Adult Sexual Abuse Treatment Program: Fill & Download for Free

As a young 6 year old boy, my older 9 year old sister began exploring me sexually. Fondling me mostly or making me fondle her.We slept in the same bed because 7 of us lived in a small 2 bedroom house. My sister and I would be sent to bed at say 8pm and everyone else would stay us, leaving us alone in the room.My sister would then guide me to perform various sexual favors with her. Usually takingnoff our underwear and grinding our privates.I would learn a very short time later that my sister’s advanced knowledge was coming from our grandfather. Whenever she was alone with him he would molest her and take photos of her in the bathtub. He essentially performed cunnilingus on her on a regular bases and she was warped to the point where she was trying to replicate the feeling it gave her with me.Soon, my grandfather began abusing me as well. The abuse he inflicted on me was nightmarish. He would insert his digits behind me and I would be fighting with all of my might to get out of his arms. The pain and fright was unbearable but he was just too strong.One day, my mother rushed in and took us children to her parent’s house. As we left the was an enormous family argument between my father, mother, grandfather and grandmother. My father was taking the side of my grandfather who insisted it was all a big misunderstanding. He said he was “tickling” her and it was being misconstrued as sexual.Once at my mother’s parents my mother asked me and my sister about the abuse and we divulged everything.My father refused to acknowledge my grandfather’s abuse. Us kids were restricted from seeing my grandfather. At the time, we were so manipulated by his dollars he would give us or his candy. So we felt it was wrong that we were not allowed to see him and grandma.Soon our parents divorced.The courts awarded my father visitation rights for every other weekend. For some reason, no one ever followed up with prosecuting my grandfather and a few months after the divorce my mother permited us to see him again.This was partially because my mother had to comply with my father’s visitation rights. And he lived with our grandfather. So my mom tried . But not too damned hard.My grandfather no longer sexually abused me but he would become physically abusive when he was drinking. He was very violent with me. Punches, chokes, holding my head under water, headlocks, etc.I learned that his sexual abuse of my sister resumed. My sister was an active participant in the abuse he inflicted on her. Not that she could consent. But she was manipulated into performing the way he wanted believing it was okay to do it - as it happens with most girls.For me on the otherhand, there was no exercise in stimulating me. Just hurting me while I physically resisted. I suppose the abuse of me stopped out of fear that I would tell again.I came to understand that my sister was hypersexual as a result of the abuse.By the time I was 12, my mother became involved in drugs. I was sent to live with my father and grandparents. So now my grandfather could be physically abusive on the regular. My father always apologized for him and excused it because of his drinking.My sister by the age of 15 was very promiscuous and seemed to enjoy being the object of perversion. Starting at the age of 13 she had regular sexual encounters with men she met who were as old as 30.My sister randomly exposed herself to me all the time. Things were very confusing for me. I was now in puberty and the female body interested me. My sister began masturbating in front of me on the regular as well. But rather than feeling turned on by it I felt sort of patronized and sad. It grossed me out. I thought she was gross because she was willing to cross sexual lines with her brother and it bothered me.We were very poor and most of my clothes came from second hand shops like the Goodwill. At school I was terribly introverted because I had learned at home that to be extroverted made you a target. My school mates were brutally cruel to me. Many times I would be walking home from school with a group of girls and boys following me and taunting me. They would throw rocks and food at me.I had absolutely zero confidence. I believed that my family was gross. And therefore I was gross. My own grandfather had molested me and penetrated my anus with his digits. I was disgusting. My body was disgusting. I was worthless. And my mother told me so when I saw her. My dad never bothered to tell me anything at all.By the time I was 15, I created an alternate universe in my mind. I wasn’t this disgusting, lanky, poor, pervert bait. I wasn’t the kid that everyone hated, including adults. I wasn’t the smelly kid that girls constantly ridiculed and made fun of. Instead l, in my mind I was a rock star, or a famous boxer. I wasn’t weak I was strong. I was so cool that everyone in the world liked me. The girls didn’t taunt me and dump yogurt on me. They loved me! They threw themselves at me.All this existed in my little universe that I could only escape to while listening to my Walkman to and from school.Often interrupted by the next school mate who wanted to make everyone laugh at my expense. Then I would get home and see that my grandfather had been drinking all day. I knew I was going to get a beating for something.I would walk in at awkward times when my sister and grandfather seemed to be unnaturally in close proximity of each other. It was days like