Growing Up In An Incest Ring: Raped By My Parents (Part 2)

Last time I wrote about memories unlocked from trauma therapy using EMDR, I went into some of the details of being molested in what I thought was one on one molestation by my mother. My father’s involvement was minimized

After sessions the last two weeks it has become apparent that my father was a full participant. He was involved as much as my mother in both my individual abuse, s well as the rape,  of my brothers and sisters.  

This is how it worked. Mom would pick me out of bed and begin the fondling, which is a polite word for tactile rape.    Children below the age of consent when stripped nude by nude sexually aroused adults are tactiley raped. That is childhood rape, and that is what my mother and father did to me between the ages of 2 and 9, as well as, to my younger brother and two younger sisters. Children blow the age consent, which is 16 in most states can’t give consent. We also have nether developed physically mentally to experience sexuality. Thus it is tactile rape which brings and evil stimulation and arousal to the perpetrators, how in their rape are the only ones engaging their sexuality.  

When I was between the ages of 2 and 4 I was also pre verbal. That mean not only could I not give consent to what was being done to my body, nor mentally and emotionally did I have a sense of what consent was, what sex was and what boundaries are, that I could not verbally express the experience nor did I have the cognitive ability to realize consciously what was being done to me. I experienced the abuse emotionally and physically but could not consciously express the abuse through thought and language.  This lead to cognitive dissonance as a child and repression through dissociation.  It also leads to nonverbal reliving of the abuse experience both as a child and as an adult re-living the abuse experience know as re-enactment at a non-verbal level is robotic – it occurs at uncontrollable times and without free will choice of the abused child.  Therapy coupled with anti-anxiety medicine benzodiazepines, which have a long history of use and effectiveness in combating anxiety are useful for the duration of therapy

So this is how it would work. Mom would call me into her room. I would e told to come into her bed, robotically I complied. She would be stripped naked and then she would strip me. It would always began with conversation because although compliant I was reluctant I would be warned that I would be killed in some heinous way abandoned or she would stop molesting me and pick my brother or sister. This type if warning invoked my protective nature of the smaller children as I was the eldest and felt it better for me to suffer the abuse than they.

After being stripped and coerced in to compliance by violent abusive talk I would be touched all over chest nipples genitals until whew s sufficiently aroused to go down on me or give me oral sex.

Inevitably after a period of this type of over tactile stimulation I would at first be titillated and then in pain, and then my father would come home and join us in bed. I would be told to do the same things to my father that my mother had been doing to me including rubbing his chest licking his nipples and giving him oral sex meaning taking his penis into his mouth.  It was more and more painful and repugnant for me as they became more and more aroused.

Eventually when they were done with me when they were sufficiently aroused. I would be dismissed to go back to my room, as my brother and sisters either lay in bed anxiously or scurried back into their beds as I climbed in to mine, hurt physically and mentally and exhausted.

The exhaustion helped the repression as did the cognitive dissonance of having to go to Catholic school next day, and act as if nothing had happened even though I was called by my parents a little whore who would go to hell.

This was the regular routine of my life during formative years and yet there was more rape and humiliation at the hands of others simultaneously from my mother and maternal grandparents during my life as a child in an incest ring.  

Copyright Fred Celio 2916

Other Blogs by Fred Celio
Childhood: Raped by My Parents

My Initial Incest Experience
My Initial Incest Experience Part 2
The Garage Next Door
A Cup of Coffee
The Second Step in 12 Step Cult Indoctrination: Sexual Assualt At Sober Living Environments, or Clean and Sober Living Homes

Individual Sexual Abuse – Child Rape – by my mother and father My Formative Years.

After just a few sessions of EMDR and of course a lot of other work. I have been able to remember what I could not remember prior to EMDR and the support of the anti-anxiety drug Xanax. Without these dual aspects of therapy, I could not remember these things let alone tell their story.   

There is no way to ease into the description of such evil inhumanity, so hideous memories that cognitive dissonance would require their dissociation through repression for the organism to continue to exist.

Between the ages of 2 and 9 years, my mother on the occasions that suited her once a month once a week would carry me in from my room to hers. Our house was very small about 900 sq ft. so she did not have to carry me a long distance, and obviously my brothers and sisters knew what was going on, because soon it would be their turn weekly, monthly this interval has not crystalized fro me yet.

Once in her bed my mother would disrobe exposing her naked body to me. This would bring various levels of excitement to me depending on my age from a pure tactile stimulation. The feelings were flavored with a others of tenderness and love or a motherly love and closes ness between the ages from 2 and 4.  Between those ages there was no sexual arousal but feelings of love and closeness mixed with tactile sensations.  By the age of 5 to 9 particularly by age 9 I had become conditioned to associate these events with a nascent sexual arousal for, of all people, my mother.

So I would be taken into my mother’s bed at these ages 2 to 9, she being stimulated by the sight of a child. I really don’t understand this.  I kneeling in bed before her she nude and she stripping me nude no matter how old I was.

I remember at the youngest age of 2 rubbing up against her naked body and the tactile stimulation and the rubbing of my penis against her vagina. I came to associate with love and affection even though it was not love or affection at all. Whets was taking place for my mother was sexual arousal. I could see this by the maniacal look on her face. This was not love but lust stimulated by beholding a young child her own, although I became conditioned to see this objectification of myself as love, because it was the only affection and closeness that I received as a child.

The tactile stimulation itself was much like being tickled but tickled or tacitly stimulated beyond the point of pleasure and well into the realm of pain.

For the survivor this was not childhood sexual abuse; that phrase is from the perpetrators point of view.  It is a part of societies language or ontological perspective that must change if child rape is to stop. The perpetrators are the only ones being sexually aroused or stimulated.  The perpetrators, they are the only ones getting off sexually. As a victim as a child as a survivor, I was just and object to be used as long as she wanted in order to receive whatever thrill it was that she received. Sense I had not matured physically sexually I had no release from this torture there was no end to it for me just rape and pain.  It as if I were a human dildo with feelings.

This rape and pain with no release is another level of woundedness that I wish to run from. These emotions are stating now to be separated from the hideous and frightening emotions that I run from at I when I felt the full impact, hideousness and ugliness of being a sexually experienced child.

Remember being raped by my family, and this was not limited to my mother and father, started when I was pre-verbal – I could not speak or form cognitions in my mind of what was being done to me. 

