The Drivel Thread

I wish they were false.
they ARE false, and it would be best for you if you could know that at least intellectually. from what i know of schizophrenia i know that it's possible for you to understand intellectually that your beliefs are false, even if they feel quite real. you cant indulge yourself in these beliefs. it does not help you.
they ARE false, and it would be best for you if you could know that at least intellectually. from what i know of schizophrenia i know that it's possible for you to understand intellectually that your beliefs are false, even if they feel quite real. you cant indulge yourself in these beliefs. it does not help you.
The torture stopped late 2016, but I remember it.
@Born to Harangue you can dislike my posts, but it doesn't make them lies or delusions, as much as I'd prefer they were, in the sense that it's horrific, that these things really happened.
I don't blame people for thinking it's lying and/or delusional. If I'd not experienced these things, I'd probably think I was off my rocker too.
Another snippet from my memoir:

From the time I was eight, mum was alone with my sister and I, as dad died “of a sudden heart attack”. One time, when I was 11, I played a terrible prank. I felt sorry for a bunch of kids because they seemed bored, so I looked around wondering what I could do to cheer them up. I saw a sprinkler, and an open car window, and decided to put the sprinkler in the car.

Someone told on me, and the doorbell sounded off in our apartment. We answered the door and it was a blonde woman who said "Are you Sharon?" I answered yes. She said that someone told her I'd put the sprinkler in her car, and that it needed a cleaning anyway, no damage had been done, and that if I would towel it off, we could call it even.

Suddenly my attitude was transformed. I'd believed that adults didn't have feelings. She proved me wrong, and how sweetly! I was glad to towel off her car, and stopped playing pranks now that I'd been so politely awakened to the fact that adults do, after all, have feelings. I would go on to do some awful things though, out of necessity at times, at others out of boredom, and once, out of malice.

But mum turned out to not have let it go. She drove me to a social worker, with letter sized pages listing complaints about me, things I'd never heard of. The only complaints I ever had from her were "You kids are lazy. You never help mummy. ", and once, when my friend had brought his vinyl records over that had warped in the sun so I could pretend to mum that they were her records as a joke, well, she wasn't happy about it. She cried, and I told her "They're not your records! They're Michael's! He has the same records as you!" But she remained saddened and never did see any humor in what Michael and I had done.

The social worker, Lenny, said "Mrs. Smith, could you let me have a moment alone with your daughter?" Mum assumed that he was going to give me the third degree, and she was disappointed when she came back into his office, and Lenny said "Sharon's basically a good kid, but there's a place for her in a group home, if that's what you want." It was like a cartoon, she looked so angry. I could almost see steam coming out of her ears. Not only had I not been chastised, I'd been praised.

Someday soon after that, mum asked if I wanted to go to a group home. I said yes, and off I went. Sherri and Miles were the group home parents and were relaxed hippies. I didn't give them any trouble and they didn't give me any grief. They had a sweet young daughter with blonde hair. We had a wonderful Jamaican housekeeper named Kathleen.

One time during the lunch hour, I was making French fries on the stove, and a flame materialized in the middle of the oil. I figured that water put out fire, so I took the flaming pot of oil to the sink, and turned on the tap. The fire then overflowed the pot onto my hand, but I managed to get the back door open and place the pot on the balcony before I let it go. I closed the door. The kitchen suffered no damage. I guess the balcony did. I don’t remember how the balcony fared. Kathleen said she saw my silhouette and thought I was in the fire, so I guess the balcony was in flames. My hand looked like a pepperoni pizza for a while.

After a year at the group home, I was given an appointment with a social worker at the office of the group homes. He asked me if I'd done anything bad lately. I thought about it and couldn't think of anything, so answered no. He then asked me if I'd done my homework. I said "Of course not, I've come here straight from school." He said "Come here. Take off your pants.", and he put me face down on his lap. He spanked me sort of, but really he was just molesting my buttocks, until I felt the warm liquid of his sperm on me and then felt him wipe it off with a tissue. That ended the appointment.

Soon after that one day, I was told I'd gotten a foster home for having been good. I was glad, wow, a family, a mom and dad and kids and even a dog. It turned out to be a disaster. The foster father expected me to worship him. My gratitude wasn't what he wanted. It was never enough. I had to be in awe of him, or nothing.

He would look at me in the rear view mirror of his station wagon that the whole family was crammed into, expecting me to be swooning in awe of him. I was simply grateful, but that wasn’t what he was after. His eyes turned wrathful. Another time, he showed me his train set in the basement. Again, I was grateful and impressed that he’d taken me in to foster, but I wasn’t in awe of Peter beyond that. Yet another time, he was hammering some wood plank at the back of the house, and he turned his head to look at me. Again he was disappointed and angry, because my face must have revealed that I wasn’t infatuated with him.

