Trusting a Monster

IN THE FLAT

 

As soon as I entered the lounge of the now all too familiar flat, I knew something bad was about to happen. My body felt like it was wrapped in invisible chains, and I smelt fear. my own fear. It was as though the atmosphere pulsated with such intensity that it grabbed me, shaking my flimsy little body, flaying my limbs in all directions, like some pathetic rag doll.

God, I was so terribly scared.

Ropeman left me alone while he went to the kitchen to sort out our drinks. The sight of the beer made me shudder, and the muscles that didn't tighten, twitched instead. 

 

A dark and gloomy, musty smell,

A place no warmer than a prison cell,

Strange thoughts enter into your head,

You now start wishing you were tucked up in bed.

A frightening chill shoots through the air,

All you do is stand and stare, 

It’s a place with an eerie feeling,

Your heart by now is really speeding.

Sepulchre,

Sepulchre,

What a place,

Your heart is beating a rapid pace.

That awful chill is slowly rising,

All you think of is surviving,

But as you try to run and leave,

You can’t help thinking your eyes deceive,

Lurking in that gloomy doorway,

Is something that’s come out of doomsday,

You try to move, but are stuck to the spot,

You try to scream but breathing…, you’re not.

Sepulchre,

Sepulchre,

What a place,

It’s now your home.

 

To my relief, after handing me a beer, Ropeman slid the video cassette into the player, and we settled down to watch the film I was far too young to see.  I tried to concentrate, but I was conscious of his every move; my muscles tightening at the slightest twitch. It was an exceptionally good summer, so when 

he asked if I was hot, I replied with a simple yes, pretending to be engrossed in the film. But I knew in fact, every cell in my naïve young body sensed danger.  And when he suggested I might be more comfortable if I removed my top, the fear enveloped me to the point of numbness, and before I knew it, there I was, stripped to the waist again.

It wasn’t long before the second stage of his sick plan was being put into action. “Shall we stretch out a bit? After all, there’s plenty of room,” he said.  I felt like a rat caught in a trap, knowing there was no way out; no one was going to be knocking at the door and saving me.

“Is it ok if I use the toilet?” I asked the question merely as an escape, something that would give me a bit more time, however limited it might be before the inevitable happened. Ropeman stopped the tape and directed me to the bathroom.

On returning to the lounge, I noticed that he’d removed his top.  He was sprawled across the whole of the sofa, smiling, beckoning me to join him.          

What choice did I have?

With a great deal of apprehension, which I’m convinced he was aware of, I did as I was asked.  After awkwardly positioning myself into place, he began cuddling me from behind, pulling me closer before stroking my chest. Within seconds I felt his arousal in the small of my back.  Without success I tried to ignore the feel of his sweaty fingers by losing myself in the movie.

Try as I might . . . and I did try, going so far as   

to close my eyes and picturing myself saying the words, but somehow I couldn't summon the courage to tell him to stop. 

My silence was deafening, and the sound of his erratic breathing all but consumed me, before I fell away.

 

You touched me,

Held me,

And stroked my chest,

Told me that you,

My teacher knew best.

I felt your hardness,

In the small of my back,

I had a chill in my spine,

When you said I’d be fine.

 

“I’ve always felt sorry for you, what with you being adopted and everything.”

 

“It really is a pleasure to teach you”

 

“You’ve had a hard start to your life haven’t you?”

“Try to relax a bit more, you feel so tense. I won’t bite.”

 

 These were some of the things he was saying as he fondled me.  I didn't respond. Instead, I closed my eyes and waited for the nightmare to end, ironically finding solace in the chaotic sounds blasting from the television.

After what seemed a lifetime, the movie finally came to an end. I eventually found the courage to say that I wanted to go home. To my astonishment my molester agreed, but he made me drink some strong coffee first.

An hour later I was in the safety of my bedroom, alone and isolated, but safe, unaware of the horrors that were waiting for me in the not too distant future.

 

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I Hurt So Many People. . .

MY SON

 

6th August 1988. 10.50pm

Lewisham hospital, South London

I intended to be the best father in the world. The love I felt for him the instant he was born was something I had never experienced before . . .  and nothing has overwhelmed me to that degree since. Apart from the actual birth, one of my fondest memories of the evening was when Julie, with our baby cuddled in her arms, said to me, “Come and meet your son.”