 When the pre-verbal aspect is considered I the child was left with feelings of closeness love, sexual objectification, pleasing my family by allowing myself, and I thought I had control even though I did not, nut pleasing my family by letting the sexually objectify. “letting them” in fact I had no choice. And yet there was no expression of love, affection its associated emotions or cognitions just torture the torture of trauma and naked bodies and the illusion of self-worth by allowing myself to be sexually objectified.

Dad would often eventually come home and join us in the bed, mom ad I. At the ages to 2 through 4. I would be pinned between them with no means of struggle or escape forced to touch an tactily experience my father’s gentiles.  I would also be naked and pinned between their naked bodies rubbing against them in a hideous intractable tactile stimulation trapped with no escape  which I came to associate with love and affection even though it was only objectification.

Then the oddest thing happened with me as catalyst my parents would cast me aside and begin their own sexual activity between each other.  I was the object of their arousal, thus so that they could in engage in sex. This was my purpose for being born.

As I was left alone at their time I would borough under the blankets often ending at the foot of the bed or sliding off the side onto the floor so I could make my escape into my own room as they tangled in whatever it was that ignited their passion.

This went on weekly, monthly probably sometimes either weekly or monthly but certainly when the urge was upon them   

This was their show I was on an object to them a human dildo of sorts practiced and loved for stimulation but never experiencing human love of a child between mother and father.

As I got older I was used more and more as a participant literally and figuratively between my mother and father. The emotions associated with these sessions were very confusing, First I was pre-verbal so I could not cognate (think) what was going on I only experienced pure emotions. Secondly I was at an age where I had not developed clear boundaries, i.e., I did not know for sure where I began and ended and where my parents began and ended they were still a part or parts of me that were indistinguishable from myself. This is the self that I was supposed to be developing with their help. This is the function of parenthood to help the child develop a sense of self.  Finally, there were these emotions these tactile simulations love, were they affection? No. They were the objectification and the discounting and the blurring of that very self that it was their duty and my expectation for them to help me develop, nurture and grow.  

Complicating my developing sense of self was their own definition of my purpose as both object and catalyst for their sexual pleasure.  I existed to somehow stimulate being responsible for their sexual pleasure and being responsible for driving their own sexual arousal between each other to each other when I had no concept of sex as love or intercourse between a man and a woman as an expression of love.

There in my parents bed I experienced the emotions, tactile, feelings primitive cognition which formed my developing self and which I had to live with repressed through dissociation of the cognitive dissonance presented parents and lovers.  

Of course repression of any kind, for any reason is mental illness not mental health, anyone who attempts or succeeds in repressing emotions for any reason is practicing a form of mental illness whether this is sanctioned by a guru through meditation, an inspirational speaker through the power of positive thinking, bible thumpers who use scripture to negate the love of Christ and His human experience, and the cognitive psychologists themselves, who have come up with numerous methods of repression from CBT to the prescription of psychotropic drugs like SSRIs all designed to make the organism manageable and cover up the hideous truth of human evil that exists in our society – especially in the United states of America.

Copyright Fred Celio 2016

systemic abuse of alcholics anonymous

Gratitude As Repression

There are many things throughout the day that invoke the emotion of gratitude within me. I do not have to list them as a form of shaming for not focusing on them continually thus neglecting the issues that I must solve. focusing on gratitude is a method of regression repressing those things that are uncomfortable and need to be dealt with fr example the sexual pedration that takes place in the meetings the negative self-labeling the abusive attitude of the group structure itself it's failure rate etc.

The 12 step cult religions must go they dominate the treatment industry and thus blocks real science based treatment and thus actually destroy lives. The 12 steps don't heal; they kill. I am committed to doing everything legally possible to bring about the destruction of the 12 steps and freeing those captured by this cult, started by a drunken acid dropping former stock broker who lost his shirt in the crash of 29 and thus started another scam.

Orange Papers is a platform for exposing and destroying the 12 step cult religion and freeing those still captured, for that I am grateful not just for agent orange and orange papers but the entire anti 12 step movement.

We will prevail. It is a truth, a reality that anything that refuses to change ie the first 164 pages of that big book, will eventually implode and destroy itself. I abhor treatments that are purported to be medical ,don't work and shame and blame the victim for their failure.

The 12 step cult religions are one of the largest cons/scams ever perpetrated on humanity by one of the worlds greatest scam artists. They destroy lives. After 31 years of being miss-diagnosed and regular almost daily attendance studying with the gurus, my life is a shambles. and not from drinking/using, but from hanging out with lower companions in abusive environments in the rooms letting my self esteem being torn down in the name of ego deflation, pretending to believe things without question "fake it till you make it,"

And now having a host of friends who are only to happy to help me as long as I re-indoctrinate into their bull shit cult.

I am committed to using every legal means available for their destruction. Id be willing to bet, and we should look at the numbers, that attendance is dropping since the rise of the anti aa movement and the rise of science based non 12 step treatment.

When I went to treatment for the first time where I didn't belong except to minister to the incest survivors that were channeled into aa,  I was given a big book and 12 x 12 that my insurance company paid 30k for. What a scam. I was surrounded by incest survivors that the CADCs running the "treatment" were not qualified to help. My first day in treatment, my very first process group I entered a young woman was talking about having been molested.  I was  like wtf what am I doing here. Sure am glad this didn't happen to me. Not knowing at the time that I too was a seual abuse survivor.

My sexual abusive started between the ages of 2 and 9.

There was a young man in that first treatment center, who was the child of his father and his sister his whole family was like that. The CADCs did not know what to do' so believe it or not they recruited me to help to facilitate their groups -- absolutely true story from 1985.

The 12 step cult religions need to be destroyed for the good of humanity. I stand with those who  expose these cults for what they are -- religious cults that are abusive and destroy lives/ They must be exposed and destroyed.

My experience in AA
What I was told was you can't talk about this here because child molesters go here AA and they deserve to get sober too. I was told this by more than one member AA/NA. I was told when I did talk about it there that "I" not what I was talking about was an outside issue. I had a sponsor who was child molester. Who insulted my 5th step. I have heard  a man from the podium a deacon at our lady of the assumption catholic church in Pasadena my parish at the time talk about molesting boy scouts from the podium at a meeting in Glendale the one at the rehab center there. I promptly reported him to his boss and the county. Every time I write and talk about this I heal. 

I find it difficult to believe that Bill and Bob did not make the connection between substance abuse and sexual abuse as the core issue. Maybe not in all cases but in many and certainly with any chronic relapser that I have ever met. Even when I had time I always gravitated to the chronic relapsers, they were always my favorites kinder more compassionate and really just more interesting to be with. 

