“INTO THE ABYSS”

Chapter 1
Butterfly

Do you believe in fate?
Or even destiny?
Or do you belong to the group that firmly believes it’s always only your own decisions that determine your future path in life?
Well, presumably all these views have their merit.
I myself believe in causality.
In cause and effect.
You know: In this somewhat abstract construct of thought, which, for example, also underlies chaos theory: According to the thesis, if a butterfly flaps its wings somewhere, we get rain instead of sunshine. Or a single tiny lump of snow that is capable of triggering an avalanche in the mountains.
Simply put: Small and seemingly insignificant events can trigger a whole cascade of serious consequences.
My butterfly flap occurred nine months before I saw the light of day.
Because even before I was born in October 1963, I was drug-dependent.
To be precise, heroin-dependent.
Because my biological mother was drug-dependent.
And she hadn’t managed to break free from this addiction even during her pregnancy.
And so, from the moment of my conception, I had become an involuntary consumer.
An addict.
A junkie in the womb, if you will.
But unlike her, this dependence ended for me at the moment of my birth.
Not because I wanted it, but because it simply corresponded to the cruel biological laws that come with such an event.
And so, a cold turkey withdrawal was imposed on me.
A withdrawal that took place during those few seconds when the umbilical cord was cut and I was released into my own life. A withdrawal against which I could not defend myself, let alone overcome.
So I was simply thrust into the world with this burden; thrown into the deep end, if you will.
It was not my decision to be born this way.
It just happened.
And since my biological mother had failed to disclose her addiction, there was no suitable means available to help me.
So I did what infants do. I used the only adequate means available to me to articulate my pain to my surroundings.
I cried.
I simply cried because I wasn’t getting any more heroin.
I was a crying baby, as it’s commonly called.
It’s probably not hard to guess what happens when a crying child faces a junkie whose thoughts revolve only around the next fix and whose only memory was of the last trip.
Two worlds that collided in a merciless manner.
And so, what had to happen, happened.
My mother, who was still struggling severely with her drug addiction, was simply overwhelmed with me during the short period of our time together.
Seeing no way out, she eventually brought me to a children’s home.
I’m not sure if she made this decision solely because she wanted the best for me.
Perhaps she actually did. For what mother, whether drug-addicted or not, wouldn’t want the best for her child? Isn’t it an inherent instinct to want only the best for one’s own flesh and blood?
On the other hand, there is, of course, the fact that she was unable to break free from her addiction. Not even for me. Her own flesh and blood.
So she undoubtedly incurred guilt. Guilt – or at least partial guilt – for what happened to me later.
Of course, she couldn’t have known what her actions would entail; what serious consequences this brief moment, in which that decision was made, would have for her child.
And yet she made it.
Do I resent her for it?
You’ll hardly believe it – I don’t!
At least not anymore!
For from today’s perspective, I can neither comprehend her situation back then, no matter how hard I try, nor am I one of those people who eternally grapples with their past.
I am telling you my story solely because I hope it will make you think; that it might help you to view the world, and especially our society, a little differently, a little more nuanced.
Perhaps afterwards you can understand a little that not everything that takes place beneath the mostly staid surface corresponds to the image of the world that has been painted for you since childhood.
Because there is something else.
Something you certainly don’t know.
I call it the abyss.
That abyss that leads deep down into the depths of human nature.
A place that exists deep beneath the surface of our bourgeois world, where every pathological inclination, no matter how reprehensible, is not just tolerated, but rather is law.
I would like you to look with me into those depths from which it is difficult to find your way back up into the light. That light in which most of you live day after day; even in the brief moments when a shadow or two appears above you.
But I must warn you!
Much of what you will read is not for the faint of heart.
I tell my story my way!
Ruthless, open, and honest!
So if your state of mind doesn’t allow it, please put this book aside again. For it is not my intention to cause you psychological harm or even to give you nightmares.
Are you still here?
Well then, let’s begin.

