Summer was the time when Gary could really play out his S/M fantasies and treat me like a full-time sex slave. This meant being subjected to daily “training sessions”—intense periods when I was explicitly instructed on how to behave and think like a slave. Much like a dog must be trained to sit, to stay, to heel, practitioners of sadomasochism believe a sex slave must be trained in how to speak, sit, serve. In short, like a dog, she must be taught total obedience.
Slave training is a rather formal activity. The slave is usually taken to a special room, known as the dungeon, where she is alternately instructed, commanded, humiliated, degraded, praised, and punished. Often, training sessions will also include bondage, stress positions, sexual violations (both from people and objects), and torture. Gary’s dungeon was in the basement. Because he had to avoid my mother’s prying eyes, though, he could not leave it permanently set up like other S/M enthusiasts. Instead, he left a series of nails and hooks attached to the ceiling beams, which could quickly and easily hold a harness, a rope, or some other type of bondage device. While much of Gary’s paraphernalia had to be kept hidden, I could tell he also had some fun in displaying a few tools of his trade. The dog cage, for instance, was left in plain sight—folded up in a cluttered corner where it appeared to be waiting for the next garage sale. He also kept a wooden paddle hanging on the wall of his home office, which he jokingly told guests was for “errant children.” Little did they realize it was no joke. Nor did most people realize that he kept a set of metal handcuffs in his desk drawer, right next to a stun gun and his handgun.
I can’t remember being threatened with the gun—although it may have happened. (Due to amnesia, as well as the normal forgetfulness of memory, there are many details about my abuse I can’t recall. I know this because, over the years, eyewitnesses have told stories about my abuse that I cannot personally remember.) I do, however, remember Gary threatening me with the stun gun repeatedly. He even used it on me once. Once was all it took. For after experiencing the excruciating, utterly indescribable pain it inflicted, I never, ever wanted to experience it again. What that little black box could do was so awful that afterward even the sight of it would trigger a panic attack. It was Gary’s most effective device for controlling my behavior, as I would do anything, anything, to avoid its wrath.
Slave training, though, is not just about controlling behavior through threats, pain, and fear. It is far more insidious than that. It’s about controlling someone’s mind and spirit by manipulating her thoughts, emotions, and self-image. It’s not enough for a slave to simply obey her master. She must come to believe that she wants to obey. She must become so enmeshed in the psyche of her master that she eventually gains the ability to anticipate his needs before he verbalizes them.
Before a slave can fully tend to the needs of her master, though, she must first learn to ignore her own. I believe this is a fundamental purpose of slave training: to habituate the slave to ignoring her own physical and emotional needs. One way to accomplish this is through the use of stress positions. When people think of stress positions, they probably envision the naked men with underwear on their heads who were forced to contort themselves at Abu Ghraib. These positions, which can look as simple as kneeling or as complicated as Twister, are actually torture techniques that were banned by the Geneva Convention. They can cause excruciating pain by putting a lot of weight on a small area of the body. Redubbed as “slave positions,” they are also an integral part of S/M and are used to teach submission, patience, and helplessness.
During slave-training sessions, I was instructed in how to assume several different positions, mostly of a sexual nature. The slave position I remember most vividly, though, was not really used for sex. Instead, it was a position I was required to assume while waiting for another command—a wait that sometimes lasted for hours. In this position, I had to kneel with my legs spread slightly past shoulder width while my body remained extremely erect. At first, this seems like an easy position to assume. Very quickly, though, my knees would begin to hurt from the hardness of the floor, and all the while, they would be trying to slide outward into a split. This meant I had to constantly tense my thighs in order to avoid falling. Having to keep my eight-year-old’s body erect meant I was continuously working my back and shoulder muscles. The sum of all this effort equaled muscles that were constantly tense, with no hope of relaxation. This was fairly easy to do for two minutes, maybe five. But after that, the pain really started.