In my mind’s eye, I can still see his little screwed up face; the sound of his first cries in the world still ring in my eardrums.  And once I held him in my arms all that mattered was the love I felt for him, and I vowed in earnest to protect the young beautiful life I'd helped create.

And I failed him.

 Aside from going to work, I put absolutely no effort into providing my child, whom we had named James, a loving family environment. In fact, all I managed to contribute was pain and heartache.

While Julie was busy at home looking after baby James, I continued my drunken nights out down the pub, having affairs with young dolly birds, spending what should have been my son’s money on buying them drinks and cigarettes.

The physical abuse towards his mother became more and more horrendous by the day, but I believed it was justified; it was I who was the one being hard done by. When I think of the times I used to slag Julie off to my parents, claiming she wouldn't even bother to cook for me and ranting about her inability to keep a clean house embarrasses me to this day.

I was an evil young man with no feeling for anyone but myself.

One terrible occasion will always stick in my mind. It was a Sunday afternoon, Julie and I had decided to go to the local park where there was a bit of a fete taking place. And so, with James in the pushchair, we walked the short journey to the celebrations. We’d arranged to meet a friend of ours, Laura, at the main entrance, and intended to make a day of it, strolling around the various stalls.

 

We had not anticipated that there would be a beer tent.

“Look. There’s only a fuckin’ bar.” I exclaimed, already shoving my hand in my pocket, hoping I had enough cash on me.

 

‘‘D’you have to,” asked Julie, rolling her eyes, “you’ve got plenty of cans back home; we won’t be here that long.”

I glared at her, “Shut the fuck up.” And with that fond farewell, I disappeared into the crowd.    Pushing my way to the trestle table, I waved a ten pound note in the air, franticly trying to grab the barman’s attention, as if my very life depended on it.

Getting very impatient, I leaned as far across the makeshift bar as was physically possible and shouted for service; more than a few heads turning in my direction as I did so. The guy behind the table finally looked at me, an expression of total contempt etched on his face, but he served me just the same. After paying for the glass of cloudy beer, I scanned the area to see if I recognised anyone. My body froze, and the glass I was holding threatened to shatter under the pressure.  It was Ropeman, fuck me, it was Ropeman!

The first thoughts entering my mind were extremely violent.  It would take no effort at all to drive my glass into his throat; to twist and turn it until every last drop of his poisonous blood drained from his lifeless body. I imagined a bloodstained corpse sprawled on the grass; saw myself kicking and punching the putrid remains until the police arrived and arrested me for the cold-blooded murder of a “respected” schoolteacher.

Finding it very difficult to contain myself, I walked towards him, not quite knowing what I intended to do. He began smiling that same old pathetic smile of his, trying to look as if he was happy to see me, but I

saw through him; the look of terror apparent in his

soulless eyes.

At the last minute, my thoughts reversed. It wasn't fear, far from it; in reality I could easily snap his neck. For whatever reason, it became more important that he see, despite what he’d done, I had survived.  Although this was far from being true, outwardly it would appear I was doing well.

“Hello Simon, I don’t believe it. How the devil are you?”

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ great, you?” I gulped at my drink

“Not too bad, I’m teaching at a different school these days, the pay rise helps too.”

(And how many little boys’ lives have you destroyed since working there?)

 

It was clear he didn’t want to talk, as his next sentence confirmed, “Anyway, it’s nice to see you, but I must get on. You look after yourself, ok?”

Tilting my glass in his direction, I nodded goodbye and he was gone, leaving me every bit as empty and violated as the last time I'd seen him all those years ago.

I needed another drink.

After downing four or five pints of real ale, I decided to go in search of Julie and Laura; feeling an immediate need to be free of the crowd which was suffocating me from all directions.

 

And my anger was rising.

 

I don’t know you,

An’ you don’t know me,

Get out of my way,

Just leave me be.

I’ll tear you apart,

Limb from limb,

An’ all the while,

I’ll imagine you’re him.

Give me an excuse,

An’ I’ll destroy you’re life,

Slash your throat,

Kill your wife

Stamp on your head,

‘Till your skull caves in,

An’ all the while,

I’ll imagine you’re him.

Murder you all,

An’ imagine you’re him.

 

It wasn’t long before I was pushing through a throng of mums and dads.  Everyone busy laughing as their children ran around screaming and shouting with delight at the many sideshows on offer.