One night, he wouldn't let me sleep. He was in the hallway saying I know you're awake you little bitch. Stuff like that. He started with “Good night, Sharon.”, and I didn’t answer because I knew it was late at night, and I thought he’d be embarrassed when he realized what time it was, so I was trying to save face for him, by pretending to be asleep.
Eventually he said "Sharon, your mother's on the phone." I knew then that he wasn't going to stop, that it would only escalate, so I finally answered "Peter, I know my mother's not on the phone. If you don't leave me alone, I'll call my her." He told me to go ahead, so I went through the motions of walking to the phone in the kitchen and dialing. Before I could finish dialing he forced the phone down of course. At some point, I saw he had a tumbler in his hand, and there was a bottle of whiskey or something in his bedstead. His wife was standing meekly in their bedroom in her nightgown not knowing what to do.

The next thing I remember after Peter forced the phone down that night, is I’m standing in that same spot by the phone, and Peter’s at work, the kids are at school, and I’m alone with the mousy housewife. I phoned my social worker Sylvia, and told her Peter was going to hurt me. She answered in a dulcet tone that she was all booked up for the next two weeks, and that if I was still having concerns then, to call her.

That day I didn't go to school. I took my school books but left them at the railroad tracks. I guessed which direction would lead from Lac Deux Montagnes to the city of Montreal, and I walked, pausing briefly at a bridge covered with snow, to assess what strategy to take should a train come along. Somehow I made it, and took the city bus to my girlfriend Karen's apartment.

Karen's mother let me stay for a few days and then told me that I should call my social worker. She'd been nice enough to let me stay a few days, so I did what she'd told me to, and presto, suddenly my social worker had time for me. Turns out, if you're being abused, nothing, but if you're AWOL, immediate service! She delivered me back to the group home like a hot pizza.

There were new parents there, and they were like livestock farmers toward us kids. Just the basic necessities and no feeling. I was excruciatingly lonely and during a break from home economics class at high school, a 16 year old smiled at me (I was 12), and asked me if I wanted to go with her to Toronto. I said yes, because her smile was like rare sunshine to me. Her name was Carrie.

Carrie and I hitchhiked to Toronto and when we got there, we went to a pool hall/coffee bar, where Carrie proceeded to order me to perform sexual acts on a gang of men in the basement. I'd sensed that they'd eventually rip me apart like wolves, that it was just a matter of time.

One night, she had me go up into the loft of an upholstery business with a man who must have been hitting 60, and he forced himself into my anus, laughed upon hearing me weep. I went down to the bathroom in the dark afterwards, and when I switched the bathroom light on, I saw that the warm liquid seeping out of me wasn't ejaculate, but blood.

Another time, Carrie and some of the guys were at a party, and I did what I'd been trained to do: get men to blow their loads. I was sitting on a bed in an incredibly large apartment that was one room, and also on the bed was a man, one of the gang, who I’d already had sex with previously in an apartment. I unzipped his fly and sat on him, until he came, when I saw his face under me go red. Everyone at the party was silently watching, and I guess I embarrassed him. He must have thought that I was being dominant, because suddenly his demeanor toward me changed, from arrogant to respectful. He said “Good night, Bonnie.” On his way out.

The wheels started turning in my head. I thought to myself that maybe the new respect was a result of the guy thinking that I did it to embarrass him in front of 40 or so people. I hadn’t had any respect from Carrie and the gang up until that point. I began to build up steam to deliberately act like an emotional blackmailer, to have a chance to survive in that milieu. I figured it would at least buy me some time. I just knew though, that in a while, it would catch up to me and someone would take me out. It turned out though, that that plan never had a chance to build momentum, thank goodness.

Soon after that, Carrie, me, and another woman who wanted in on the pimping action, were in a bar. I never had trouble getting into bars at 12. I don't have any photos of what I looked like then, but I must have looked mature. I think the bar was called The Gasworks. Carrie and the wannabe pimp had a pill bottle of multicolored pills that resembled candy to me. I asked if I could have some, and they looked at each other and gobbled them up as quickly as they could between the two of them.

Soon, the bar closed, and I had picked up a man so that we would have shelter for the night. The man, I think his name was Eric, helped me walk the two doped up, groggy women to a submarine sandwich shop, to get them to eat to try to sober them up. Then we all got into a taxi and he brought us to his friends' apartment. There, Carrie and the wannabe pimp slept a long time because of the pills.

I stayed up, telling the three men there about what had been happening. Eric had left. The men sat with their jaws dropped listening to what I was saying. Then one of them, Tim, counseled me that I never had to sleep with anyone I didn't want to. He would later come onto me though, putting me in an awkward position, seeing that I was taking shelter under his roof.

When the wannabe pimp woke up, she immediately departed. Carrie then woke up, and offered herself to one of the men. He rejected her offer, and she confided to me that he'd said he was impotent, unable to obtain an erection. I think he was sensitive, and wasn’t attracted to her callousness.

