Lessons from a militarized childhood: Are people really not willing to hear what happened?

Yes.

Let me elaborate.

A lot of folks who've read my Lessons from a militarized childhood posts have asked me why I seem so angry at people not being willing to listen to the stories of those who've suffered abuse. Surely that doesn't happen, they say. Surely people are willing to hear about what happened to these poor folks.

Yes, it does happen. It happens all the time.

No, most people don't want to hear.

I hate that. It pisses me off.

I know women who've suffered abuse, physical and sexual, from family members, people whose sacred duty was to care for them, and they can't talk to their spouses. I know men who were beaten, and they can't talk to their spouses. I could go on, but I'm not going to enable anyone who knows me or my friends to play a guessing game; these folks get to choose if they want to talk.

What I wish is that the rest of the world would be willing to listen, to hear their stories, to not ask stupid questions, questions like, "What did you do to make it happen?" or "Why didn't you stop it?"

The answers, by the way, are the same as those for rape victims: nothing, and because they couldn't.

I don't enjoy talking about these parts of my past. Like all abused kids, I still at some level feel guilty and weak for somehow making it happen and for not stopping it--even though intellectually I know the right answers. The reason I am talking about it is that I want to demonstrate to these people that they are not alone.

That they have ever right to talk about what happened.

That those questions are stupid.

That people who care about them should listen and understand and comfort them and never never never blame them.

That it was not their fault.

Because it wasn't.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: The day I decided to live

Quite a few people, upon learning of the rough parts of my childhood, have asked me if I ever considered suicide.

Three years in the paramilitary group, starting at age ten. Four years of almost daily physical abuse--beatings--starting at about the same time.

What do you think?

Of course I did. I'm not stupid. I contemplated every option available to me, from fighting back (tried it and failed), to running away (couldn't let my sister and brother face the abuse without me to protect them at least a little), to killing myself. I thought a great deal about all of the choices.

In fact, I pondered them so much and was in so much pain that I realized I needed to decide to live every bit as much as I would need to make a decision to end my life. I realized that living was a choice, too, albeit the default one.

The day I decided to live was a few months past my eleventh birthday. I don't remember the date, because that didn't matter to me. The abuse had been going on for over a year, as had my time in the paramilitary group. I was hurting and saw no way out.

Until I considered the future. I was right that the eleven-year-old me had no way out. From all the data available to me, however, I had every reason to believe that if I waited long enough, I would get big enough to stop the woman who was beating me. I would also age out of the youth group eventually. By doing those things, I would finally beat the people who were hurting me. I would win.

I liked the sound of that.

The way out was simple: take the pain, and wait for years. I didn't know how many, but I figured it would be at least three, maybe more.

I could do that time. I already knew the formula: Get up in the morning. Get angry; that was easy. Stay angry; also easy. Never let them see you cry. Go to sleep at night. Repeat.

Killing myself would have been losing, surrendering to them. No fucking way would I do that.

I decided to win, so I decided to live.

I won.

A lot of people who've endured great trauma have written me and talked to me about these entries. All of you, every battered kid, every sexually abused child, every veteran, every trauma worker, every cop--every single one of you had those moments, I know you did, when you, too, considered suicide. But you didn't do it. You didn't bow to the pain. You chose to live.

Stand tall. Be proud, even if you can't tell your closest friends why--and fuck those people who won't let you tell them your stories, who don't really want to know you. That's their loss.

You didn't lose. You're still here. You chose to live. You won.

You won.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: There are only two ways out

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

There are only two ways out

At first, you think crying will work. If you show your pain, they'll notice, ask what's wrong, and then in horror take you away to safety.

A few beatings later, you know better. They don't want to hear, and if you make them, they'll punish you for lying.

Next, you wonder if fighting back will get you out. After all, in schools, it gets you a spanking and some isolation time in detention. Being alone looks good, and a spanking is nothing, so you yell, refuse to obey orders, throw a punch--whatever it takes.

A few more beatings later, you know better. The sergeant may show you how quickly he can hurt you, or he may leave it to your squad mates, but one way or another, they'll deliver a clear message: Fight back, and we'll beat you down.

Maybe you try to run away, but they catch you. You're a kid, and they have all the resources.

Sooner or later, you realize the truth: the only ways out are to get so big that they can't legally keep you, or to die.

The first path takes time, a lot of time, and time translates to pain. You're not sure you can do it, but you do know it will eventually work.

