Chapter 1: I Was Nearly Aborted

My father was a hardcore Christian. My mother was raised Christian and fell right into my dad’s way of life as he was considered handsome by my mom. Apparently other women fancied him as well, he was said to be quite the lady’s man. My mom later discovered, he was taking part in behaviors with other women she was not aware of, before her and during. The birth order of this man’s children? First, they had my eldest sister, then my middle sister. My eldest sister is about 5 years older than me, and my middle sister is about 2 years from me. I have another sister, a sister my father never told my mother about. Apparently, he had another daughter, with a Samoan woman. If you have ever met a Samoan person, they are often tall, and incredibly powerful looking. This much can be seen in a photo of my father, standing with his Samoan daughter at her wedding. He was a little man (in appearance, despite being 5’10) next to giants, grinning as if he did not have a problem in the world. As if his life was not oddly and horrifyingly dysfunctional. So, in all, I have two full-blood sisters and one half-blood sister. I have never met the half blood sister, and I imagine I never will. What is there to know about my lost, true eldest sister? Why would she even care to talk to me? What would we talk about? “Hey, so you might want to watch out for our dad, all his kids agree, he’s a monster and you’re the 1 of 4 who actually still speaks to him.” Which says a lot. Do you know how much I wish I had a decent dad? All the lessons I missed out on. The role model I never really had… you think I want that? I was born because of my father’s wishes. When you think about everything, well, it is just rather ironic isn’t it? My father, the person who I have not spoken to since I was 19 years old, is the reason I exist. Not just in the obvious way that he literally made me with his body (he was the seed, my mother was the soil, it is common, look it up sometime), but he also demanded I was born. And why? Well, my father has an older sister, and he is the youngest of the two, more importantly to him, girl, then boy. So, he wanted to recreate that dynamic. My father tried to repeat a lot of things from his childhood, not all of them good. Some say there is a reason I cannot remember most of my childhood, but I deeply disagree with the implication. I just feel like I would remember anything traumatic, typically those kinds of things get burned into my mind forever. Regardless, what this all implies is that my middle sister, was essentially, a mistake. My father wanted a boy, she came out a girl, and therefore, they had to keep trying. So here I am. “Third time’s the charm.” But he was not the only parent that insisted I be born. My mother and I have had several differences, but I have learned to navigate my own emotions, and hers, to get to a point where we can both thrive. Even if we were not on the good terms we are, she still gave me life. Not just with the attitude “Ok, a baby is growing in me, may as well let them be born.” But she fought for me. So, I must respect that. My mom was in labor with me for about 24 hours as I recall. And I also recall that I was born about 1pm in the afternoon, or was it 1am? Either way, on November 11th, 1985, the pushing and sluggish process was not the only battle she had to fight through. Months earlier, my mom’s doctor told her she should have me aborted. That is right. If my mom followed her doctor’s advice, there would be no “Onision”. That man’s many years of medical school and years of experience no doubt led him to look at your neighborhood friendly Onision and say, “Abort that thing.” Some of you are slapping your knee, saying “Dang it! That was our chance!” and you know what, good for you. No sense in me even being mad about it. Sure, you are toxic for wishing death on people, but that is not my business. The rest of you might be feeling a less malicious emotion, maybe even shock. Are you pro-life? Is the idea of me being aborted as a fetus upsetting? And why was I supposed to be aborted anyway?

Well, it is like this: The doctor saw that my head was abnormally large. You know the British baby from the TV show Family Guy? Well, that was kind of me, only my head was long in the back, as if my mom had mated with an alien from the movie… Alien. My cousin told me the shape of my head freaked him out for a bit but I “grew into” my head eventually. My mom was appalled by the idea that the doctor wanted to abort me, not so unlike how I was later in life appalled by another doctor wanting to put a needle in my, at the time wife, to test my baby for downs so we could have “piece of mind” as if risking my unborn child’s life was worth it for the ‘fleeting feels bro’. Regardless, my mom with her curly frizzy permed dirty blonde 80’s hair and pale skin insisted she still give birth to her watermelon baby anyway, and so, yours truly, was in fact born, enlarged head and all. 15 ½ inch head, with a shoulder width of 14 1/2 inches. Is that weird? Probably.