those where I could expect a beating.At 16, I dropped out of school and decided to run away. I ended up in Las Vagas, living on the streets. A few homeless people taught me how to pan handle.One day a man in a pickup pulled over and offered me money. I took it. He started offering it to me on the regular whenever he saw me. $5 here $2 there.One day he stopped and started a conversation with me. He told me to get in the truck and he would show me his guest house. He said I could stay there until I could get on my feet. We pulled into an ally then entered the backyard of his home. The guest house turned out to be a wooden shed.Once inside he got me in a chokehold and forced my pants down. He intended to rape me. I fought him off and ran for my life with him chasing.I would experience a few more cases like that living on the street. Other homeless people suggested I just turn tricks.By the time I was 17, I was a Virgin and living on the streets for a year. Even in my predicament, I had never tried drugs or alcohol. I was always offered it. But I held out hope that someday I could be somebody.I turned 18 and eventually landed in an apartment with about 4 other street punks. I got a job making rubber hoses. I help buy groceries and pay bills.For the first time I owned new clothes that were actually in style. I got my GED and started looking for a better paying job. I became a cement mason’s apprentice and started installing driveways. I met a girl. A fat girl who was the only one willing to talk to a lose like me. She took my virginity. 5 seconds later I was the man.I was paid $8 per hour as a mason. I learned my peers were making $15. I didn’t care. I took the experience to a new company that gave me $18.I started seeing girls. Ugly ones and fat ones because those were the only ones who would talk to me. I learned a bit more about sex. I fancied myself pretty good at it. At least the fat girls moaned enough.At 19 I got my own apartment and car. At 22, I started renting a house rather than an apartment. I financed a new car. I worked as a cement mason for Caltrans doing highway construction. I was making $27 per hour. Then I became a shift leader and went salary.So there I was. 22 years old. Making $1400 a week thanks to overtime. I was in great shape thanks to the heavy labor involved in masonry.I was in line at the checkout register at the grocery store. I couldn’t stop staring at the beautiful blonde around me age behind the counter. She was way out of my league I figured.Amazingly she gave me her number. I called it and we talked. After discovering I had my own place and car, rather than going on a date she just wanted to see my house. A rented 3 bedroom about 2k square feet.She came over and Inhad the best sex of my life. She threw herself at me as quickly as she came through the door. I met some of her friends and they threw themselves at me.I ordered a pizza one day and the pizza girl was beautiful. I invited her in and we had sex right away.I got an office job eventually and in the first month I slept with every girl there.I realized all at once. None of my now 22, 24 year old friends had their own place making good money. Thanks to masonry I had a nice six pack, nice arms and a tan. Holy shit! I’m a catch!I suddenly became aggressive with hitting on girls. I don’t remember ever being rejected. By 24, I was dating 3–4 girls a week. I was having sex almost every day. Sometimes many times a day with different girls.I became obsessed. I managed to avoid disease by pure Forest Gump luck. But all I could think about was sex. I started having orgies with multiple girls.Then, 9/11 happened. I suddenly had this urge to join the military. A little later than most at 25. I went into the US Army. Took a huge pay cut. Soon I became an infantry officer.Throughout my training aside from basic training - all i did was have sex with as many women as possible.Women around military bases threw themselves at officers. I was a kid in a candy store.I did two tours in Iraq and two in Afghanistan.I had this urge when I got back from my last deployment to go see my family again. They knew I joined the military but they hadn’t seen me since I was 16.I turned up in my class As. Dad told me all those things about being proud. Ya da ya da. Grandma missed me the most and wouldn’t stop hugging me.Grandpa. He couldn’t even look me in the eye. He leaned on his walker he was stuck to after a couple of heart attacks. That little boy he used to beat up on. That boy he practically raped, had a uniform decked out in silver stars, legions if merit and all that for leading platoons and commanding two infantry companies in combat.He was a shell of a man. I had command presence, confidence and balls. He tried to ruin my life and I became ten times the man he ever was. When he talked to me he looked at the ground. He mumbled. That was my closure.I continued to chase women at an absurd rate. I was a compete sex addict. When I slept with women I didn’t just go vanilla. I wanted every position, oral and all that. I was a frantic lover like a crackhead handling his crack rocks.I tried dating but there was no way. I would cheat too often.I eventually went into therapy. It was tough because I ended up seducing my first therapist. I was terrible.It’s not that I was a player. I was pathetic. I could only define myself through sex. Inside I still hated myself. Orgasm made me forget that. Giving women orgasms helped me escape into that rockstar