to a brick wall, not a steel rod.   

By this time my brother (a few years younger than me and oblivious to my past) and my dad were

watching us."Stop being a creep," my little brother rejoined.  He hates me, my manic mood-swings having taken their greatest toll on him; at 12 or so, he was taking every opportunity to start a pissing match.

"Shut up," I seethed, "you don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, you're being a weirdo."

"You don't understand.  I'm telling you to shut up."

"Son," my dad entered the simmering situation, "ignore your brother.  Stop

arguing.  He's 12." 

"Honey if you don't like it just tell me," my mom chimed in, the reality of the situation finally penetrating her thick head.  "Just calm down." 

"Yeah, stop acting like a freak."

I abandoned my hiss as I launched myself upright, shrieking, "Shut uuuuuuup!"

Always quick to open his mouth, my brother shrank in fear; like a hamster when you stick your hand in the cage.  I have never hurt him, but he knew I took pills for something and he was terrified of me when the rubber hit the road. "All of you!  None of you knows!  None of you knows anything!  You shut up you

little bastard; you have no idea what!  You can't know what was done!"  My face was red and my voice crackled perilously at the strain of my screaming.  I wheeled on my mom, then, and jabbed my finger at her.  "Don't touch me.  Don't touch my leg, don't touch any of me without asking!  Never touch me!  You have

no business on my leg!"

My heart fluttering, I surveyed them all: My brother cowering on the sofa, my dad dumbfounded, my mom bleary-eyed.  I felt my heart pounding, and my head rushing like I was going to faint.  I felt like the odd-man I was. I began to slump as I stood, and, gasping, rasped, "None of you will ever know what it's like."  Then I crawled up the stairs, to my room, under my bed where I'd taken to going when I was falling apart, and passed out.

Submitted,
Agent -N-