When I was a three to four (1971-1972), “people” used to pop up at the foot of my bed, or out from behind the curtains, and talk to me. They looked flat and plastic, and they usually only said a single word (like “la”). I would spend hours trying to figure out what they meant. I told my mother about it, but I didn’t have the words, and she didn’t know what I was talking about. I would say “la came to see me last night” and it would mean nothing. Eventually it stopped.

When I was six (1974) my mom and I lived with my grandparents. One day a man in a canvas bag (his arms and legs were sticking out) chased me up the stairs. After that I was paranoid to be in the house. Every night for years I would stare at the top of the stairs for hours waiting for the man to come back.

When I was seven (1975) my grandmother got a poster of the Mona Lisa, and one day wherever I went, it followed me. It was hanging on the wall of every room I went into. This phenomenon only lasted a few hours before it finally stopped.

When I was nine (1977) I developed an explosive temper. I would get completely out of control. So much so that I was just a screaming, flailing basket-case. Kids would make me mad just to enjoy the show.

When I was ten (1978), I realized how good it would be to hurt someone. There was a boy that I didn’t particularly like, and I made friends with him. I invited him home and as he was walking through the door (which swung inward) I threw all my weight against it. Several times. I really enjoyed hearing him scream and cry. Then it occurred to me that there would be consequences. I cowardly closed and locked the door. He went to the back door and screamed at me through the glass, but then he went away. A few days later his much older brother cornered me and roughed me up far less than I deserved. I was a coward for most of my life.

Things were pretty normal for a while between ten and thirteen (1978-1981) except that I hurt myself a lot–just mildly at this point. I would lie face down with my penis on a wire brush. I was already putting stuff with a diameter of a few centimetres up my butt. It hurt but I did it[1] (see the bottom of the post).

When I was thirteen (1981) for no particular reason (except that it felt good) I grabbed a younger boy and smashed him into the corner of a brick wall as hard as I could. Blood poured out of his ear. I told the teachers that he had run into me and that it had been an accident and I got away with it. Years later, in high school, the boy told me he was deaf in that ear.

[1] I suppose I should mention that I had a sexual fantasy about boys just before my fifth birthday. I developed a crush on Captain Kirk when I was six and I would masturbate (in a totally inept six-year old’s way) while thinking about him and Mr. Spock. When I was seven, I had an adult-style sexual experience with another boy who obviously had been molested. So at seven I had a pretty complete, albeit totally naive, understanding of the mechanics of gay sex.

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