After I was born, my father wanted my penis to be modified. He felt it was best that the movable skin surrounding the tip be cut off to match his own penis. For some reason, fathers tend to feel it is very important their genitals match the genitals of their offspring, even if it means strapping their child to a table and forcefully removing pieces of their body as the baby screams. Yep, that is my father for you, and yes, that is what they did to babies. Putting the baby to sleep during surgery would be too risky, increasing the mortality rate, so they just let them scream beyond turning blue in the face. Must take such loving parents to do that for the sake of their culture and the idea that God screwed up making boys. Weird right? It is primarily religious people who mutilate their babies, yet they are the same people who say God’s creations are perfect. That is like me saying you did a perfect job on your science project, and then I spend all night adding or removing things from your “perfect” work. Again, my mother came to the rescue. She refused to let anyone cut pieces of my genitals off and allowed me to remain intact. No one has ever complained to my face about it to this day. Just wash yourself boys, daily, like women half to. And then guess what? You get to keep the countless nerve endings in your penis. Crazy right? Fun fact, a lot of people say that there are few to no in-tact men in porn, when, an overwhelming number of men in porn are in fact intact, the uneducated folk just do not realize it, because when an intact man gets aroused, his penis often looks just like a man without all the pieces included. The difference? Well, mostly it is just the scarring. To tell the difference, look for the dude who has a large off-color scar on his junk. Often it might even look like it is painful for him to get aroused because the skin is so tight. Yep, that dude’s cut. He might even need lube every time he wants to jerk off, weird. A lot of people seem to have a pro or anti circumcision stance based on the person they are with or based on the man in the mirror. Kind of tells you, it is not actually an issue at all, and maybe we should stop treating babies like ice sculptures waiting to be chiseled in our image. Imagine if child abusers were people who got unnecessary butcheries performed on their kid to permanently disfigure them through applying a torturous and damaging procedure requiring the bleeding, cutting and mutilation of their genitals. Wouldn’t that just be… common sense to classify those parents that way? I would take a slap to the face over that any day, and I in fact, did. Thanks mom. Better than losing bits of my penis for sure. Could have done without the slap, but ok. But if you disagree, ok, keep chopping baby junk up, so long as it is legal, what can I do to stop you? Welcome to America. Land of the free, home of the baby penis mutilators. I could go on about how hypocritical it is to be against female circumcision but pro male circumcision, all the while saying the genders are equal, and deserve equal rights. “My body my rights” remember ladies? I could expand on the statistics, the horror stories and even drop more personal experiences on you, but that is not exactly what this book is about, so I digress. As I made clear, I do not recall much of my childhood, unfortunately, but I do have stories told by others about my childhood that I can relay. There is the story of why my father and mother separated when I was two years old. What is it? According to everyone I have spoken to in my mom’s family, with no help from the star victim of my father due to their more than justified silence, apparently my father is a child molester who also sexually assaulted two of my aunts. I need to make it clear; this is not me saying my father did anything at all. I was not mentally there, I was a 0-, 1- and 2-year-old when he was around the proposed victims. This is in reference to only the people who spoke to me about the issue. Who were those people? One of the two aunts he had sexually violated, and my mom. Those are the only people who gave me words about what happened. According to my aunt and my mom, my father decided it would be best to stick his fingers inside one of my aunts while my mom was asleep. This, according to my aunt, happened when they were driving down the road, in his small pickup truck. My aunt has told me the story repeatedly. It seems every time she tells me, she is even more upset about it. I can see the tears in her eyes forming when she recites it. Sometimes she tells me when I don’t even ask. The story is always the same, and I trust it for that reason. Would it surprise you to know my father is a Seventh Day Adventist? Would it surprise you to know for some time he was a religious leader at his church? Regularly playing the role of pastor till eventually he gave up on the church saying, “God isn’t here.” We both knew God was in fact there, because according to the Adventists, God is everywhere. Maybe God just was not on his side, and knew his leadership, was nonsense. How can God support you as a leader when you won’t even confess to what you’ve done and beg for forgiveness? But why would my father do that to my aunt? My other aunt? And the child who grew to be an adult, unable to ever speak of my father to me or answer any questions about the incident(s)? Fact of the matter is that my father was said to have been violated as a child himself. My mother stated his mom was a lesbian, and that his lesbian mother had a girlfriend, who had invited him into bed with them. Horrifying right? Would it surprise you to know they were southern folk? My father spent a lot of his young life trying to overcome his southern accent. When I was willing to be around him, he talked quite a bit like Ned Flanders from the Simpsons. Very strange indeed considering his southern heritage. His sister, who lives in the heavy