Soon after that, Tim sat me on his lap and was lavishing attention on me, then led me into his bedroom, began taking off my clothes, and suddenly his girlfriend walked in, Linda. She’d been away. Carrie and I were told that we had to leave.
Freed From the Gang


Carrie and I found ourselves in an all night restaurant, Fran's. It was huge, and empty, except for two men, whom I zeroed in on, sauntering over to them to lure them into offering us a place to stay for the night. Carrie had asked me, "Can you do it?", and I knew what she meant; get us a place for the night, lure a man. I guess a man turning her charms down hurt her ego.

The two men, Bill and Robin, got on the streetcar with Carrie and I, to go to Bill's apartment, where it turned out, he lived with his dad, who was a taxi driver, and his sister, who was there infrequently. Bill rolled up some spliffs and put a record on his stereo. We all took turns smoking, and I went to the bathroom. I figured, as usual, Carrie would get the best looking guy, and I'd be expected to have sex with the other guy. I found Bill attractive, so I assumed he'd want Carrie, because she had breasts, curves, while I was without, at 12.

I came out of the bathroom and saw a silhouette at the other end of the long hall that I could tell was Bill. So sure I was that he had his eye on Carrie, I moved aside to let him pass, but he didn't want to pass. He enveloped me in his arms in such a lovely way, it felt right, and he led me into his bedroom, the bottom bunk. There, he made love to me, and very well. That was the first time I'd actually enjoyed sex.

In the cold winter morning light, Carrie woke us up. She had her coat on, and said "Come on, Bonnie! The guys are waiting for us at the pool hall!" Back then, I was using the alias, 'Bonnie'. Bill piped up and told her "She doesn't have to go anywhere!", and these words came into my mind's ear: "I can say no? I can say no? I can say no!...", and I had a vision of a big sunrise in my mind's eye.

Carrie stormed off, and I put Genesis and Alan Parsons Project on Bill's record player. The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway by Genesis and I Wouldn’t Want To Be Like You, by Allan Parsons Project. I played them on Bill’s record player on the floor beside the bed, over and over, in admiration of Bill for standing up for my rights, though at the time, I didn’t know of the concept of rights. By Bill’s shining example of humanitarian intervention, I was inspired to be like him, which reversed my chugging mental wheels which had only just begun to cultivate an emotionally bullying personality (towards those who wouldn’t respect me otherwise). I took pride in the desire to be humanitarian suddenly. It’s like the lights were switched on.


One day while I was out stealing food (At 12 or 13, I didn’t know any better, and couldn’t get a job to pay for food at that age, though I could get into bars, ironically.), some guys from the gang showed up at Bill’s apartment, and he and Robin fought them off. Robin used a cast on his arm or leg, (I forget which limb now.), to fight them off at the door.

Shortly after I was told that the gang had come and gone away empty handed, I went to the upholstery business where I'd been raped, to retrieve my knapsack. I know it was stupid, but that's what I did. I stormed in, took my knapsack, and the rapist grabbed my hand and rubbed it on his crotch. I somehow knocked a bottle of glue all over his pants, and looked at him triumphantly, and walked out, returning to Bill's.

I told Bill I'd had sex with a lot of men, and he flipped out on me, ordered me vehemently to go use his sister's douche, which I did, and then he and his friend Collin (a cook at the Fran's restaurant where Bill and I had first met) shaved my pubic hair. After that, Bill never spoke to me again. Every night, I would sit on him until I'd feel him tense up to climax, as he laid on his back. Many times, Collin was on the upper bunk repeating "When are you going to give me some pork, Bill?"

One day, I had pain in my abdomen and Bill's father took me to the hospital in his taxi, and pretended I was his daughter, so that we could use her care card for me. Was it called OHIP? Another time, a bunch of us went for a ride in his taxi and threw eggs at pedestrians. A terrible thing to do, I know now.

One day, a woman came into the apartment using a key, Cathy. I was alone. She told me that Bill had told her that he wanted me gone, and that he'd sent her to do the job of removing me. I went with her and never saw Bill again.

She took me to her plush bedroom in the basement of a house. Her mother was upstairs, a Greek woman is my guess. Then she brought me to a boyfriend of hers, and turned around and left me there in his apartment alone with him, saying that if we wanted to have sex we had her permission. He looked insulted. I sat at the kitchen table eating cereal with milk, until Cathy returned and we all went to the bus depot, where Cathy bought me a ticket back to Montreal. I got on the bus obediently. I don't remember where I went upon arriving in Montreal.
Threads I haven't refreshed, for instance, are showing up refreshed, as if I'd looked at the latest posts, when I haven't.
anxiety bloody awful poetry testing the waters trying to feel good in your own skin trying to make friends wanting to alleviate anxiety wanting to feel safe to be honest wanting to have integrity
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