Now having left for therapy EMDR and anti-anxiety medication on a temporary basis I am doing  Plus it's only temporary until I complete the therapy which is going well.and feeling much better even though the therapy is god awful. It would be much easier to go to meetings and pal around with the winners. Of course someone one would likely mention the Xanax which keeps me from disappearing for 9 days to two weeks and ending up terrorized in an emergency room, and is only temporary, while I complete the therapy. Anything is better than the hell of locking myself in a motle room for two weeks and either calling the police on myself or taking a cab to the er.

Then coming back to AA and being shamed continuously and then told to keep coming back. and being hugged unwanted by a potential child molester.

My disappearances were not relapses at all and drink and using were only secondary. Since my abuse started pre-verbal, I re-live the abuse experience in a non verbal fashion in order to understand it. I don't imagine I am much different from many who have found their way to the 12 steps. Over 30 years I've met too many survivors who couldn't get "IT" simply because it was the wrong treatment. Lovely people who because that's all they were used to allowed themselves to be treated like crap by quite frankly complete strangers with no credentials no desire to help and who may have been perpetrators themselves.

As they are found of saying in the step before the steps "this shit has to stop."

Copyright Fred Celio 2016

Childhood Sexual Abuse

Many consider survival from Childhood Sexual Abuse and the symptoms exhibited to be mental illness. PTSD or my preference PTSS, Trauma, bi polar, etc. I do not consider the symptoms of Childhood Sexual Abuse to be anything other than perfectly normal responses to the abuse. I am not disordered, dysfunctional, mentally ill or addicted -- I am an incest survivor. 

I was sexually abused on a continuous basis by all the adults in my life. My maternal grandfather sodomized me multiple times, my maternal grandmother sexually abused me through objectification dressing me in women s underwear and applying enemas to prepare me for her husband, she also attempted to murder me at 4 years old when I told her that grandpa had sexually assaulted me by sodomizing me in the middle of the night, my mother continuously sexually assaulted me individually and in groups that included my siblings and neighborhood children, and my father sexually assaulted on multiple occasions between the ages of 4 and 9. So you see there is nothing wrong with my symptoms are perfectly normal responses to continuous sexual assault from all the adults in my life between the ages of 4 and 9.I did not grow up in a family I escaped from an incest ring. I do not care what motivates perpetrators, I care about healing survivors and seeing perpetrators incarcerated. I care about seeing government and social entities having the power to intrude on the sanctity of the family to put a stop to this nonsense. 





Although revered in American culture to the point of worship, the family is not so sacred as to be above the law, nor is it above surveillance and intrusion to put a stop to sexual abuse that is epidemic in the USA. I am not merely committed to these principles to eliminate this violence and all forms of domestic violence, I am militant. 

Any institution any fellowship that does not support these goals and principles supports Childhood Sexual Abuse and family violence. These sorts of institutions are rampant in our society, they need to be exposed and invited to change, otherwise using every legal means available they should be dismantled. Here is one who supports childhood sexual abuse, the Gov. of California Jerry Brown. By his veto of SB 131 last year he indicated his support for childhood sexual abuse. His veto statement was particularly offensive to me and all survivors of CSA. Bear this in mind should he seek higher office. Hillary Clinton has been a friend to survivors in the past, let us see of she remains so. Childhood Sexual Abuse is as serious an issue as any in any campaign. 




The fact that it is not recognized as such does not speak to the seriousness and prevalence of the issue, but to societies willingness to ignore it. 1 in 3 females and 1 in 6 males are sexually abused as children this is epidemic. Their symptoms weigh on society but most importantly on them, often they never get a chance to heal and many because of dissociation amnesia and the prevalence to misdiagnose and the sanctity of the family. --never even know they were abused, and yet exhibit symptoms and suffer horrendous consequences not the lest of which is blame and being mis labeled. and misdiagnosed. They are swept under the rug so that American society can keep its smugness and pride and sanctity that doesn't deserve as it as it promotes the hidden cesspool of family sexual assault and violence.

My Days Begin

The following is a quote from Ellen Bass and Laura Davis in "The Courage to Heal," it was posted this morning on the facebook page of Overcoming Child Sexual Abuse. I responded t it with my own experience. https://www.facebook.com/overcoming.osa.

It also contains a commentary on the efficacy of books on healing from non-credentialed partially healed people. These books, as well as, public appearances and statements on CSA by celebrities who are also partially healed, but have "overcome" the difficulties of CSA are often given the weight of healing tecquies and methods, and are thus given more weight than they warrant. They can lead people away from their healing paths and give the impression that either complete healing and wholeness are not possible or that the techniques promoted will bring about healing. A careful reading and understanding of statements by the partially healed can provide insight into why using such writings and statements as sign posts to complete healing is dubious at best. 

“At the most basic level, you may believe that you don’t deserve anything good in your life. Your feelings about yourself may fluctuate wildly. You may feel okay about yourself most of the time, self-critical feelings lying dormant until you have some kind of setback—a loss, a period of change, an argument with someone you love.” The Courage to Heal by Ellen Bass & Laura Davis

The above statement is an indication of partial healing. This does not mean that the book from which the statement is taken does not have value. It is a book about partial healing from CSA written by women without credentials who are themselves only partially healed. If partial healing is your goal  if perhaps serenity is your end and not wholeness, then by all means read such books and apply the methods described. 

Please respect my choice, to follow a road less traveled one that is more painful who's goal is not happiness and serenity  for these are not goals at all, but false or fools gold nuggets to be found along the way. My goal is full healing and wholeness. My method is hard deep and painful. As painful as the abuse itself  but it's end is worth the pain, and is more worth while than living the frustration a partially healed life. 

This morning I read the above statement; I could certainly related to it. But I thought it was odd in a book about healing without the comfort of knowing that these emotional residues from the abuse would not eventually dissipate and disappear altogether. For that is what this statement is about sign-posts on the way to wholeness and healing -- the quoted statement is not a legacy. As survivors we are not resigned to a life punctuated by feelings of hopelessness and self criticism. I believe that even Judith Herman MD in "Trauma and Recovery" implies that trauma survivors will always have the potential for negative feelings to be triggered  This is a subject I would like to take up with her more deeply. I do not believe this to be true for survivors. I think that the views expressed in "The Courage to Heal" and in "Trauma and Recovery" are in fact subtle suggestions from those who should know better of inviting the survivor in yet again another of the million ways people tell us to "just get over it." 

