When I came back from “the property”, I thought I was a retarded boy. With my sensitivities, every sound, thought and interaction was unbearable. I just wanted to live in a nursing home where it would be very quite and non intrusive.
The sleep and food deprivation made me more susceptible to his influence. He made me drink vinegar water a few times a day. This would elicit niacin flushes in me. He loved how the niacin flushes made me turn red. He said I was the devil and made me look in the mirror and laughed at how I couldn’t hide it. My days were filled with working outside chopping down trees and pulling up stumps in extreme weather with him coming around from time to time to reinforce how worthless and disgusting I was.
To get my bowl of rice, I had to convince him that I knew I was disgusting. He would ask me to describe in detail how I killed my baby ( before he had turned I had told him about the abortion I had). Some days that was enough. Other days I really had to describe in detail, how no one liked me, my family didn’t care about me, how I was worthless, unloved and evil.
Obviously there was no phone, newspaper, or communications of any kind. My days became a series of one word commands; Walk, Work, Feed Chewey, Shower, Eat, Sleep. I would listen intently for one of these commands, terrified that I would miss one and suffer the consequences.
There was a hole in the backyard. He said it was going to be my grave. I had to walk into it, lie down and describe in detail what it felt like to be dead and be there. He would have me do this in the middle of the night sometimes to make it feel more like the real thing.
Because of my gifts, I was privy to all of his delusions; conspiracy theories of intergalactic wars. They were real and terrifying to me. He thought that my persona was compiled from all the people that he knew and hated. I had to act out each one, making it believable, of how they would suffer in a torturous death. He hated me. His perception of me changed. Sometimes he saw me as a sort or transvestite Miss Piggy, and sometimes as things too horrible to mention.
One night I was acting out all the torturous deaths for him. He was impatient for his imagined timeline that was always behind schedule; which was always my fault. He made me do one imitation after another. Myself included. He told me I was going to die too. That night it became more and more intense until a weak, innocent voice from within me cried out, “I hear music”.
He stopped. He said, “Who is that?”
It was something that he hadn’t heard before. He liked it. He named it Skippy, which was a retarded character in a movie called the Lawnmower man. “I” had to die, but Skippy was going to live.
One of my survival tools was to imagine being on Oprah’s show. I finally had something to share with her. She would ask me in the coy way she does when asking a sensitive question, “So…why, when you had the chance, did you not get away?”
It was a good question. The audience would all want to know.
“Because I was losing so much weight that I wanted to stay until I dropped a little more”. The audience would laugh and I would feel good inside. This was all I could imagine as a reason to survive; so I could be on Oprah and share my story. This fantasy alone kept me alive.
It has taken me six years to be able to write this. I did come back to society as Skippy; but I also regained my faculties. And the only thing that makes sense is that I was meant to survive and use every talent I have to empower others. I am grateful that I have gained a sense of belonging with my friends on Facebook. Thank you all. Thanks to all those who wrote a note to Oprah telling her about me. It is a miracle to me every day to even think of it as a possibility.
To me, meeting Oprah and having her know my story and of my gifts will complete a personal healing cycle. I will be able to finally put this behind me and focus totally on my purpose. Living my purpose is the only thing that justifies living through hell to get to this point. Thank you those who support me. I love you all.