S
Snome
Guest
My uncle 'touched' me (not sure abuse is the right word) from when I was 8 until about 14. He'd tickle me (I was and still am very ticklish) and in tickling me he'd end up touching my genitals. It happened every time we went to visit him, say...once a month. Obviously, I didn't enjoy that bit but it didn't stop me wanting to visit him and I cannot find it in my heart, today, to hate him.
He died at 69 in 1991. I was 31. I acted as next of kin and made all the funeral arrangements, as my dad was ill in hospital.
What happened, happened and it happened, when I was growing up, that's all. What is there to hate. He was as he was, and I am as I am. This is the only life I know, so why waste it hating something I cannot change?
But has it contributed to me or am I me despite that? I don't know. When I said I didn't like it...I suppose deep down I knew what he was doing and something in me liked being touched there by another guy - I allowed myself to get into the position of being tickled every time we visited...so maybe I didn't 'not like it' as much as I am claiming.
He died at 69 in 1991. I was 31. I acted as next of kin and made all the funeral arrangements, as my dad was ill in hospital.
What happened, happened and it happened, when I was growing up, that's all. What is there to hate. He was as he was, and I am as I am. This is the only life I know, so why waste it hating something I cannot change?
But has it contributed to me or am I me despite that? I don't know. When I said I didn't like it...I suppose deep down I knew what he was doing and something in me liked being touched there by another guy - I allowed myself to get into the position of being tickled every time we visited...so maybe I didn't 'not like it' as much as I am claiming.