If I as a survivor will always be haunted by self-criticism and a feeling of being less than or if I will always be prone to triggering events that may lead to flashbacks and the same self-criticism and feelings of worthlessness  then I am not healed, and I am most likely pursuing healing using a method that is inadequate. Most likely i am using a modality that seeks to remove symptoms or change symptomatic behavior. While there is comfort in such methods and the illusion of progress, I will never be healed, at some point I will reach a state of "serenity" which includes a resignation to the fact that I am somehow damaged by the abuse ireprobly.  I will be forever pursuing methods of not healing but of changing my behavior and eternally in a state know as ' "recovery."  I choose another path. A path that leads to fullness, wholeness and healing as if the abuse never happened.

My thoughts, given the quote, and where I am on my journey today follow.

Funny how they don't allow me to comment on their page any more https://www.facebook.com/overcoming.osa . There are ways around that. The point this morning though is that this is an older book, which does not mean it does not have value.

Therapeutically though the book leaves much to be desired. I do not know the context of the quotation below, but it is indicative of a partially healed person. For example, I wake up feeling this way each and every morning in the state described in the quote -- feeling frightened, worthless and self-critical, the qualifying event or setback as the authors call it, I guess, is awakening. I wake up in fear, and with a sense of worthlessness and betrayal and shame always the shame. Sometimes these feelings can be accompanied with a sense of not believing the truth. The truth of the incest I endured and survived not being true> I sometimes wake up with a sense of shame associated with portraying my family as child molesters and falsely accusing them. 

When this happens I start bringing myself back to reality and healing with looking at my sign posts. The first sign post I usually start with is the initial scent that started bringing the abuse memories to the level of consciousness, from the subconscious where they were buried for decades, save for a few unassociated constructs.  This was a scent I reexpereinced several years ago, and I was overwhelmed with a sense of familiarity and repugnance.  This was the scent of the laundry room sink where I was suffocated when I was 4 which. I was passing an area that gave off the same scent as this sink, the area was made of that same material, and this scent changed my life, for it was then that I began to remember. This is a sign post to reality.

Then there is an amnesia experience that occurred a few years after I reexperienced the scent that triggered remembering my almost being killed in the sink. The memory of meeting a friend who was important to me was wiped clean in a rush a wave of negative emotion that I could not hold back. It was like trying to hold back a wave. Another sign post an undeniable link to the past. Whenver doubts creep in to support my daily awakening to fear, shame and worthlessness, I simply remember the sign posts. these undeniable links to reality, which cannot and will not be denied.  Referring to these undeniable sign posts brings me back to reality and the fullness of all the rest of the memories and where I am right now in my healing journey. 

On these mornings the things I have just described are part of my therapeutic, before I can move forward with my day. 

Then I deal with the fear that is described above the sense of worthlessness, this is how I awaken every single day.  This is an affect, a result of telling truth and living in reality. The truth is horrific and hideous, thus there was a reason for the amnesia beyond protecting the perpetrators, it was to protect me, from the hideous disgusting truth that I was in the hands of evil people at their mercy and existed only for their use and to protect them at the expense of me. Then there is the still present feeling memories of what they said they would do to me if I talked. Well, I am talking and more than talking I am re-structuring my thinking to absorb the fact that I did not grow up in a family. The idea of growing up in a family is a misperception.  The idea of them being "normal" is false it is an image that the adults wanted projected to the world for their self protection,and I participated in presenting this image to the world of normalcy in order to protect the perpetrators. 

Well I am no longer living in that false reality. I am no longer living that misperception, nor am I participating in it in any way. I did not grow up in a family. I escaped from an incest ring. I was molested by my mother on an ongoing basis individually and in groups between the ages of 4 and 9. I was molested by my father on two occasions, I was molested by my maternal grandmother individually on an ongoing basis between the ages of 4 and 9, at 4 years old she attempted to murder me via  water boarding suffocation, I was molested by my mother's step father my maternal grandfather between the ages of 4 and 9. He sodomized me on multiple occasions. My maternal grandmother’s uncles and male cousins physically abused me at the age of 9 when the abuse to the attention of my pastor, a Catholic priest who put a stop to the abuse. These are the acts that I must face and absorb a little bit more each and everyday as I awaken in the state described by the authors in the above quote. I do this so I can live in reality in the truth, and so someday when I am completely whole again and all of these vents have been absorbed, I will not have to awaken to these fears and sense of utter worthlessness. 

 So, each morning I awaken and feel less than, worthless and ashamed. Then I pray. I absorb the reality. Sometimes I can make a connection with the inner child before he was abused wherein lies the uncorrupted self -- seat of the personality the spirit the me that God created in His image and likeness whole, worthy, and uncorrupted; and  the  EGO, which not a bad thing is also God given, and the seat of my unique qualifications for life, my hopes, dreams, and aspirations. Every morning I awaken with a false sense of self as described above, and I get with God in an intimate way to make connection through the years of  abuse to whom I really am. Then I am ready for the day. This is how I get ready for the day. I make connection with God and His Mother and foster father, and I become whole enough for the day to function at what many people consider to be a high level -- but it is me it is just me being me. It is who. I am not the person I awaken as -- I think I am the person the abusers tried to make me into -- that is not me. 

So, what I have described, this daily process of awakening, is an indication that I am but partially healed. What I do each morning is part of the healing process, I must continue to remember to speak and to write each and every detail ,each last dark crevice must be brought into the light of truth. I must illuminate the darkness with the light of the world until all of it, all ofthe hideous dark unspeakable secrets are broght into His light and absorbed. 

Then I can be the me that He created me to be. This therapeutic? Well I can see no other way to fully absorb and believe and know that it was all their fault. It had nothing to do with me. Profound evil was perpetrated on me by evil people. This evil was and is theirs. It has nothing to do with me whatsoever. It is all the fault of those evil people who had access to me.

 When this process is complete, and it is a process that has a beginning, a middle, and an end (hence the word process), then I will be whole. When I don't just know these things, but when their reality and all the repercussions all the detail every dark crevice has been absorbed to my innermost bones, then I will not  have to consciously remember these things again;  when they have been absorbed fully integrated into me, then I will be healed and whole.

This is a hideous therapeutic that I would wish on no one. It means consciously every day living the abuse. It means writing the details not knowing what new feeling, emotion fear terror will be in those dark places. 

I am beginning the middle of this process and it has already paid dividends of healing. I could not do it without my Catholic faith. others I know do this work without faith, as for me I cannot imagine undertaking this process and continuing it without my Catholic Faith IN Jesus Christ and His mother. I will not settle for partially healed, nor do I settle for books written the partially healed nor do I hang onto public statements by celebrities who are partially healed. I do not find these to be therapeutically helpful, although they are inspiring.