First, my knees would begin to hurt from the weight of my body. The pain started off as a pesky ache but very quickly started shooting through my legs. Meanwhile, my thigh and back muscles began to shake from overuse. It took every bit of mental and physical effort just to steady them. At that point, all I wanted to do was relax my body. My muscles screamed for it. They demanded release. I could not release them, though. For I knew that if I broke position, I would receive a far worse punishment.
This is the point of slave positions: to teach the slave how to endure the unendurable. For when the muscles tolerate the intolerable and the body must bear the unbearable, the mind begins playing tricks with itself just to find some escape. Personally, I would try to ignore the pain, pretend it wasn’t there. In my mind, I would try to rise above my crushing knees, my burning thighs, the spasms in my back. And blessedly, somehow, such escape was possible. Eventually, my mind would drift away to some other place, a place of fantasy so engrossing that I was no longer aware of the basement, of the knots in my shoulders, of the passage of time. I have since come to learn that I was willing myself into a state of altered consciousness—a common coping technique when one is subjected to repeated torture.
—
IT WAS THE ABILITY to alter my consciousness that helped me endure more extreme training techniques—those that involved bondage, penetration with foreign objects, and extreme pain, including the use of needles and electric shock.
Why did Gary do these things to me? The obvious answer? He was a sadist, and that’s what sadists do. It’s their idea of fun. But in this case, it was more than that. Gary was gunning for domination, and any good tyrant knows that terror is essential for success.
Perpetrators use unimaginable violence to shock their victims into states of paralyzing fear. Literally petrified, victims lose the ability to think clearly and act in their own defense, like the proverbial deer caught in headlights. After the initial campaign of shock and awe has achieved its purpose, abusers don’t have to work so hard. Occasional random acts of violence are usually enough to keep victims terrified and psychologically weakened. Feeling constantly threatened, they remain passive to avoid further punishment.
Fear fosters compliance. But torture alone doesn’t breed loyalty—only contempt. Paradoxically, to brainwash someone, you have to mix the pain with comfort and perks. So, after Gary would torture me and turn me into a ball of utter despair, he would offer me hugs and solace—as he had after the first weekend in the basement. I was so grateful the abuse was over that I willingly accepted Gary’s warmth and rewards. And I learned very quickly that it was to my advantage to acquiesce, to do anything to stay in Gary’s good graces.
As weird as this will sound, Gary’s good graces could feel quite wonderful. After all, when he wasn’t hurting me, he lavished me with parental attention. On the long drives to and from school, for instance, he would initiate conversations about history, politics, and art. We ate nearly every meal together while he instructed me on things like table manners and ethnic cuisine. In those early days, he introduced me to many of my lifelong passions, including music, theater, and New York. He gave me my first typewriter and influenced my decisions to become both a writer and psychologist. He took the time to open up the world for me. He was my first and most significant mentor.
Under my mother’s care, I’d been neglected and deprived. She was constantly at work, leaving me alone and lonely. Gary preyed on that loneliness. Like any skilled pedophile, he
identified what I needed, and he gave it to me. He made me feel special, talented, smart.
Even sexually, staying on Gary’s good side had its advantages. For once he felt I had become sufficiently trained and submissive, most of the torture tapered off. Afternoons in the basement were replaced by the bedroom. And his fervor to cause me pain was replaced with a passion to bring me pleasure. I’m not quite sure why Gary was so obsessed with my pleasure, but I suspect it made him feel powerful—like more of a man.
While I can only guess at his motives, Gary’s actions are forever seared in my mind. Nearly every day at four o’clock for years, he would summon me to bed for what can only be described as a lovers’ tryst. The weird part, of course, was that his “lover” was just under four feet tall and weighed less than sixty pounds.