The second path can be much quicker. They might screw up and kill you, but you know that's unlikely; they're way too skilled for that. No, you'll have to do it yourself. So, you consider that option. You think about it from every angle. You figure out half a dozen ways to do it, and you analyze all the pros and cons of each: How quick? How painful? How messy? Do you want it clean and tidy for the ones who find you, or do you want to leave a final "fuck you" for them?

In the end, you decide that killing yourself would be letting them win, and you will not do that. You will not. When you hear of those who did, you shake your head and tear up in knowing sympathy, but then anger replaces everything else: they gave up. They let their torturers win.

You won't be that weak.

You wait, you grow, you measure your strength, and you know one day it will be enough.

Years later, a friend, a wise man, a man you respect, asks why you didn't leave. You answer the question nicely, but inside you remind yourself yet again of another lesson, that their world is not your world, that they will never understand, that they are lucky never to have had their options reduced to these two.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: Anger will save you

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

Anger will save you

At first, you expect someone who's supposed to care for you to rescue you. They have to notice. They have to come.

They don't.

You learn that they don't want to see. They won't save you.

You turn to those around you. Surely they will see how bad this is, how much pain it's causing, and then they'll be the ones to rescue you--or at least to stand with you and help make it stop.

They don't.

You come in last on a run because you're out of shape and you're by far the smallest. The sergeant says that everyone gets another run instead of an afternoon break. That night, they hold you down, cover your mouth, and make sure you understand that you will run faster next time. No, they won't save you.

You can't stop it, so you can't rescue yourself.

You can get mad. You can refuse to break. You can scream at them, sometimes out loud, mostly in your head. You can't protect your body, but you can hold that rage in a secret spot they can never touch. Even better, the more they hurt you, the stronger it gets, so all they can do is make you angrier. When you hurt, when you feel weak, when you think you can't take it any longer, when the cold of your world is so great you're afraid you'll freeze and crack, you warm yourself with it, a flame that will never die.

Nothing else may help, but your anger will save you.

Years later, they wonder what keeps you going, why you will continue to push ahead when others around you are giving up. They can't see it, but that flame is still burning strong, still warming you, still powering you.

Still saving you.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: Their world is not your world

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

Their world is not your world

You know they exist in the same space as you; after all, they can hurt you. You quickly figure out, however, that space is about all you share.

In their world, people can scream at each other and think that five minutes later it meant nothing. In your world, the scream is the precursor to violence, so when you hear it, you ramp up: adrenaline floods your system, and you prepare to fight.

In their world, people threaten one another with no intent of following through. In your world, you never make a threat you're not prepared to complete, because if you ever do, no one will take you seriously again, and you need them to know that fighting you is not a good plan.

In their world, they'll say that they'll kill you if you do that again. In your world, you stand ready to kill them if they do it again.

In their world, hurt feelings are the worst that will happen. In your world, blood and broken bits occur all the time, and you understand completely that they are far from the worst that can happen. That has happened.

In their world, concepts like team and loyalty and giving your word are as insubstantial as morning mist, notions that are powerful for a short time and then vanish in the light and heat of the day. In your world, they are everything, all that you have to give, and when you give them, you give them completely, fully understanding that the price may be dear.

In their world, they are safe no matter what they do. They mock the man in front of them in line, not noting the gun bulge or the telltale drug-induced alertness. They walk down the dark street because it could be a shortcut. They see no threats, because nothing has hurt them. In your world, you know that safety is as easy to rip apart as skin, that threats are everywhere, and that if you haven't spotted the attack before it starts, you screwed up, and you will pay.

Their world is a much nicer place than yours. You wish that you could live in it, that you didn't know yours existed, but those wishes are even flimsier than safety, because once you've lived in your world, you live there always.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: Trust no one

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

Trust no one

The hits can come from any person in any place at any time. Walking down a hall, running, doing leg lifts, sleeping, trying to read alone--then smack! You're on the ground, or your face is stinging. Usually they laugh. Good one, they say. Then they turn serious: Stay alert, meat. Toughen up. You won't make it if you don't learn better.

So you do. You learn. Your leaders, your squad mates, the adults who are supposed to take care of you--any of them can hurt you in an instant. Strangers, too. Those closest to you, and those you haven't met yet. Any of them.