Throughout the day, when self-criticism, shame terror crop up I practice  the same therapeutic. I will continue undeterred until the process is complete. 

A Cup of Coffee

A Cup of Coffee

When I was 7 years old I was sodomized for at least the second time by my maternal grandfather, actually he was my mother’s step father, but we knew him as grandpa. It did not catch me by surprise this time. At least not like when I was 4. But it again it did because, I was sneaked up on.

I was in bed spending the night at my grandparents. My sister was also there, but she got to sleep on the couch that night.  I think we vied for the couch. That was the safe place, the couch. I was in to sleep in  grandma Honey’s room. She was gone. Grandma Honey was my great grandmother. She was grandma Ruth’s mom. She hadn't passed away yet. There was a time in the year or so prior to her death the next year at 86 that she was visiting other family members spread out throughout the country. So I was able to sleep in her room.

I remember the room and the bed was a queen size. It was larger than a double, and much larger than my bed at home. The spread was a kind of not lacy but linen with the little nubs or thick threads that stuck up from it. These were always associated with grandparents’ stuff their house. 

Their house was different from ours; it was nicer materially, but it was just as dangerous as our own house on Buckingham way. It was cleaner and a bigger bed then I was used to. It was also a cleaner and bigger house than I was used. What a luxury it was or was it. Was it for me. Well going to grandma’s house had the illusion of being different of being better because of these nicer material things and it was quieter more orderly. So, yes it had the illusion of escape, but it was not it was the same old incest house just nicer. It was a nicer lear for evil.

As I write scents and textures are coming up. I liked being tightly tucked in. I think that gave me another illusion of safety.

He came again at night with the Jurgen’s lotion.I can kind of remember the scent of jurgen’s lotio, but not quite. When remembering these incest experiences there is a natural repression that starts when the memories come up. This is somewhat like the reflex reaction that occurs when vomit is coming up from the stomach to the mouth. Somewhere in the throat there is a reflex reaction that occurs to send the vomit back down to the stomach. There is a similar reaction when retrieving amnesiaed memories. Sometimes again like vomit they the memories just sit there in the conscious memory partially associated or connected to constructs but not fully available to the conscious mind, like vomit that stays in the throat or goes up and down the esophagus and never gets expelled. This can go on for years until the memory is fully remembered with all its details. And the memory is spoken verbalized. Speaking and sitting and writing. As with vomiting the natural instinct to expel the contaminant is in competition with the natural instinct to not expel. The idea of having vomit in your mouth is less repulsive than the idea of remembering a molestation event.

 Me, well I was asleep and then awakened, as I lie on my stomach with him on top and in me. I could feel him pressed against me with my pajamas on. They had a raised rough texture as well similar to the spread the bed spread I liked to be tightly tucked because this felt safe, but I was not. In the night the spread, blankets and sheets were pulled down, and I am immediately outside of myself. As I remember the details I am out of body above the experience looking down on it. Simultenously I feel his insertion wet and slick with jurgens lotion. Awakening again to this pain mixed with the tactil pleasure of a 7 year old being violently intruded on in the middle of the night while asleep in  a way that he does not want, and cannot choose.  

I wonder if god gives us this gift of dissociation during these times when the body is objectified. The meanness the cruelly the roughness the sexual violation all the violence and I am above it all looking down, feeling but not feeling, as I remember the feelings tactile and emotional for this is the therapy. Remembering, speaking, and writing, as I clench my fists and jaw and grunt and groan and shorten my breath, and … write. The textures the sense of being exposed. My ‘jama bottoms down. The texture of the bed, the spread I described above and my pajamas. The jergens lotion. Looking down from above as I am exposed and violated. Half asleep half awake. Close to death really. I now remember or my body memories are remembering, as I am molested at 7, when I was molested at 4 and then suffocated. And so when the sensations again come they are different. Tactily not unpleasurable, but equally as confusing as when I was 4 years old. At this age a different kind of shame is added to the mix of emotions, the shame of being somehow responsible for what I am not responsible for. For what is being done to me. The fear, the terror, the confusion and being pinned and then leaving my body immediately. Remember I am asleep and awakened as if dreaming but it is real. He is in me again and I cannot feel it I am looking down with disgust and confusion with my angel with God. We are all three Angel God and me watching the evil being done to me. We are witnesses to the evil. There is an element of sadness here, as God comforts me with the sadness of the whole seen, as the perpetrator attempts to steal my soul, and loses his in the bargain. But it is not me it is my body, objectified. Completely objectified and dissociated for protection from the feelings.

Whether one looks at this from purely the psychological experience or from a Godly perspective, they are the same. God came, my angel came, and I was spared the full force of the experience but now I can handle it, and so I remember and write.

When he was finished he left. I was alone again in the bed terrified, angry, and indignant I now am numb. I am back in my body, no longer simultaneously in it and outside of it, observing the evil and watching a man lose his soul, because of his uncontrollable violence done to me. It’s a very sad scene someone who would think they could hurt me in this way for some sort of pleasure on their part which I do not understand nor care about, and give away there eternity in the process. And so this is the sort of forgiveness I give to my perpetrator. Just a sadness, for in this case forgiveness is not necessary for ny healing in fact it would be a hindrance. There is only this sadness without anger or vengeance but a profound sadness as I watch with God and my angel a profound and eternally sad experience. And yet today I am angry. In the now of now, I am angry, but I reflect on my sadness at the time of the event.

I remember being terrified and anxious as I lay alone in the dark. Staying awake. My body lying to me the onslaught on my senses, experiencing sex and that tactile excitement that is not to be confused with sexual arousal, for my body is not capable of that. My senses were aroused and it seems  as if they betrayed me, but they did not. They reacted to the experience as a 7 year old boy who was experiencing a tactile not unpleasurable response – an overload of tactile stimulation and emotions. It is normal but an onslaught overpowering excitement. That is normal but I was not built to cope with this. The experience kept me awake, after being awakened, not wanting to be awakened.