Chapter 2
CHILDREN’S HOME

So my mother had brought me to a children’s home.
It should be noted at this point that it was an institution with a denominational background.
Does that surprise you?
Probably not.
The home itself was typical for that time.
The rooms were relatively large, each grotesquely regularly furnished with twelve beds, with four placed on each of the opposite walls.
The remaining four stood in the middle of the room and thus at the epicenter of all activity.
And right there, in the middle, stood my bed.
It was the second from the left, as far as I remember.
I still look back on it with a shudder.
For as you can surely imagine, this spot offered no possibility of retreat. That possibility of retreat that one needs as a child now and then. Especially in times when the activity around you reaches a level that is simply unbearable.
And so one quickly sets about building a kind of shield around oneself; simply to block out the world beyond one’s own thoughts and to hide under an imaginary glass dome.
Thus I began to increasingly isolate myself, mostly just lying there, surrounded by the constant coming and going of my no less troubled roommates, who were not exactly gentle with each other.
This chaos around me thus became a constant companion.
And a certain, albeit still childish, degree of violence.
For my daily life in this institution felt like a constant struggle for survival. A struggle that one has to overcome from the beginning without any help, despite all adversities.
And it was especially during this time that instincts were awakened in me that led one to actions that would generally be described as criminal. In this world, however, we did not perceive them as criminal. Rather, they were vital for survival.
Above all, I learned one thing: to become selfish and to only look out for myself. To put myself at the center of all being.
Simply because it was necessary.
For example, I started stealing quite early.
Not money or other so-called valuables.
No, I stole food.
And sometimes even leftovers.
Because food deprivation was all too readily used as punishment. My so-called educators probably considered that a suitable means to make rebellious adolescents compliant.
For whoever is hungry will do anything to become full again. Even if it meant falling upon garbage cans like a wild animal at night to snatch a few leftover scraps, whether meat or bread.
And since I was constantly hungry, I either had the choice to steal or to show compliance. For there were also rewards for compliance, for submissiveness.
But I’ll get to that later.
So I quickly learned this balancing act between rebellious, potentially criminal behavior and complete submissiveness. I learned to feign the behaviors expected of me whenever the situation required it.
Of course, I hadn’t been aware that they had begun to condition me early on through this. What four-year-old would have been able to see through that?

