Today’s guest is the author of a book that must have been either hell or a catharsis to write. With great courage, Steven tells the story of a childhood of abuse at the hands of his father. Here’s how he introduces his work
Earlier this year I released my memoir My Father’s Prostitute: Story of a Stolen Childhood. People had told me for years that I should write a book about my life, that I had a lot of wild stories I had lived through. Although I couldn’t disagree, I didn’t want to write just another ‘look at me’ book. I wanted to write something that would make a difference, and I knew what it was going to have to be about but I never had an ending. I just couldn’t start without knowing how it was going to end! But I thought about it for years – how it would look, what the chapters would be, how I wanted it to sound. So when the event that ends the book finally happened, I knew I
was ready. Of course, all those years of planning it out in my head were useless as it turned out nothing like I had expected.
But that’s ok – I am pleased with what DID come out, and I seem to have accomplished my goal of telling a story that A) shows others who have been through similar situations that there IS healing, and B) shows others who haven’t been through such trauma what it is like to be inside the head of somebody who has. Receiving emails from people telling me the book has inspired them to either seek healing or look at trauma victims with new eyes has been worth more than gold and I am honored to be able to effect a positive change in the world.
Synopsis: An honest, and sometimes brutal, true story of one man’s struggle growing up in the shadow of childhood sexual abuse. From his difficulties growing up, to his drug addiction, failed relationships, and struggles with parenthood, the author takes us through the ups and downs of a life spent in the shadows, trying to make sense of the events that formed the basis of his being. Sometimes tragic, sometimes hopeful, but never sugar coated, My Father’s Prostitute: Story of a Stolen Childhood takes the reader on an emotional ride which reminds us that the human spirit is more powerful than the demons that haunt us.
Here is the excerpt:
“By the time I hit puberty, the abuse had been going on for eight years. Eight years of anything and it just becomes a part of your life,
especially when it begins at such a young age. It was all I knew, and I
had accepted that was just how it was. There was one problem, though.
Growing up a boy means competition, and lots of it. We competed for
everything, and when puberty hit, the big competition was about sex. Who was getting it, who was doing what, etc., etc. I have a distinct
recollection of standing in the locker room after 8th grade P.E. one day, and somebody was bragging about how they had just gotten their first blow job. I remember thinking, “Oh, big deal. I’ve been getting them since I was 5”. It would have been an instant win according to the laws of male pubescence, but I couldn’t tell them that. They wouldn’t understand. I had to hide that part of my life. I couldn’t be me, even when being me would mean I would “win” at that most important of teenage boy contests. But “me” wasn’t socially acceptable. I knew I couldn’t tell what was going on and be accepted. Nobody would want to hear about my “accomplishments” in that arena. I knew the things that made me special were the things that I had to hide. They made me a freak and an outcast, and I could never fit in.
Growing up, we weren’t a poor family, but we weren’t rich, either. We were pretty much middle-class with a mortgage, two cars, and a dog. But with four kids, there wasn’t a lot of money to throw around and my clothes showed it. I dressed modestly, never in the latest fashions or anything expensive. Since my parents were buying all of my clothing, it was never what the other kids were wearing and that made me stand out that much more. They were always clean, but never “cool”. In fact, somebody wrote in one of my middle school yearbooks “Get some new clothes”. I’d like to say it didn’t bother me, but it was just one more way for me to feel different.
So I turned to drugs and alcohol. I won’t go into every sordid detail
about the drugs I did during my teenage years. For one thing, that would fill volumes upon volumes of books. Suffice it to say, not a day went by that I didn’t smoke, drink, or ingest some mind-altering sub-stance. I had to. I didn’t like myself and being high helped me deal with that fact. Being high gave me an excuse to not be who I really was because, after all, I couldn’t be that person. Plus, being high helped me escape into my own head and avoid reality, especially during those times when I was lying naked and helpless, hating my father, hating my life. Being high helped me to “go somewhere else”.
But drugs cost money. It was about this time that, instead of beating me, my father would give me cash every time he had sex with me. Looking back, I think to myself, “Why did I allow it to continue if he wasn’t beating me any longer?” Years of therapy has led me to realize that, after years and years of beatings and forced sex, I had become conditioned to allow it. It had been part of my life for so long that I just accepted it. Perhaps only the people that have been there will understand that I had no choice.”
Buy Links are:
Amazon Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00ILDQLB0