—
THERE WAS ALSO the inconvenient fact that his official lover, my mother, refused to vanish. Unable to ditch her physically, he did it emotionally instead. Every evening, he locked himself in his home office. Every weekend, he went to his store. As I was expected to work for him, I followed wherever he went. Very early on, my mother began to notice this pattern, and she didn’t like it. Not one bit. Being immature, she didn’t handle the situation with grace. She felt excluded, which she was. So she began to yell a lot, mostly at me.
One particular Saturday morning comes to mind. We had probably been living with Gary for about six weeks. It was early morning, and I was in the bathroom getting dressed for the flea market—just as I did every weekend. But my mother wasn’t happy, so she stood in the doorway, whining. “What’re you gettin’ dressed to go there for? Huh? You oughta be staying home with me.”
Just then, Gary came into the hall. My mother cornered him. “I want Shell to stay home with me,” she demanded. “She’s down at that flea market with you way too much!”
Gary, as always, remained calm during my mother’s onslaught. Nonchalantly, he remarked, “Why don’t you let Mooch decide what she wants to do today? She’s perfectly capable of choosing.”
It was a brilliant retort. Machiavellian in its simplicity. With one quick remark, he had abdicated all responsibility for the situation. Instead, all blame was now placed squarely on me. At eight years old, I was being asked to choose between my mother and Gary. It was not a real decision, of course. Gary knew this. If I chose Gary, he would immediately whisk me away from my mother’s ranting—and probably offer some kind of reward. But if I chose my mother, there would be no one to protect me from Gary. Crossing him would mean paying for my sins.
So I announced that I wanted to go to the flea market. I chose Gary, and my mother flew into a jealous rage. “The flea market!” she screamed. “You can’t go to the flea market! I’m your mother! You’re staying with me!”
But Gary was already whisking me out the door. “You asked her to choose, and she chose, Judy,” he said. “Live with it.”
It was with this kind of scene, played out repeatedly, that Gary was able to drive a wedge between my mother and me. He made her feel unwanted and manipulated her into believing I was to blame. In an ideal world, my mom would’ve been a stronger person and understood that, as a child, I was powerless and innocent. But, like many young women with low self-esteem and little earning potential, she believed she needed a man to survive. Gary played on my mother’s insecurities, manipulating her into seeing me less as her daughter and more as her romantic competition. Confused into believing I was the “other woman,” she made some questionable maternal choices.
I am certain that if Gary could’ve gotten rid of my mother entirely, he would have. He lobbied hard to adopt me, but my mother resisted. Despite being naïve in many ways, she knew that if Gary became my legal parent, he would dump her and seek full custody. Thankfully, she never fell for the trap. Still, I’m astonished that she chose to stay with a man whose deepest desire was to kick her to the curb and steal her young daughter.
Personally, I know for a fact that Gary considered me his true lover. I know because he told me so. Constantly. “You are my real wife,” he would say to me each morning as we drove together in the car. “You are my real wife,” he would say to me each day as we worked side by side at the flea market. “You are my real wife,” he would say to me each afternoon as we lay naked in the king-size bed he would share with my mother later that night.
Frankly, when he said it, I didn’t quite know what to think. I knew he meant it as a compliment because he said it so often and with such pointed intensity. It was something he felt I needed to understand. But I didn’t. It just didn’t make sense. My eight-year-old’s brain simply could not grasp that this thirty-three-year-old man saw me as his mate. I was just a little girl. He was married to my mother. (As a kid, I simply accepted this lie.) That made us a family. He was my father, and I was his child. Right?
That’s how I saw it. That’s how I wanted to see it. I just wanted to be normal like other kids. I just wanted to have a normal life.
So when Gary said, “I’m only with her for you. You’re the one I really want,” it confused me. I felt uneasy. Guilty, I guess. On some level, I knew it was very wrong. The guy was telling me to replace my own mother. This made me feel terrible. Despite her shortcomings, I loved my mother and felt a deep and innate loyalty to her. Gary, on the other hand, scared and repulsed me. The last thing I wanted to do was compete with anyone—let alone my own mother—for his affection.