universe I invented in my head.Inside I was dying. I was a fraud. I was still that loser with my grandfather’s finger up his ass. I was disgusting. The sex I had proved that.I became suicidal. The military saw these red flags. I started drinking, fighting, committing adultery. Never as a Jody BTW. I started abusing pills. And the Army was happy to give them to me. But my commander saw me fall apart under his command.He called me on Christmas Day and asked me to go hit a few golf balls with him. We did. We talked about what was happening to me.He put both hands on my shoulders and said “I would like to walk you over to the clinic right now and get you help. Are you ready to do that?” I was.I went into a substance abuse treatment program and got myself a good therapist. An ugly guy this time.I was medically discharged citing PTSD.But it saved my life.I learned to overcome my addictions and depression, including sex.I found a woman that fulfilled every part of me. I became a civilian again, started a business making a good living. And best of all, I started a family. My kids are well protected. They will never feel the pain I had to feel. I would die to protect them and I will never expose them to the types of dangers I faced.I remain a work in progress. I still get bouts of depression from time to time. And sex has a way of preoccupying my mind. But I remain faithful.I now participate in a support group where I can help others who have experience what I have.When I looked back at my 20s I thought of myself as a player. A rock star. The sex was my audience. But now I look back and see how sad it really was. How sad I was.

In the United States, no. This does not fall under mandated report laws.Here in the U.S., therapists are obligated to keep your information confidential, to a point. There are five things they are mandated to report for both minors and adults.Suicidality. If you are contemplating suicide and have a plan, the therapist must report it.Homicidal ideation and plans. If you are contemplating killing someone, the therapist has a duty to warn the party threatened and the authorities. You can read more about the Tarasoff decision here: Duty to warn.Abuse of the elderly. Sexual or physical abuse of an elderly person is against the law and the therapist must break confidentiality to report it and protect the abused.Abuse of a minor. Sexual or physical abuse of an minor person is against the law and the therapist must break confidentiality to report it and protect the abused.Abuse of someone who is incapable of consent. Sexual or physical abuse of those who are severely MR or otherwise disabled and incapable of giving consent is against the law and the therapist must break confidentiality to report it and protect the abused.Growing pot doesn’t fall under any of these categories.If you’re in a substance abuse treatment program, it can be grounds for dismissal from that program if refraining from cannabis is one of the conditions for treatment, but even then they can’t report you to the police.

This is very difficult for me. I'm going to share things with you that very few people know, but I wish I had someone tell me these things back when I was suffering so.Before talking about the kids I need to say this.If you are having a hard time making this decision, if you feel both ill and relieved at the thought of placing your child, if you don't know how you can go on another day, you're normal.It is totally okay to struggle with this. It's normal to approve the idea and then fight the reality. This is a heartbreaking decision. It doesn't matter if your child has hurt you. All that matters is thinking about safety for everyone, and the best interest of the child.We ended up placing 3 children in foster care, treatment programs, and/ or group homes.The first was our first adopted child. He was 6 when he was placed with us. We were his 13th move. We weren't told he had Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, or reactive attachment disorder, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or was possibly in the autism spectrum. We weren't told about the physical and sexual abuse he had survived. We were told he was a child with minor temper problems.I'm just going to say two dislocated shoulders, two concussions, and several knee injuries leading to surgery later we suspected somebody might have failed in the full disclosure thing.His behavior never was good. He was violent toward me. He was self destructive. We frequently found blood all over his room. We couldn't figure out what he was using to harm himself. We had locked every knife and scissor away. We finally discovered he had ripped up his box spring and was using those springs to injure himself.He was placed in a 30 day assessment program. That led to a 9 month inpatient treatment program. He came home with a guarded prognosis and a recommendation for permanent out of home placement.In the middle of this we had adopted 4 other children with special needs. They were all considerably younger and we closely supervised his time with them. The psychiatrist continued to urge out of home placement. I continued to refuse. I felt like we could still reach him somehow. I argued I was an adult and could make decisions about my ability to cope. I argued that as long as the other children were safe, I could tolerate the physical abuse. It was MY choice!What I didn't realize was I had slipped into a pattern of abuse that a lot of people