 

And my anger’s still rising.

 

After completing two circuits of the madness and mayhem surrounding me, I decided to go back to the beer tent; thinking they may have been trying to find me.

 

And my anger was rising.

 

“Simon. Over here!” They were sitting on a bench outside the toilets.

“Where the fuck do you think you’ve been?” I bellowed, causing people to look in my direction for the second time that day.

The finale of that terrible afternoon saw me kick my child’s pushchair over, and punch Julie in the side of the head twice; my son was in her arms at the time.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, once I’d returned home, and with my temper still raging, I completely trashed the lounge, destroying everything I could get my hands on, which included James’ toys.

If I’d heard of someone else acting in such a despicable manner, I would have had one simple word befitting such a person; scum. Anyone in their right mind knows behaviour like that is beyond unacceptable, it is the lowest of the low, and there are no excuses to defend such horrific actions.

I’ve not been in James’ life since he was four years old, and it hurts me far more than any of the evil acts I was subjected to. I've missed out on so much; kicking a football in the park, helping him with homework, enjoying the look on his face on Christmas morning . . .   so many lost years, times that no amount of wishing can bring back.

 

Often there are simply no second chances. This is something I've found out the hard way; the way I discover most things, by fucking them up beyond belief. 

And in truth, when it comes to James most especially, I'm not deserving of a second chance.  What bothers me most is that my son is paying the consequences for my selfish acts.  He was the one cheated, and I got exactly what I deserved.

 

On numerous occasions I’ve taken steps to find my on, but I always seem to come up against a brick wall.

However, if I’m truly honest, I certainly could’ve done more, an awful lot more.

 

I miss him so terribly much.

 

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Easier to Hate

DRUGS, DRINK, AND SELF LOATHING

 

The first few months went swimmingly well. There were no clashes between me and the other five residents, and I’d been allowed to shop for myself following my initial trip with Caz. Even the relationship with my family was back on a fairly even keel.

As soon as the time came for me to leave school everything changed. Between what the state paid me and my food allocation, I was receiving £35 a week. After paying £4.50 board and lodging, the rest of the money was my mine to spend.

I began to drink heavily and it wasn’t long before I made friends who were keen to sell me as much cannabis as I could afford. As my drug and alcohol abuse grew, the unemployment money was no longer enough to cover the lifestyle I’d become accustomed to, and I became very aggressive towards the staff at Kingfisher.

To make my money go further, I started drinking very strong lager with a volume of 9%, only 

Returning home when I was out of drink or spoiling for a fight.   

    The more the staff tried to understand why my behaviour had taken such a dramatic turn, the more I rebelled against them, threatening to run away or smash up furniture. When my threats centred on violence towards whichever staff member I was arguing with, Bill informed me that they’d been instructed to call the police, telling me my adverse behaviour would no longer be tolerated.

The anger inside me continued to escalate and my alcohol consumption remained astronomically high. Feeling unable to release the tension coursing through my veins, I started to self harm in a manner which never happened before; taking kitchen knives to my forearm and really cutting myself in a disturbing way. I’d butcher my arm, hacking rather than cutting, causing gaping wounds that pumped rather than oozed blood. The hatred I’d often shown towards others was now turning inward; and my greatest wish was that death would take me away. 

Things got so bad I was being taken to the local hospital two or three times a week to be stitched up. The casualty staff demanded an explanation as to why I was being allowed to hurt myself whilst still under the supervision of council care workers.

It was decided all the kitchen knives were to be kept under lock and key, and if I needed to peel some spuds or cut some meat, it would be done for me, but short of locking me up, there was pretty much little else they could do.  Caz continued to try and help. She was genuinely concerned, but I really didn’t have any 

interest in sorting things out. The self destruct button in my head was now activated, and there was little anyone could do to help. 

 

As well as self harming, I reacquainted myself with sniffing glue only now I no longer did it privately, thinking nothing of sitting in the communal lounge with my “bag,” waiting for a reaction. When none came, I was more than happy to just get high, revisiting the euphoric world which had welcomed me only a few years before.

I remember one situation in particular, when I pushed my luck to its limits with the officer in charge. His name was Malcolm, a very experienced social worker, being in the job for over ten years. I’d decided to glue sniff in the lounge, desperate to create an argument with him.