You learn, too, to take care of yourself. You never stop looking around. Your eyes scan as far and as wide as you can make them, looking for the threats that just haven't shown themselves yet. You keep a wall to your back if you can. You sit in the corners, where the threats have to come at you. You never completely relax, because you know what happens then. You accumulate every edge you can, in case you need it.

As you scan, you look for the others who are also watching, who also understand, because they're the most dangerous. Those, the ones most like you, you watch carefully, because they'll strike with skill.

Most of the people around you will never understand, and you're okay with that. You smile and tell them you trust them as you automatically and without thought check their hands, the position of their feet, and you adjust to compensate.

When they get you, a hit, a job firing, an emotional wound, whatever--you don't even blame them. You know you screwed up. You remind yourself with words you rarely remember once came from others.

Stay alert.

Toughen up.

You won't make it if you don't learn better.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: They don't want to hear

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

They don't want to hear

Years later, when you're a grown-up, if you dare to tell anyone, they'll almost always say the same thing: Why didn't you tell someone? Your mother? The adult in charge?

What a shame you didn't think of that.

How stupid do they think you were? Of course you tried telling people, but then you learned another lesson: They don't want to hear. Adults are not on your team. They don't want to see the horrors right in front of them. Any reassuring lie will do.

Oh, he's just exaggerating.

Of course we wouldn't do that!

Let me reassure you that no such thing would ever happen here.

He's just going through a rough phase.

Rough is what follows the times you're dumb enough to tell. Then, you really pay. They're good at hurting, though, so the bruises are where they're hard to spot--and besides, you're clumsy and fall a lot and bruise easily, ask any of the adults. It doesn't take long before you learn to do the hiding, because then there's no risk you're accused of telling.

It really never changes. All those years later, when you dare to tell, most people don't want to hear. It makes them wonder if that could really have happened. It makes them suspect you're exaggerating, even when you tone it down so they can take it. It makes them uncomfortable. Fair enough, it is uncomfortable, and it should be, it should be so fucking painfully uncomfortable that we all agree it simply may not, must not continue.

You see, you can't help but having moments in which you believe that maybe, just maybe, by bringing it all out into the light, by forcing open the eyes of all those who look away or refuse to see the abuses going on all around them, that you can make it safe for the next young ones to tell.

You don't really believe that, of course, not for an instant, but sometimes you try anyway.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: It can all vanish in an instant

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

It can all vanish in an instant

You're going to school, doing the work, trying to fit in, failing but trying, and then the man you've come to see as your father dies. He's gone in an instant, and you have no clue why--not that it matters much, because you can't even remember his face anymore.

You're standing in line that first day, soaked with sweat and squinting in the bright Florida sun, the sergeant is screaming at you, your mother drives off, and now something else is gone, too, though you won't realize it for years.

You're in the chow line, your metal plate poised to receive whatever they're going to feed you, your stomach grinding against itself, your muscles aching, and just as the food plops onto your plate a corporal lifts it out of your hands. You won't need it, he says, because you'll be on ant patrol around the mess area. You want to protest, but you've been around long enough now to know better, so you snap to attention, salute him and the order, grab your rifle, and start marching.

You're sprinting for the finish line, winning for the first time, your boots pounding the dirt, and the sergeant steps from behind a tree and shoves you so fast you don't figure out what happened until you complete the roll--God help you if you screw up the roll--and you scramble to your feet, ready to fight, your lips peeled back, your head throbbing with anger. Stay alert, he says, then tilts his head until you force yourself to attention and croak out the best "Sergeant, yes, Sergeant!" you can manage. He nods and moves on.

You're on your first night practice, way before ant duty, way way before the sprint, and you and your partner are doing your best to approach the target silently. You pause against a tree, note the moonlight is making his face gleam like a clean plate, and before you can tell him, someone slams into his side. They hit you a second later, two of them, one taking out your legs and the other riding you down. The air explodes out of you. You can't breathe. A flashlight's beam hits your face. Sloppy, they say, and sloppy gets you killed. Again. They get off. You stand, salute, and head back to the beginning.

You learn, over and over and over again, that nothing is safe, nothing is yours, nothing is permanent, anything and everything can vanish faster than your heart can beat. You keep your distance even as you stockpile, never let yourself get too attached even as you grab all you can, and you know it's all temporary, all at risk all the time. As are you.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: There are only two teams

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

There are only two teams

They like to talk about all kinds of teams: basketball teams, baseball teams, football teams, even teaching teams--but they're wrong. There are only two teams: yours, and everyone else. You can't always trust the guys on your team--more on trust in another lesson--but if a situation turns hot, you can, you will bet your ass that they will stand with you. And they will.