will recognize.He threatened me today. That's okay, I can handle that.He threw something at me. It might have been an accident, it missed me.This time the rock hit me. It wasn't that big.He punched me today. That's not much worse than before. I can still handle this.He knocked me down and kicked me in the head. It was my fault. I should have known he was in a PTSD flashback.One day I was at the end of the hall near my bedroom. He came running at me. This time I recognized the look on his face. I was going to be hurt. I started backing towards my bedroom, hoping I had time to get in and lock the door and then call for help.As I was backing up, his little sister opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hall in front of him. He grabbed her and threw her into the wall. That seemed to break his focus, and he turned and ran outside.I made sure my little girl was okay and called his social worker and put our emergency plan into place. He was picked up and placed in foster care with good friends of ours. He never came back to our home.I screamed and cried and begged my husband to let me being him home. He was my son. A good mom never gives up.But he hurt a child. I had agreed to that limit. I had to let go.…………………..The next child is actually the little girl that got bounced off the wall.Several years later she was in therapy for multiple issues. I'd drop her off, pick up some groceries, pick her up and go home.One night her therapist asked to speak to me in private.He told me he was going to social services and law enforcement the next morning for allegations of child abuse. Apparently she remembered some of that day with her brother, but it was blurry. She told him I was the one that threw her into the wall.I told him I understood he needed to do his job, and stood up to leave, pretty much in shock. I started out the door and he stopped me and said I needed to wait for my daughter.I told him I wasn't taking her home. I said if he believed she was being abused by me, he would be negligent if he sent her home with me. He said something, I don't remember what as I walked out, got in my car and drove away.I actually went to the friends house that had been doing foster care for the older boy. I called my husband and told him what was going on, and I guess the shock started to go away and I started to cry.I stayed there a couple hours. When I got home my daughter was in her bed and my husband was furious.The therapist had driven her to our home and dropped her off. My husband stopped him from driving away, saying exactly what I did. If this child is in danger, why would you leave her here.The therapist drove away. That started a child abuse investigation affecting my 2 preschoolers and triggered her placement in therapeutic foster care. She ended up leaving there for a 30 day assessment, a year in a inpatient treatment program, and a couple more years of therapeutic foster care.This time I didn't cry as much. It was obvious we couldn't help her. She spent weekends and holidays with us, and came home for her senior year in high school. A couple years later she told me we did the right thing. She said we loved her too much to be hard on her. We could never have reached her. Then she thanked us for caring enough to hang in there.Okay, this is getting very long and the next story is about my daughter I talk about in ‘Have you ever cancelled or annulled an adoption.’I'm not going to repeat all of that, instead I'll focus on her move into a group home.She was so young. She had already been in hospital and treatment centers for over 2 years. I desperately wanted her home. I got my wish.It was soon apparent that she was still too out of control to be safe without 24 hour awake supervision. We couldn't do it.Eventually even I had to admit she needed to go to a group home.I was picky! It had to be perfect!Then reality hit. There were only a couple group homes in our state that took children so young and with such severe behaviors. A couple had beds available. My mom and I drove hundreds of miles checking things out, approving a placement only to have it given to child in that area. We meet local needs first.Her social worker actually posted her description on a state website asking for help in placing her.One day I got a call. A new home was being built about 3 hours from us. They had 2 children in the immediate area already approved but needed a third to make the home financially feasible.A meeting was set up with representatives of the agency building the home, social workers involved and all three sets of parents. We met over lunch and talked and shared stories about our kids.There was lots of “Your child too!”There were tears.There was laughter.Then the representatives of the agency asked if we had any special requests.That was the first time I realized the house hadn't even been built yet, and they were willing to take our concerns under consideration. All we asked for was a fenced in back yard with a basketball hoop.No problem.When construction was done we went to visit the house and brought our daughter with us. They had asked questions about what she liked, did the closet need locks, should she have access to a dresser.Elvis, yes and no.Her room was painted pale blue to match her security blanket. A picture of Elvis was in the wall. The dresser was built into the closet and there was a lock.The backyard had a 6 foot high fence with a basketball hoop and a couple balls.That night I didn't cry.