Sure enough it was only a matter of minutes before he entered the sitting room, demanding I hand over the bag of Evostick. I told him to fuck off; and he did. Thinking I’d won the battle, I strutted into the kitchen, where another member of the staff was making a hot drink. Proud of my apparent victory, I boasted, “he’s a fuckin’ good social worker aint he? Couldn’t even get the glue off me, wanker.”

The residents present looked at me in disbelief, and the staff member, a black guy called Les, smiled at me and simply said, “D’you want to talk about it Simon?”

I paced around the dining table, inhaling the bag of glue, laughing hysterically between breaths, knowing I looked insane.

 

“Simon, you don’t need that stuff,” continued Les, “why don’t you come into the quiet room and have a chat?”

I begrudgingly followed Les, doing a shit job of imitating his swagger for the benefit of no one in particular.

“Fuck it, what d’you want me to talk about then?”

Unbeknown to me, Malcolm had called the police, and just as I handed Les my bag, two officers came running towards me. I legged it through the lounge and out the back door, making it halfway across the garden, before being caught. A torrent of abuse flew from my mouth and I began to kick out at my captors. They managed to get the handcuffs on me and I spat in their faces.  

“You bunch of fuckin’ pricks, get yer fuckin’ hands off me you dirty cunts!”

I was frogmarched out of the building and shoved into the back of the van, with Les following.

 “Calm down Simon, we’ll get it all sorted out at the police station. Don’t worry, it’ll all be fine.”

Deptford “nick” was a mere stones throw from Kingfisher, and so it was only a matter of minutes before I found myself sitting in the custody suite.

Following a search the cops also found a small quantity of cannabis in my jacket pocket, together with some “poppers,” (amyl nitrate).

I’d discovered poppers a few months prior while browsing one of the many adult shops in London’s West End. The arresting officer took the substances 

Away and I was left sitting with Les on a bench running along the back wall of the room.

“What’s up mate? You’ve really got to sort things out buddy, why d’you keep doing these things to yourself?”

 

I was crying.

I was scared.

And I hated me.

 

“I just fuckin’ hate myself Les, just wanna fuckin’ die.”

My voice was raised and a few of the policemen milling around glanced over, probably concerned I was going to kick off again. But Les carried an air of confidence, it was clear he had things under control, so they refrained from intervening.

When Les instructed me to stay put and left, the minutes seemed like hours.  I was convinced they were going to charge me for possession at the very least, if not resisting arrest, and in all honesty, that's not what was bothering me.  I was more concerned that my stay at Kingfisher was in jeopardy.

Finally, Les returned together with the arresting officer. It was decided I would only be cautioned, but it was made clear, next time would definitely be a different story.

 

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An Act of Aggression (Part One)

THE ROAD TO KINGFISHER

 

Morris was not to blame. He was just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was there waiting for him.

It was a Friday afternoon. I’d stopped caring whether I’d be put away and wagged school with Sean. We sniffed glue most of the day, and returned to the school at home time, hoping to find someone who’d “donate” their cigarettes to us. Poor old Morris came bounding around the corner, nearly knocking me over. You could see the fear sweep across his face, his mouth moving but no words coming out.

“Hello wanker, got any fags?” I asked, widening my eyes in an attempt to scare him even more.

“No, I, I smoked ‘em all at lunch.”

“Fuck off.” I took a step closer.

“I haven’t! I smoked ‘em all, honest!”

I took hold of the lapels of his blazer, “Bollocks, don’t lie to me you little prick!”

“Leave me alone, Si’, I aint got none!”

 I punched him full in the face. He let out an agonising cry as his nose exploded. Blood and tears began to stream down his cheeks.

When he fell to the ground, I began brutally kicking him.  He curled into a ball, attempting to avoid the swing of my boot. Morris was howling like a baby. With every kick I delivered the faces of Ropeman, Stuart, and Karen, flashed in my mind; and the clearer the pictures became, the more violently I kicked.

I could hear my name being called, but it sounded as if it were somewhere in the distance.

“Fuckin’ hell, Si’, leave him! You’re gonna kill the fucker!” I heard Sean's voice; no longer off in the distance, but shouting directly in my ear. 

 

Somehow Sean managed to drag me away, tears now pouring from my eyes as well. We ran down the hill and across the road at the bottom, franticly dodging cars like frightened rabbits. With Sean still clutching my arm we sped down an alley and into the garden of a derelict house, my adrenaline pumping and the anger still very much in control.

