Up through the end of 2nd grade, I was an outgoing, happy go lucky, mischievous kid. My biggest crime back then was joining the other boys in class and sneaking up behind girls and lifting their skirts, because we found their reactions funny (in our defense, the girls were totally gross 🤮).
3rd grade, however, was a very different story. I started attending a new school, and I didn’t last a month before being expelled. The boy who had been happy and outgoing months prior was replaced with someone chronically withdrawn, sad, and, surprisingly, prone to violence.
There was a boy in my class who was smaller than the others, who everyone, including the teacher, enjoyed picking on. The day I was expelled, the teacher hung the boy up by his suspenders on the coat hooks on the wall.
Mortified, I watched everyone laugh as the boy kicked his feet against the wall and cried, which sent me into a blind rage. I picked up my desk and hurled it across the classroom at my teacher and stormed out of the room, shattering the glass in the door as I slammed it behind me, and marched upstairs into the principal’s office, where I waited in silence in front of my confused principal until my teacher arrived, demanding I be removed from the school.
From there, I was transferred to a private school for special needs children, where my anger could be tended to and better managed by nuns in an adjoining convent, and the case against my mental stability could be built.
I never understood why I became such an angry child. I simply assumed the identity my parents had assigned me, one of a troubled kid who needed to be kept away from others for their safety.
What I didn’t understand back then was that I was beginning life anew, one where I was being trafficked and labeled as a menace to society in the making. What I also didn’t remember back then was that the summer prior, I had undergone gay conversion therapy via hypnosis, which included conditioning me to feel like a deviant prone to violence when placed in uncomfortable social situations and erasing any memories of the conversion therapy itself, while my mother simultaneously assumed the role of mother of the year, forever burdened with her troubled child.
My mother and step-grandmother belonged to a secret religious society/ cult / coven that deemed my homosexuality abhorrent in the eyes of God. They were compensated generously for subjecting me to conversion therapy and molding me to confront life aggressively. The windfall enabled my parents to purchase their initial home, prompted my father to resign from his job and pursue a five-year college education, facilitated my mother’s journey through law school, and my grandparents extending their home… all while I was kicking and screaming in a school for special needs children.
My Grandpa Joe was beyond horrified with my parents. Of the memories I’ve recouped in recent years is one of his commitment to me. He told me he was going to leave me a house and “a lot” of money to atone for my family’s sins.
When my grandfather passed away in 2002, there was naturally no mention of a house or any money I had inherited. Instead, my family committed fraud, reconstituted the will with corrupt officials or assumed power of attorney, and laundered what money had been intended for me, whilst continuing to traffic me. How would I know otherwise, most memories of my grandfather had been erased with the gay conversion therapy.
However horrific to imagine, proving me right can be easily achieved by following the windfall of money my parents got in 1978 and the money / trust left to me by my grandfather after his passing in 2002.
As those who’ve been following my creative journey via Fluffer71 over the past few years are also aware, I’ve endured unrelenting online abuse, shadow banning, and censorship as my repressed memories began resurfacing.
Instead of supporting me, my family not only assumed a “just ignore Damon and he’ll go away” mentality, they did their best to provoke me, assuming I’d either give up on myself, commit suicide, or fall back into the violent tendencies they conditioned me to assume back in 1978, in hopes that I’d be locked up once and for all, and they could rest comfortably knowing the money left to me was theirs to keep.
I’m not sure how much money was left to me, but I know it was enough to bribe people within the gay community to gaslight me and slander my name so that I’d feel isolated and alone, thereby bolstering the narrative that I was a delusional, rambling, predatory deviant that needed to be locked up as traumatic memories continued resurfacing.
Given my circumstances, it’s not hard to see why I see my mother as the devil incarnated. For those of you that have supported this monster, who’ve gone out of their way to slander my name and provoke me, who have assisted in laundering money and trafficking me, sorry to be the one to break it to you, but that makes you an agent of the devil…
Bravo, you sick, predatory cowards.
Leave a Reply