So I stayed awake as the tactile excitement subsided and the anger set in. Anger at what had been done to me against my will. Just pure raw anger, and the desire to do something about it. The desire to go to the adults charged with my care and tell for them to protect me. To  invoke justice. To set the matter right. To confront him. No I wanted nothing to do with him. To be as far away from him as possible. To be able to speak to someone who understood and who would stand up for me and ho would punish him my perpetrator. This is what I wanted. This is the sense of injustice I sought for decades and I fought what was being done to me. I was becoming something I did not want to become. The tactile excitement was betraying me. I was becoming a sexually experienced child. And then if I did not stand up if I did not get help then it would be I who would be gin defining my worth through these experiences, 

First as worthless and then as worthy as I severed their needs. The tactile stimulation was pleasurable and this was love at 7 years old this kind of tactile stimulation was not the violence  that it was but love, that is what tactile stimulation is an expression of. This is betrayal. This is loss. This I fought.

I wanted the adults t stick up for and protect me.  Fight for me as they were supposed to do.  All the lessons they taught me stay away from stranger, to tell on them. Well stay away from stingers?  Why? They would have been safer than you.

So, I dozed for a minute. Maybe longer.  I awoke, came to whatever. I walked out fully prepared to tell my grandmother again even though she almost killed me when I was 4 and tell her and call emergency. I think I was actually prepared yes that was it call the police, a hospital, someone. I remember now, I was gonna get up early enough get to the phone in that limited amount of time when no one was out of bed but not yet awake, and it was my job to stay up until that moment. So I could get to the phone and the yellow pages with no one in between me and the phone and the yellow pages.. The phone was on the counter next to the dining table. This process of writing is funny as I go through it more details are remembered. I was trying to get to the phone to stay up until it was light but before anyone else was up .It was imperative I get to the phone and the yellow pages.  When I would  have a clear path to the phone with no one in between me, the phone, and the yellow pages . Quietly and quickly get to the yellow pages. That is why I needed the morning light.  I had little time. A block of time. A window of opportunity to do this, to have enough light to get to the yellow pages and the phone, so I could call someone who could help. The police and then a doctor, a hospital, and the fire department and at 7 years old the army maybe. If I could just get to that phone and the yellow pages when there was light but no one else was awake, I could save myself and report this nasty thing that he did to me, that I did not want. I knew I could find someone. I was smart enough I could read I could read the yellow pages. I could find someone I could call. I could be quiet and then, who cares if they woke up, after that because help would be on the way. In bed this was my plan, and it was a good one. It would work, and I would be safe. I could beat them. I could save myself.  I could be safe.

So I relaxed and fell asleep. When I woke I went out of the room to the phone, but my path was not clear. I was greeted with grandma at the table and my sister asking if I wanted some coffee. In her cheery little girl morning voice, “do you want some coffee?” Grandma had never given us coffee. My sister was 6 and I was 7. Coffee?  NO I don’t want coffee went through my mind.  I want you to get out of the way, and I know I can make it to the phone. I know I can look up in the yellow pages. Problem is she will ask me what I am looking up, before I can dial. If I can dial and tell them what happened I will be safe. If she asks me before I tell them on the other end of the phone, I’m dead; I’m caught I will be suffocated again. I can do it. But now this coffee thing. No I don’t want coffee.  I’m on a life or death mission. And as I walk toward them scanning looking for the path to the phone how do I get grandma to go outside so I can make the call?

 I’m half way to the phone walking now I … can do it. I can get there. I can do this. Then half way to the kitchen in that space between the living room and kitchen where they had remodeled, knocked the wall out, it starts, and I stop with my sister’s voice in my ear, do you want some coffee?

Like a wave it starts the amnesia mechanism. I try to hold it back oh no not this. I am forgetting. No not this time I remember. The wave of  images that would later become flashbacks, of feelings fear betrayal, anger, terror, shame. The images of what they will do to me if I tell. The memory, the feelings of being helpless and suffocated when I was 4,  the actual experience of them doing  to me what they said they would do if I talked. All of these all coming up at once, like a wave bigger than my mind. Rolling. I cannot hold them back. I cannot hold back the wave, as it washes over my mind, as it washes the memories of the night before clean.  Quick think of something. Hold it back. Get safe. I clench my fists, and I say I will never be like them. I will never drink coffee. With all my might I hold it back with these two thoughts all that I can hold onto all that I can save from the tidal wave of images and emotions that wipe the one memory I want to hold onto clean.

I do not drink coffee until I am 40 years old and start to remember. Oh how they loved and raved about their coffee. After I had the scent memory, the one that triggered the other memories. After this and I began to write about experiences, only then did I pick up a cup of coffee.

copyright2014fredcelio



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The Garage Next Door

For Jenna a niece whom I love though we have never met.  And for Bonnie,Esther and the boys down the street during this event. And for all my survivor friends. the truth empowers. And to end Childhood Sexual Abuse.(CSA).

I will not lie down

I will not go quietly

I will not submit

I will not roll over

I will not comply

I will not sit down

I will not shut up

This is another event in my  sexual abuse history -- the incest I experienced as a child. I have a history of being sexually abused. That is a shock as I absorb this fact, and reflect and write about this event. The sequence is that this is the last abuse that I can remember. 

My mother is a child molester. This is a picture of her this is what a child molester looks like.  Her name: Mary Jeanine Celio aka Jean Celio. Please do not eave her alone with your children. Her address 205 dutch hollowMenasha, Wi 54952 

I was already seasoned as an incest survivor not sensitized, but it was my experience. I knew how to be sexually abused. My body and mind were while not OK with the experience, you know what as I wrote this I realized I knew what to do. I knew what was expected of me. There was a combination of a kind of titillation that is not adult sexuality but of being touched of feeling cheap and dirty and bad and getting a thrill from that feeling. A thrill a sexual like thrill from feeling cheap and dirty and bad and being a veteran of the experience the game. This was childhood. This is a whole plethora of feelings that need healed a whole group of feelings in and of themselves this feeling like a veteran of incest being seasoned being socialized as if it were part of the normal childhood experience. My worthlessness on the one hand and my value n the other were held and coupled to the feelings of comfort at being objectified. I was a man who had had sex with a woman my mother.  I was a woman already as being dressed up by my grandmother. I was their everything and I was absolutely nothing. I was a sexually experienced child at this time. As I reflect and feel these feelings again, I realize that is why I escaped and buried these feelings. I never wanted to go back there to feel them again, and if my "family" had taken care of me I would never had to experience this hideous awful feeling  coupled with sensations of titillation that shattered my childhood as well as destroyed my self(the seat of my personality) and my EGO(the seat of my hopes dreams and aspirations. I was nothing except as the sexual object defined by the adults in my life whom I was dependent on for everything.

 It is not the last I will be writing about. There was at least one other abusive event I experienced from my maternal grandfather, and on going abuse between the ages of 4 and 9 by my mother and grandmother.