—
IT’S REMARKABLE, though, how quickly a person’s thoughts and feelings can become distorted when they are manipulated by a sociopath on a brainwashing campaign. Just a few months after the incident in the bathroom, I walked into the living room one morning to find my mother standing naked in front of Gary. She was posing for pictures—“before” shots for a new diet. Using his Polaroid, Gary took a few quick photos of my mother from the front, back, and side. Then he handed her the pictures and went back to his home office, taking the camera with him.
The whole exchange lasted just a few minutes. Still, as I watched the scene between them, I felt uneasy, like something wasn’t quite right. Gary and my mother had been sharing an intimate moment, one that didn’t involve me. It made me feel upset. Jealous. Competitive. So I marched into Gary’s office and demanded he take more photos. Photos of me, that is. He enthusiastically agreed and told me to get undressed.
I took off my clothes quickly—without the hesitation and self-consciousness I usually exhibited when Gary told me to disrobe. If anything, I felt triumphant as I stood there naked in front of him. So triumphant, in fact, that I readily agreed to pose beyond the basic front-back-side pictures that my mother had modeled. So triumphant that I willingly spread my legs on Gary’s suggestion so he could continue snap, snap, snapping far more pornographic shots. It was a coup to be posing for his photos. I had regained my position as his favorite subject. I had responded to the threat of my mother’s supplantation, and I had won.
Never mind that I didn’t love Gary—or even like him. Never mind that I had no desire to be his sexual mate. What I thought, felt, wanted had suddenly become immaterial. I was so wrapped up in Gary’s version of reality—where he saw me as his soul mate, his sexual partner, his obedient slave—that I inexplicably found myself fighting to maintain the role he had assigned to me, a role I never, ever sought. Without even realizing it, I had begun to see the world as Gary saw it. What’s worse, I had begun to see myself through his twisted lens.
—
IN THE PAST FEW DECADES, there have been multiple stories about kidnapped children who were discovered living with their captors despite having the physical ability to flee. In the 1970s, heiress Patty Hearst famously committed armed robbery alongside her abductors. Every day countless women, men, and children stay in abusive homes and keep mum about their suffering. Why do victims stay in these situations? The short answer: brainwashing.
The term brainwash is not currently recognized as an official
psychological condition. Nonetheless, it effectively and succinctly explains why people do not flee their abusers and do not try to seek help. It’s because, usually from the moment of their first meeting, the perpetrator has waged a violent campaign to gain control of his victim’s body and mind.
Terrified, hurt, weakened, and cut off from anyone who can help, the victim must paradoxically turn to the only person available for all of her physical and emotional needs—the abuser. Any victim who wants to stay alive knows it’s in her best interest to make nice with the sociopath in charge. Ironically, though, the victim’s decision to placate the perpetrator actually binds her to him more effectively than chains ever could. This is because, in order to form a bond that can ensure her safety, the victim must seek out whatever is relatable and human in the abuser while ignoring all that is bad and monstrous. This herculean feat of pretense requires that the victim ignore her true judgments, intuitions, thoughts, and feelings.
This is the essence of brainwashing. Once a victim has made the mental leap to pretend that the monster abusing her is really a decent guy, she is primed to believe just about anything that monster says. Prisoners of war will accept the enemy’s propaganda. Battered wives will believe that their husbands beat them out of love. Abducted children will accept that their parents no longer want them.
Ultimately, this is the goal of every brainwashing campaign, whether explicitly waged or not: to convince victims that they are powerless and that their only hope for salvation is the guy abusing them. In the victim’s mind, the abuser becomes an all-powerful being, capable of controlling anyone and anything. The victim has no choice but to submit.
—
LIKE I DID.
Gary had done it. He had taken possession of my mind, body, and soul. Now, without any resistance on my part, he could command me to do every perverted, unspeakable act his twisted mind could dream up.
Scared Selfless Page 5
