God Reality? A Testimony (5)
October 26th 2009 22:04
In hindsight, M’s treatment of me was predictable: smother any ideas the boy has of exposure under a blanket of fear. Then if he does tell his parents, it becomes a matter of revenge, ‘you know how they can get, and the boy feels harshly dealt with so he concocts this ridiculous molestation charge out of spite’. Whatever the reasoning, it worked.
A week or so later I signed on for rugby union, and you wouldn’t want to know whom we get as coach, Brother M. Whenever a tackle needed to be demonstrated, I was called out and used as the tackle-dummy. Until one day, he hit me that hard it burst a blood vessel in my nose. Crying as I clutched my nose, M called me a sissy and told me to get to the infirmary. From then on, as much as I tried to avoid the man, it was like he was omnipresent, seemingly always around when I was up to mischief, just small stuff, like running where you shouldn’t or flicking rubber bands. But the thing was, instead of just giving me the strap and being done with it, he would tell me to wait at the designated ‘strapping-room’ and wait…and wait, until the bell would ring for class or some other place I had to be.
The result of all this was an ever-present anxiety, wound up a notch every time I laid eyes on this so called man of God: ‘Will he strap me now?’
I then embarked on a campaign of parental harassment to get me out of that hellhole that lasted some eighteen months. Ironically, marijuana proved the decisive factor, not molestation, for I had locked that foul incident away, sealed-off behind a wall of fear and shame.
A group of boys were caught smoking pot down behind the chook-pens and when I told my parents about it, Mother asked if I had smoked any. I said ‘no’—which was the truth. But seeing the look of concern on their faces seized the moment: ‘But I’d been offered some,’ I lied. At the end of Third Form, I was out of there, finishing my School Certificate at St Paul’s College, Bellambi, not far from home.
To say that I left Chevalier as damaged-goods would be an understatement. Try disaster looking for a place to happen. There was this ball of anger lodged in my gut, manifesting itself in low self-esteem, depression, and bouts of rage. I rebelled against authority, hated all things religious, and trusted no one. Of course, this caused big problems on the home front.
My parents, unaware of what I had been through, thought their son had turned into an incorrigible brat. At the time, I really didn’t care what they thought; they were the people responsible for sending me to that hellhole in the first place. Instead of having the world at my feet like most my of my friends, it was placed on my shoulders. The Enemy had done his work well. This fifteen-year old was on a collision course with hell. (Cont.)
A week or so later I signed on for rugby union, and you wouldn’t want to know whom we get as coach, Brother M. Whenever a tackle needed to be demonstrated, I was called out and used as the tackle-dummy. Until one day, he hit me that hard it burst a blood vessel in my nose. Crying as I clutched my nose, M called me a sissy and told me to get to the infirmary. From then on, as much as I tried to avoid the man, it was like he was omnipresent, seemingly always around when I was up to mischief, just small stuff, like running where you shouldn’t or flicking rubber bands. But the thing was, instead of just giving me the strap and being done with it, he would tell me to wait at the designated ‘strapping-room’ and wait…and wait, until the bell would ring for class or some other place I had to be.
I then embarked on a campaign of parental harassment to get me out of that hellhole that lasted some eighteen months. Ironically, marijuana proved the decisive factor, not molestation, for I had locked that foul incident away, sealed-off behind a wall of fear and shame.
A group of boys were caught smoking pot down behind the chook-pens and when I told my parents about it, Mother asked if I had smoked any. I said ‘no’—which was the truth. But seeing the look of concern on their faces seized the moment: ‘But I’d been offered some,’ I lied. At the end of Third Form, I was out of there, finishing my School Certificate at St Paul’s College, Bellambi, not far from home.
My parents, unaware of what I had been through, thought their son had turned into an incorrigible brat. At the time, I really didn’t care what they thought; they were the people responsible for sending me to that hellhole in the first place. Instead of having the world at my feet like most my of my friends, it was placed on my shoulders. The Enemy had done his work well. This fifteen-year old was on a collision course with hell. (Cont.)
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