The house at 5702 E Buckingham Way in Fresno

This event occurred when I was 6 years old.  Our “family” lived at 5702 E Buckingham way in Fresno . Ca. 93727. I include the address and personal information, because it was during this time that my mother molested not just me, but two neighbor girls from across the street on Buckingham. Their names are Bonnie and Esther. I do not remember their last names. They lived directly across the street from us. And two neighbor boys who lived on the other side of the vacant house from us on Buckingham Way. Who’s names I do not remember.

 One day I was at a friends house and was walking home. I happened to see two girls with their pants pulled down swinging on the gate to the vacant house next door.  This was the house that my friend David Wood and his family the Rymes moved out of not long before.

The Garage Next door to 5702 E Buckingham Way Where my mother Jean Celio molested me four neighbor children (Bonnie, Esther, Unknown boy 1, Unkown Boy 2)  my two sisters (Gina and Jemma) and my brother (Mark).

One of the little girls was my sister and the other was one of the girls from across the street. I approached them and they led me to the garage. There inside was my mother Mary Jeanine Celio know as Jean Celio. She was nude at then top. Her breasts interested me. Inside were also undressed my brother Mark my sister Jemma she was giving oral sex to the boy two doors down. My sister Gina with a girl from across the street let me in. the other boy from two doors down had been engaged somehow  with my mother and the other girl from across the street they rose up as I walked in. I do not remember what was said only something from my mother saying when I asked what this was that we were licking hot dogs and kissing hamburgers/ (this is really icky for me to write).

Both House 5702 E Buckingham Way and the one next door where my mother molested us. They look exactly the same as they looked then.

Having already been molested several times on an ongoing basis I was not repelled by the scene. I was experiencing an unnatural titillation for my age.  That feeling was due  seeing my mother naked from the top down, who had already molested me one on one and with my brother and sisters before this scene. I was conditioned to this sort of scene, even though it was a new setting and now included neighbor children.  The important thing is my feelings and memories about me not what the conversation was. Kissing hot dogs and licking hamburgers. 

I was jealous as other  boys were having my moms attention.  I thought the neighbor boy, the eldest, was being favored over me for my mothers sexual attention. Yes she had been giving him attention to show the others how things were done. Why didn't she pick me for this? why did she wait till I was gone to start the molestation scene. These were some of the feelings. I experienced. As a sexually experienced and incest socialized child. There was nothing wrong with it. It was what we did all the time at home. What was wrong was that I  wasn't my mother's focus. She was indoctrinating another

As I write this the memories, are trying to force there way back down, but I was a child and I had already been conditioned to this sort of thing. So it was not new nor abnormal from my childhood experienced. I feel some shame and blame rising. You’ll see why later further down. So my mother was using herself the neighbor boy and the neighbor girl to demonstrate. And my sister was with the other neighbor boy

I feel like a man walking in older than the others even though I am 9 and jealous of my mother’s attention to others. And I wanted to take my place with my mother to show with her to the others how everything was done. I thought I was her lover. But feeling ashamed already, I looked for my place froze not wanting to be there,  but being enticed by my involuntary feelings that should have been unfamiliar. I was being enticed by wanting to pleas my mother and getting back to the number one place in her pecking order. And I was repulsed from the whole scene. The jealously and unnatural titillation won out you know I wonder if it was titillation at all or just jealousy hurt  and shame betray for I had thought I was my mothers number on and now here is this blond neighbor boy in my place.

I strolled in and the other children hollered at me to disrobe. I did and I approached my mother my word this is icky. She told me to stay where I was that we were kissing hot dogs and licking hamburgers.

There was a lot of doing things and watching my mother do things until I would do anything she said and I was then told too give oral to the neighbor boy. I din not want to do this i wanted the breasts. I remember, but dad had done it to me already, and I knew I would get the breasts 

As she was speaking to me all the time telling me how good it was and to do it. And egging me on.

As this was going on

of a sudden, I felt a hand on my shoulder and as I looked up it was my mom asking me in anger what I was doing there telling me how bad I was and telling me to get dressed. At first i was good, and now I was bad. She sent the other boy home saying "remember what I said,"  She led me out grabbing my arm as if she were mad at me. She led me home.   She said she was going to tell my father threatening me all the way home. I to my room.  Nothing happened. Life went on as before. The incident was never mentioned again.  I lie in my bed confused and riddled with shame.

He attempt to blame me did not succeed. As you can see. I survived. I am a person who is determined to remember to speak and to be heard. I am real. I exist, and I an a of high character and morality, regardless of the actions of the woman who bore me.

My concern now is for my niece Jenna who the perpetrator spent much time alone with during her early years, and who abruptly stopped spending time with her. My molester needs to admit what she did t her and take her lumps so this precious little girl can get effective counseling as soon as possible. Healing at the earliest possible time this is essential, before she starts exhibiting self-destructive symptoms.

My Initial Incest Experience (Part 2)

My Initial Incest Experience (Part 2)

I have learned about courage courage. It is an emotion. It manifests in doing what should be done after feeling fear, regardless of the degree and intensity of the fear. It is not merely the act of overcoming the fear; it is an emotion itself. It is a positive emotion. It is not like joy which wells up inside you and spills out, or happiness which is contentment with excitement, Courage is calm satisfaction.

I believe this is one emotion that someone either has or have not. It cannot be cultivated, nurtured and grown. It cannot be developed.  Fear tests the person A person either has the capacity to overcome fear or acknowledge it and take the fear invoking action or they cannot.

With other types of emotions which we all experience as part of the human experience, the capacities can differ with the individual. One may have a greater capacity to feel empathy and then act or a lesser capacity for empathy, or grief or guilt these all are emotions that God assigns a capacity for within a person. A person can diminish the capacity and ignore it, but I do not think they can increase what God has given. We judge actions. Actions are often based on emotions not so much on thoughts or maybe equally so. So we should not judge others because only God knows a person's capacity with a given emotion.  Only God knows a persons heart, used here as the seat of the emotions.

So I lie in the bed, the bunk which so excited me when I lye down for the night. As I slept Grandpa sodomized me. I awoke and stayed awake in shock for some time. I did not cry although I was hurting down there. That was numbed out. The whole experience was numbing. I was asleep and I dissociated.  I don't know how I processed the emotions of confusing, shame, and betrayal, as I lie there in shock numb and hurting.

