Before I share this brave piece of writing, I have this to say:

I never thought I’d be in the position I am in now. I knew I’d speak out. I knew I’d speak up. I knew that my pain was no longer going to be silenced, but what I didn’t comprehend was the bravery I’d inspire. And that scares me. Why? Because I don’t want to let anyone down. I play the “What If” game, a game my therapist says I need to stop doing. It’s just fuel for my anxiety.

But don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of those who have sent me emails of their stories. I’m proud for those who DMed me traumas be unfortunately had in common. I’m proud of anyone who speaks out. Speaks up. Writes about it. As I prepare to edit/rewrite He Was A Boy Who Smiled 3 in 2021 for publishing, I’m even proud of myself from turning a story about a boy dealing with teachers, to a boy acting out because he didn’t belong, to an inspiring story that would have people contact me and open up their silences.

So, here’s one of those stories. Their story. A story about AJ who has found their own two feet and beginning to walk again in their identity, something more than just one gender or the other. More. They’re more than their trauma. More than their abusers. More than the memories that haunt them. More than those relived experiences. More than how others define them. So much more. AJ has given me permission to post their truth as they don’t have a platform to put it on nor do they feel safe yet for their family to read it.

I must warn you. This may be triggering for some. But triggering isn’t necessarily a bad thing. In fact, sometimes when I get triggered, it inspires me to speak out or take action. But if you find yourself retreating, reliving or experiencing overwhelming emotions you don’t think you can handle alone, then stop reading. It’s okay. You can always come back, read, and celebrate in AJ’s bravery.

Thank you AJ for sharing your story and thank you for trusting me with your work and taking the brave step to want to put it out there. Small steps until you can take more.

Michael Stoneburner

The Bathroom

When I was just a kid, I hated the bathroom. It wasn’t because it was a room that smelled kinda funny after someone had just used it… it wasn’t because the toilet seat was like sitting on ice when it was a cold day… it was mostly because I was always sick and couldn’t use the bathroom like other people… that was until I met the both of you. 

I used to get sharp pains in my gut when I would need to use the bathroom, and I found out early on that holding it in was less painful then letting it out. My mother would always take me to doctors and to the children’s hospital to see what could be done for me. I had to eat all kinds of foods that I hated in order to make me use the bathroom like everyone else. News of my bathroom issues became common knowledge to family and close family friends. 

Growing up, mother would always say things to warn myself and siblings about the dangers of the world. Things like “don’t swim too far out in the water because a shark could kill you,” or she would tell us messed up, gruesome stories about how people die crossing a road in order to teach us to look both ways when crossing a road. The one thing she would beat into me and my sister constantly is “don’t let anyone touch you there.” I didn’t know that such a sentence would end up scarring my heart and be the key phrase that added to my shame. 
Bathroom, Restroom, the throne room… my struggle, my shame, my prison. 

It’s strange how a room made for relieving yourself is something I could never be relieved from. You both made sure of that regardless of how many times you said “we’re here to help” or “it’s for your own good”. 

I was sick… I was little… you both were just sickening and a wolf that knew just how to get to this little sheep. You used a child’s fear for disappointment from their parents and an illness to corner me and use me for your own desires. 

I’m not sure if this was the first time or not but I remember being at your house and my folks had gone out and would be out till late. Myself and my siblings were staying at your house to be babysat. I remember how excited you both were about having kids over because the both of you couldn’t have any of you’re own. I remember sitting on your knee and being spoiled with sweets and being told I was your favorite. I remembered your wife’s soft spoken tone of voice and how calming it was. 

Mum told you both about my bathroom troubles once before and made mention of it again just before going out. “The doctor said eating pears would help her, we’ve been force feeding her them for a while so if she needs to go to the bathroom, keep her there till she’s done,” mum said thinking it was for my own good. She was so worried that I was poisoning my own body by refusing to go… I don’t blame her for the fear or for not knowing how to deal with someone as difficult as myself at the age of 4. 

You let us stay up late that night… I stayed up all night. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to be dragged off to the bathroom by adults and for my siblings to hear me kick scream and cry while I was in there. I would have liked to think it sounded different this time for them but I doubt it did. 

“You don’t want your mum and Dad to worry about you anymore do you?”, “Aren’t you upset with yourself for making them take you to the hospital?”, “You’re only going to hurt yourself if you don’t and we like you too much to hurt anymore”… you told me this stuff for years when you had me alone… sometimes you said it in front of my parents. It sounds nice and like you really cared… if only it was true. 

I don’t really remember your exact words but I remember you making me take my pants off and making me bend over for you both to see. It must have been your wife’s hands because they were gentle like her voice. I felt my cheeks being spread open and something cold and wet being rubbed onto me. I felt it rubbing closer and closer to the middle and then you pushed something inside of me. I cried, I could feel my body shaking and I could hear the stupid toilet seat make the rattling sounds because my hands grabbed it so tightly to try stop myself from shaking. I could feel it moving around inside me. I remember you picked me up and sat me down on the seat and said, “now it will come out when you make it come out”, and you sat me there till I used the restroom while your wife stood guard. 

I don’t know what you had done to me… I just knew it hurt and even though I was young, I knew it was wrong. 
I stopped caring about the sweets you kept in your pocket, or the bubble gum and your wife’s soft tone. I knew who you were and I was scared to be alone with you. This sort of stuff happened for years, it wasn’t helping me it was hurting me. You were so angry at me because I didn’t want to go with you and the way you talked to me wasn’t fun and exciting, it was controlling and violent toned. I seen the other side of you when you closed the bathroom doors. 
I’m not sure if you picked me because I was the youngest and weakest at the time, or because my illness and bathroom troubles were a good cover up story if I ever said a word. I was dead around you and I still feel dead thinking about you though you’ve both been dead for years.

AJ