A kid, a private so new he still wants to call a sergeant "sir," stumbles into your camp after a night patrol. He's holding his stomach, still drying puke sullies his starched shirt, his split lip and nose are leaking blood, and his cover is missing. He broke the rules and went out alone, but that doesn't matter now. You get the story: two big guys, drunk guys, guys from the camp a little nearer to the highway than yours, tore into him for invading their space. Maybe he was, but you'll deal with that later. Right now, you grab your friends, four of them and the kid, you take your rifles--barrels blocked but still excellent clubs--and you head out.

You're twelve. Like that matters.

Finding the two guys is easy. They're still laughing about the lesson they taught the little shit, and they're tossing his cover back and forth. You've practiced this attack; they haven't. You're alert; they're drunk. You're six; they're two. It's nowhere near fair.

All that means is that you executed better than they did.

Two of you take out their legs first, while two more pull them down and cover their mouths. You all hit them, over and over, with rifles and fists and legs. The kid stands back, his eyes wide. When they're barely moving, when their faces are so wet that even with your flashlights you can barely find their eyes, you bring the kid over and make him take the last hit on each of them. He has to learn.

You pick up his cover and put it on his head.

Right before you go, you lean over each of them, clean their eyes to make sure they can see well, and shine the light on your face. They need to understand that you don't care if they know who you are. Then you tell them the lesson they should have already learned: "Touch one of us again, and we'll kill you."

You leave.

When you see their group the next day, you're ready, but they look away. Good. Like the kid, they had to learn.

Us. Them. It's that simple.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: You deserve it

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

You deserve it

They wouldn't hurt you if you if you were better. If you had held up your legs longer during the leg lifts, they wouldn't have needed to stomp on your stomach. If you weren't such a baby, you would have kept your legs up when they did. If you were a better fighter, you wouldn't lose so often, even though half the time your opponents are men twice your size, men who laugh as you hit them and then slam you so hard you cannot breathe.

They make it clear. They say it over and over: They're doing it for your own good. Without them to teach you the lessons you need to learn, you'd grow up even stupider, uglier, and fatter than you are. You'd let down your squad. You'd die early. You'd let others die.

You won't do that. You won't let down anyone.

So you try to be better. You know with a bedrock certainty, more than you know anything else, that if you were only better, they would stop hurting you. You wouldn't have to fight. You'd get to be like the other kids you remember, or have seen on TV, or see as you march by, carrying your gun, your eyes scanning everywhere while their dads hold them high and point out the little soldiers, aren't they like little men, aren't they cute.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: Contact = Pain

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

Contact = Pain

They touch you when they want to hurt you.

Sometimes, it's because you messed up, and that's the punishment. You come to expect those. They even feel fair. After all, you screwed up. So, you take it, and you keep as quiet as you can.

Other times, it's part of the training. You have to know how to fight, or you won't survive. You get them first, or they get you. You also have to know how to take the pain, or so they tell you, but you're way ahead of them on that one; you've already learned this part far better than they realize.

The worst times are when it's out of the blue. Maybe you're standing in a line, waiting to get your food, and someone touches your back. You whip around as fast as you can to ward off the threat, but if you're not fast enough, they smack you in the face or punch you in the stomach. Maybe you're sleeping, but you let yourself go too deep, and the arms hold you down seconds before the fists or feet hit your stomach. Tighten up and take it; that's all you can do.

They don't like it, though, when you stiffen up at the hugs that are supposed to feel good--though you're never sure to whom. The ones who beat you are the same ones who expect you to give a hug and like it; you know it's all just another test. Those who hug you and have never hit you? Merely threats you haven't triggered yet.

You keep the little space around you as precious as your water. If someone enters it, you push them out--hard and fast, before they can do any damage. Hit first, stay save.

Above all, you show as little of your pain as you can. You stay as quiet as you can manage. No tears. No fucking tears. They don't get that satisfaction. Fuck them.

When they do, when your control fails and you scream or cry, that hurts worse later than the bruises and the blood when you pee.

You'll get better with practice, though, of that you are certain, because it never stops, it never ends. There's always a next time.