The way disassociation works, and I think it is a form of shock common to us all, again a perfectly normal response to trauma.  The dissociation gradually dissipates as one's return to consciousness occurs. Then comes the anger and decision time -- courage

I knew what had happened was wrong. I was hurt. The whole event was weird.  Grandpa had not so visited me before. It was wrong. He hurt me and scared me and said bad words. It was wrong because he hurt me. It is wrong to hurt a child. It is wrong to hurt ME. Then I knew it intuitively. Now I know it intellectually. As I
this I am learning on a feeling level.

Then the anger set in as I lay. I wish he would come back because I would beat him up. This thought and inclination are all consistent with my maturation level at 4 years old.  It is also courage, and I had no doubt I would have risen up and beat on him.

Although I am exceptionally bright, I do not know how far off of the chart my intelligence is, and I do not care to know. I don't think it means anything with regard to emotions, although it means a great deal in managing behavior.  I was feeling and my rudimentary but developing sense of self and boundaries, which where still at the level of defining where did I end and where did other begin, and thus my sense of self confused, were violated and thus their development was challenged.  I emerged with an internal sense of being ugly, and stupid and worthless.  These would stay with me the rest of my life until I would be able to therapeutically process the memories which were now beginning to be repressed, and would eventually be completely suppressed through the deeper mechanism of amnesia. So having no idea of what was taking place internally the reaction of my mind, body and spirit to the violation of my self, as well as, the transference of shame from the perpetrator to me, and the resulting since of betrayal, the isolation and loneliness that would remain deeply inside me and remain throughout my life undifferentiated. And the stark terror. All of these were now a part of me, and on their way to the subconscious neatly tucked away by the normal trauma response of repression at the ready to emerge in undefined ways to affect the life of myslef and those who would come to love and be close to me.

Terror how many of you even know what it is other than intellectually, other than the titillating way threat movies lead you to experience in a controlled way what it is. But an element of terror is lack of control. Terror off the chart?  Which of you and how many have experienced terror? Terror is fear that is off the chart. By off the chart I mean it is outside of the zone that a human being can comfortably or uncomfortably process ie get past on their own. These are not just colorful words they have specific meanings.  The trauma response though is normal to hide the terror from consciousness through repression and later complete amnesia but we will get to that later.

So I did not have to deal with terror as the anger subsided or was also sub directed to the unconscious, This may be a maturation thing. I do know that this internalizing anger has been with me since. And I see it as occurring at this point although it could more easily be categorized as tucked away in the subconscious and turned inward as a process that developed for me with regard to what next occurred.  Yes, there was more trauma on the horizon.

Courage? I have it. So the next morning as grandpa had left for work while my sister and I were still sleeping, I arose and immediately and over and over again -- a child learns he has to repeat themselves to get the attention of an adult even about serious things. I told grandma what grandpa had done. I told her grandpa hurt me. I was not shy about this. I told him in a four year old's words that has no idea what sodomy is where I hurt and how I got hurt and well the wholes story of how he awakened me. Repeatedly to the one who loved me and would take care of the situation and of course beat grandpa up so that he would be punished for what he did.  Because you are not supposed to hurt people, and if you are hurt as a child you go to the adult who loves you that was not involved and they will take care of it for you. That is the nature of childhood. That is what a child has a right to expect. I knew grandpa was going to get it from grandma when he got home, and then and there I would have done the right thing and I would have been protected. this is what I expected. I didn't realize that there were other repercussions the areas that I described above that would need to be healed, even after grandma set things right with grandpa. I did not know because I was the child it was not my job to know. It was the adult's job to know and to get me the counseling that I already at four years old needed not because there was something wrong with me, but because there had been something done to me.

But Grandma did not fix it. She did not punish grandpa. She did not get me counseling. She did not even check my injuries down there.

What she did do was change. Once she heard me repeat the story over and over. Once she caught what I was saying she changed -- from grandma to the worst most scariest most hideous monster I could imagine at the time -- Frankenstein.

Then, at once, she went hysterical yelling and screaming at me. Something is wrong here, as I stood looking up at her. No time to process this discontinuity. Their terror she was trying to instill in me was not yet recognized. My neurological system had already been stretched  out like a guitar string so it would take a much greater degree of fear, of terror for me even to notice it and feel scared. Besides it was grandma not Frankenstein.  Maybe she would change back. What is this weirdness?

But she did not change back. She continued in hysteria yelling and screaming about me being a liar. That was  the thing, I was a liar. He grandpa was good. He would never do such a thing. I a four year old boy was lying about being sodomized the night before by her husband.

Never did she question, how would I know to lie? How would I at four even think of such a thing that happened to me let alone lie about it? What was I covering. but she clearly was calling me a liar over and over again.    This was a cacophony of hysteria as she defended the man who had wronged and damaged me. I was already filled with the guilt and shame that he so lovingly transferred from his psyche to mine and now this..

So her hysteria had not yet reached a level significant enough to illicit fear in me.In a split second that changed as she yelling and screaming hysterically, she grabbed me or rather the object I had become and and a brand new bar of soap. She took me to the laundry room sink.  As she bent me over the edge of the sink my legs dangling did not touch the ground the edge of the sink pushing into my diaphragm the air being expelled as she turned on the water and unwrapped the bar of soap, lava, and the water ran over my nose and gagged mouth. Unable to take in any oxygen,  the air was expelled from me by the edge of the laundry room sink pressing into my diaphragm, my nostrils smothered by the water and my mouth expanded beyond the size that was useful to me by the soap and itself smothered by the water, I struggled in a life or death battle to fight and flee.Not powerless and yet not powerful enough I struggled for my life held down my face in the water and ramming the soap with my protector turned perpetrator yelling and screaming. Now I was terrified.

The fear quickly reached a level that was beyond the terror of the night before, as I struggled for my life. Until I was no longer able to struggle. I was already in fight and flight mode.  Fight or flight mode is a physiological term describing organisms faced with life or death terror. It is not something a human being normally experiences, let alone a child seeking help and protection from his family who loved him. I, unable to  break free of this suffocation, this water boarding, eventually entered the next neurological state.  After fight of flight is exhausted shut off ensues. In this state an organism's neurological system shuts down as they prepare for imminent death. A death that logically and always follows this state.  I took what my body knew to be my last breath.

About eight hours later. This had occurred during morning light, when I came too in grandma's bed it was evening darkness.  When I opened my ears and eyes. My sister was talking about the ambulance coming.Grandma went to the door. I felt a twinge of  relief as I knew the emergency workers would save me. But that was not to be. Grandma went to the door, but she returned alone. How did she do that?

And so I was "treated." I was treated as if nothing had ever happened.
copyright 2013 Fred Celio

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