“What the fuck did ya do that for?” I shouted, still readied for confrontation.

“Bollocks, Si’, you’d have killed the poor little cunt!”

I grabbed Sean by the collar and pulled his face close to mine, “You ever do somethin’ like that again, I’ll fuckin’ well do you, an’ all, d’you understand me?”

I let go of him and he fell to his knees, still gasping for air after all the running we’d just endured. Sean knew better than to argue with me, therefore nothing else was said. 

 

We left the garden and peered around the corner; everything seemed quiet, so we casually began walking down the road. I asked if we were going to meet up on Monday morning, the usual place, at the entrance to the cemetery.  He nodded, before turning on his heels, and we went our separate ways.  I never saw Sean again.

 

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The Photo Shoot

The next day at school Ropeman asked me if the following Saturday would be okay to take the photographs. I told him that would be great and excitedly ranted about how much I was looking forward to doing them. He patted me on the shoulder and smiled, saying that if at all possible I should bring a few items of clothing. When I asked what it was I should wear, he simply replied, “Whatever you look good in.”

After what seemed to be an absolute lifetime, Saturday morning finally arrived and I was ready and waiting outside the school gates, clutching a carrier bag my mother had filled with various items of clothing. It was only a matter of minutes before Ropeman pulled up in his car, beaming his usual smile and gesturing for me to get into the front seat, “Morning young man, you all set and raring to go then?”

“You bet,” I answered, “I got some jeans an’ T-shirts, Mum ironed me school uniform an’ all.”

“Excellent, lets rock an’ roll then.” He seemed to be as excited as I was, explaining that we would be doing the shoot at his flat, saying it made more sense since his equipment was stored there.

The drive only took about twenty minutes, and as I got out of the car an unfamiliar sound of gravel crunched under my feet. A huge Victorian house seemed to peer down, almost beckoning me with it’s large “window-eyes,” inviting me to enter it’s mouth; and as I continued to gaze at the sheer magnitude of the building I felt his hand rest on my shoulder, “It’s not all mine I’m afraid.”

When I looked up at Ropeman, I noticed he was almost beaming, a smile plastered across his chubby face. Without hesitating I smiled too, still feeling fortunate and tremendously excited.

We walked side by side across the drive, up the enormous stone steps and entered the gigantic front door.  Any onlooker who may have happened to glance our way could easily have mistaken us for father and son.

Inside was an unexpectedly small hallway with a winding staircase leading up to the first floor. Ropeman gestured me towards an inner door opposite the stairs.  He led me down a narrow passageway that opened out into an impressive lounge. The room was littered with bookcases, but my eyes were immediately drawn to the lighting and tripod that dominated the centre of the living space. Ropeman left me alone while he sorted out some cold drinks.  When he returned I could hardly believe my eyes; he was carrying two glasses of beer. I put the glass to my lips and took a huge mouthful.

“You take your time with that young man; there’ll be hell to pay if I take you home tidily.”

I was ten years old.

He suggested that we begin straight away and I was told to sit on the sofa, ignoring the camera as best as my excitement would allow. Maybe about six or seven  shots were taken when, as cheerful as ever, Ropeman asked me to take off my top.  He explained that it would add to the image of me relaxing at home.

The request made me feel quite embarrassed, but ignoring the sudden wave of apprehension sweeping over me, I agreed and removed my T-shirt.

A dozen or so more pictures were taken before we took a short break.  He offered me more beer.  We chatted about school and what I got up to during the evening with my friends, Peter Simpson and Mark Milner. They were also his students, and the thought crossed my mind how envious they would be when they found out I had spent the day at Ropeman's home, drinking beer no less.

Once the small talk was all but done, he piped up with what was quite obviously the next part of his elaborate plan, “What do you think of stretching out on the sofa, as if you were asleep? Think you can do that?”

“Yeah, be easy,” I said with false bravado as another wave of apprehension took hold.

And it was there, as I lay on the settee that my journey into hell began.

I remember feeling as though a thousand eyes were staring at me; and at that moment I truly hated the camera more than anything in the entire world.

When Ropeman instructed me to pull my jeans up as far as they would go, my young mind had no idea that the next shot would be centered on my private parts.

Minutes later my photo was being taken with me wearing nothing but my underpants, again, pulled up as far as they would go.

Take it away, take it away,

Smash it or burn it, that Saturday.