red-neck part of the US, still has an overwhelming accent to this day. My father and his wife faked their accents back to southern whenever they visited relatives, which really suggested, maybe my mom was telling the truth if all the other stories lined up. Why did he change his personality and accent based on who he was around? Kind of creepy if you think too much about it. Another story my mom told me was about my father walking in on his cousin gratifying herself. As a result, she stated my father had slept with his cousin. That just might be part of the reason I have always made fun of southern folk. Stories of my father only perpetuated the stereotypes about brothers marrying their sisters and so on. Full disclosure, I pecked my own cousin on the lips when I was a confused 13-year-old. So, let us not pretend I am perfect. I am just saying, a kiss is a mistake you can get over… what my father did? That would be hard to wrap my head around without breaking down in a therapist’s office screaming “Oh dear god I slept with my cousin! He-yuck!” I know my aunt’s story because she told me. I know my other aunt’s story vaguely because my mom mentioned him sitting on her bed when she was visiting, in the middle of the night, wearing, you guessed it, nothing but tight little white cotton undies. Then what? As I understood, my father had groped the other aunt’s chest as she laid in her bed. Both those things would land my father in prison in the modern #MeToo era, but back then? The internet did not exist, so people would just suffer in silence, as their voices had far less power. Real victims were ignored like what they went through was nothing. Good things have happened in our culture since then, but, unfortunately, many people still get away with what they do, and other folks who have done nothing, often get thrown under the bus instead, as both men and women, have their monsters. In fact, I have known of people who were violated, criminally, by one person, and instead of pursuing that person in the legal system, despite how much damage they clearly did, they take out all their pain on someone else who did nothing to them. As if facing the non-monster, for the deeds of the monster, would be so much easier, because at least then, they can deal with their pain without having to look the nightmarish person in the face. People who are hurt by people, often hurt other people. I imagine a little research in the psychology field would explain this mind-screw phenomenon quite well. It really sucks for the falsely accused to deal with the pain-fallout someone else had inflicted. The biggest crime, beyond debate, that my father committed was against the child, whose story has been unspeakable to this day. I still have no idea what happened to her, but apparently, she went through therapy, and refuses to talk to the man to this day. So, what happened to me between the ages of 0-7 years old? You know, it is hard to say. I do not remember my mom divorcing my dad after her sisters confronted her about what my father did to them, and another family member. In a documentary on a major TV network, my father claimed that he had was innocent of the claims about him being a predator. He stated he was innocent because the child in question was psychologically evaluated, and said little about it after, which left me scratching my head. Some of you have met real victims of real crimes. Some are so scarred, when you bring it up, they change the subject or otherwise refuse to talk about it. No #MeToo campaign, no going to court, no acknowledgement that it ever happened whatsoever outside their complete and utter unwillingness to relive what they went through in any way. Do you think a rushed psychological evaluation would really cover what is really on the mind of a child of not even 10 years old? My father wanted to be able to visit this child even after the divorce. His rights did not exist for long, especially after said child showed significant disinterest in having anything to do with him, other children of his to follow years later. The reality is that deep victims can make the rest of us feel like fake victims. When you see someone so traumatized, they will not even look at the beast of a subject sitting right in front of them. They cannot even look the issue in the eyes, and always run. It is a haunting thing to see. When the damage is so severe there are no words. I have no idea what it is like to be hurt that deeply. I think my problems are heavy, I have no idea. What I have gone through, I can talk about. What I have gone through is nothing by comparison. When I called up the person he harmed, I said something like “Is what she said true?” (In reference to my mom) “Did you really go through that?” If you ever ask a deep victim a direct question about what they went through, and they give you silence? Then they change the subject? Chills to your core. That is when you sit there, and you say to yourself “This is it. I found the devil, and he is my father.” When someone you have known your entire life has never changed the subject on you once? No, just no. Unfortunately, I asked that question so late in life. I was a teenager by the time I asked her. Not long after, I left a message on my father’s answering machine, and told him to never attempt contacting me again. Nothing could be clearer than the fact that my father, was a predator. A pastor with a big white smile and a shining beacon of light to the local community. Not so unlike the angel of light, Lucifer. Regardless, I got to get to bed. We will learn more about my father in later chapters. Specifically, what led me to such mistrust and general doubt of my father, that it drove me to ask the question to his victim and got an answer I had no idea how to comprehend. Stories of my father’s blood drenching my shirt when I was still just a boy, my military life, a few love stories and more… here we go.