Tear it and rip it,

Take the memory away,

I long to forget that Saturday.

Leave me, leave me, and leave me alone,

No more photos, just take me home.

Don’t give me smiles,

An’ I don’t want your beer,

Don’t ask me to strip,

Don’t fill me with fear.

I hate you, I hate you.

You horrible man.

I often wonder how many lives may have been destroyed by my silence, how many tears were shed because I did not have the strength to tell anyone what he’d done to me?

 Sometimes, when my mind travels back to those horrific years, reliving the anguish and torment, desperately trying to understand why he did those things, I wonder if my fear of speaking out indirectly sealed another child’s fate. When, stripped to the waist, while standing in the middle of his lounge with nothing but my briefs on, was I helping to lay the blueprints of someone else’s future? Sealing another young person's nightmare at the hands of a vile and twisted creature?

I know that in the cold light of day, I’m in no way to blame for anything, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling these emotions.

God, how I wish that my silence hadn’t been quite so damned silent.

(Taken from the book, Losing the Hate).

UK Link

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Received This Awesome blog Review

This is Simon's own story - in his own words - of the horrific abuse he suffered from the age of ten, and the consequences it had on his life. it is a shocking, no holds barred account of how his life was changed forever by a teacher he trusted, and respected and who should really have known better...

This was emotionally brutal. I have just finished it for the second time and I am a limp rag of emotion. There are brutal scenes, brutal language and brutal emotions. All these serve to tell the story though, a story that must have been difficult for Simon to revisit, but ultimately cathartic for him. The injections of Simon's poetry in between chapters served to catch a glimpse into the person he was at the time. I hope others who have been through the same horrors have the courage to speak out after reading this. In Simon telling his story hopefully others gain courage and not allow the hurt and horror to control their lives and choices.

http://wistfulskimmiesbookreviews.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/losing-hate-by-simon-palmer.html

Losing the Hate: Forward (Written by Claudia B. Modie)

FORWARD BY CLAUDIA B. MODIE

(AUTHOR OF HYBRID)

As a mother of three boys, I have experienced the impulse to lull myself into a false sense of security with regards to sexual abuse.  After all, it's girls who are most at risk right? 

Statistically this appears to be the case; however, since boys are less likely to tell, these statistics are somewhat skewed and far from reliable.

The sad fact is our children, regardless of sex, are being exploited.  It happens in our places of worship, our schools, and most disturbingly in our very own homes.

No amount of money, physical location or parental vigilance for that matter, can shield us from the predators lurking in the human jungle.  These hunters are not motivated by survival; they prey on our children merely to satisfy their own perversions.  And until we declare open season on these vile sub-humans, our children will remain at risk.  

I came across Losing the Hate on a website, which enables writers’ to critique one another.  As is common, I planned on reading a few chapters, making my comments, and moving on.  Instead, I read it in one afternoon.

Never having experienced such an emotional reaction to a book, my need to reach out to the author became a compulsion, and I acted on my instincts.    We became fast friends, and despite his living in England and my residing in America, not a day has passed since without our speaking. The Atlantic has only managed to separate us in a physical sense.

I only mention this because, other than the seven years it took Sye to write Losing the Hate, I have been privileged to share his journey in the evolution of this work.

There have been many frustrations on the road to getting the book to its present state, primarily because it is difficult for Sye to re-visit the horrific events of his past, but there have also been other emotional issues to contend with. 

Not long before publication, Sye received a critique in which another author accused him of having "enjoyed" his abuse, even going on to say, "he was just afraid to admit it." These comments were made by a woman who wrote a memoir on her experiences with incest.  And although her words were hurtful and ignorant, they did serve to clarify the importance of bringing this book to print.

If these attitudes are so deeply ingrained that even victims of sexual abuse "blame the victim," belittling their suffering based on gender, only serves to perpetuate continued abuse.

In fact, we may inadvertently be placing our male children at greater risk by making them a more appealing target.  Especially when the likelihood of being found out is lessened by the stigma attached to admission.

We have to allow boys to feel they will be equally supported in these appalling circumstances.

Men must be encouraged to speak out without being accused of "enjoying it," or for fear of being falsely labelled homosexual.

I am extremely proud of Sye for having the courage to make Losing the Hate public. 

To continue reading please click on the links below:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366466148&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate

http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_2_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374466131&sr=1-2