***

The time beyond our dormitories we spent mainly in the home’s garden – if it even deserved that name. The desolate piece of land looked more like the exercise yard of a prison.
It consisted merely of a small lawn enclosed by a low fence, on whose north side a tiny playground offered some space for movement.
At the back, an old gate (which, however, was constantly locked) offered a sparse view of a narrow, deserted road, on whose sides seemingly endless fields opened up.
When I recall these images of desolation today, one thing above all comes to mind: The end of the world.
Nothing more, nothing less.
The final destination of all childlike longings. Longings such as security, safety, or even love.
Rather, it has remained in my memory as a tiny enclave, behind which the world as you know it had long ceased to exist. Like a kind of parallel universe that, following its own laws, lingered far from that life.
Especially during the autumn and winter months, the mood weighed heavily on my mind. Then, when the trees had long shed all their leaves and left nothing but dull hues that ultimately let everything around one sink into gray.
Of course, although the first phase of my conscious memories began during this time, many of the profound events within the home have remained only vaguely in my memory. I assume that events from your own childhood also return now and then, albeit only sporadically, without you being able to put them into a proper context.
Perhaps there are one or two fragments of thought from special experiences or from people who have remained vividly in your memory; whether you loved or hated them. But it is quite difficult to weave a story with a beginning and an end from the sum of all these memories, whose course would be comprehensible.
However, my descriptions are by no means based on conjectures or fantasy constructs that I have pieced together over the years from the source of these vague memories.
For the complete reconstruction of these profound events finally succeeded years later, primarily with the help of my adoptive parents.
But more on that later.
So I grew up in the care of strangers.
Unprotected, unloved, and at best tolerated as a source of state funding that kept institutions like this running.
As I grew older, a fatal mistake eventually happened to me: I became a handsome boy.
A small, delicate being with an angelic face and blonde curls.
And these very qualities, this strikingly beautiful appearance, which parents under normal circumstances would consider a stroke of luck not only for themselves but also for their offspring, would soon prove to be my undoing.
For with it, I primarily attracted the covetous gazes of those in whom pathological inclinations slumbered, which could not be grasped by a child’s mind.
My innocence began to attract the guilty.
My childlike beauty became a magnet for all the ugliness out there.
There just had to be someone who brought these two opposites together; someone who unscrupulously subjected me to the cruel laws of the interplay of supply and demand. Someone whose primary intention was to profit from my innocence.
Someone who knew no scruples.
This one eventually entered my still young life in the form of my home director.
The person who appeared so devout on the outside quickly recognized the enormous potential slumbering within me.
And so, with almost diabolical zeal, he set about shaping not only me, but also many of the other children, into a product capable of satisfying this demand.
And there was plenty of demand.
Would you be surprised if I told you that it came primarily from the ranks of the so-called upper class?
Probably not.
Everything began very slowly, creeping, and took place primarily under the cover of night’s darkness.
I remember that during the first months in the children’s home, I was often abruptly woken from sleep.
But not by my roommates.
Because after nightfall, there was always a deathly silence. Any transgression usually resulted in draconian punishments.
There were strange noises that kept me from sleeping.
They usually only drifted faintly from the corridor behind the door, but their echo still hasn’t faded from my mind.
Even today, I remember muffled whispers, soft footsteps, or the occasional hiss.
Sometimes the door would suddenly be flung open and one of the children would be led out without a word.
Events that, of course, I couldn’t comprehend at the time. The adult world seemed as strange to me then as life itself.
All I know is that it filled me with enormous unease. I always had the feeling that something forbidden, something evil, was happening beyond that door.
And my childlike intuition would ultimately prove me right.
Because the day came when it was finally my turn.
Today, I can’t say exactly when it happened, or what time it was. Even after all these years, it still feels like a nightmare, like a gruesome story from long-past days when there was nothing but fear.
But I still remember exactly how the dormitory door was pushed open and the hallway released a harsh beam of light into our room.
Amidst this Stygian glow, the outline of the home director appeared, who quickly stepped to my bed, grabbed me, and roughly dragged my sleep-drunk body onto its shaky legs.
Before I knew what was happening, I was taken outside and lifted into the trunk of a car that was parked directly in front of the door.
I believe I was so paralyzed with fear that I was no longer able to scream, let alone move.
Apparently, I had fallen into a kind of shock, because I don’t remember the events that followed.
When I woke up the next day, I felt only one thing: pain. Especially in my mouth and throat. Otherwise, the memory of that night was completely erased. My mind had apparently built a wall around me, a kind of barrier meant to protect me from something.
But unfortunately, it wasn’t to remain that way.
This protection would not be granted to me again.
Days passed – perhaps even weeks – during which nothing happened.
Time slipped by uneventfully. Sunset followed sunrise, interspersed with the routine of uneventful days that weighed heavily on the spirits of every resident of the home – and that was all too clear. We were all trapped in a form of lethargy that people beyond these walls would find hard to imagine.
Until they came for me again.
Packed me like luggage, a piece of merchandise, back into the dark dungeon of that trunk. Bound and tied by an ominous sender, to be led blindfolded to a destination somewhere out there in the darkness of the night.
And what awaited me there would change my life forever.
After I was unloaded again, I was dragged into some room, where they finally removed my blindfold and ripped my pajamas off my body.
I was ordered to sit on a bed, which was the only piece of furniture in that dark room, and to wait.
Then I was left alone. Naked and shivering amidst this gloom, which slowly and relentlessly began to tighten around my neck like an invisible chain.
And so I waited.
It wasn’t long before an older, somewhat stout man entered the room.
I can still see him clearly before me today.
He smiled kindly at me, sat down next to me on the bed, and began to speak to me in a gentle voice.
I can’t remember his exact words, only that he touched me all over my body while speaking. And the longer he spoke to me, the more he approached the more sensitive areas.
What followed, you can perhaps guess.
In retrospect, this first consciously experienced abuse had been rather harmless. The touches he subjected me to had apparently served solely to stimulate him enough so that he could satisfy himself.
At that time, I hadn’t been able to understand what an adult did when he satisfied himself; let alone what it meant when he ejaculated on my body or, in this first case, on my face. But I was very much able to perceive this act as strange, bizarre, and disgusting. Above all, the salty, sour taste I tasted on my lips afterward had burned itself deep into my consciousness.
In many quiet hours, I believe I can still taste it today. And it still sends a feeling of disgust to the pit of my stomach.
But as strange as this first experience had been, I had still been lucky that night.
But it wasn’t to remain that way.
Because the more often they came for me in the time that followed, the more the boundaries of what was inflicted upon me were expanded.
Only the procedure always remained the same.
I was grabbed and transported to unknown places, where these unknown men were allowed to undisturbed indulge their desires with me and, in a sense, play with me.
The few times I had been foolish enough to refuse, I was simply tied with my legs and arms behind my back and thrown into the trunk.
And if, furthermore, I had the audacity to refuse the clients’ needs, they simply tied me to the bed, so I had to endure everything completely defenseless.
This went on for months.
Not every night, but often enough to break me in a short time.
I now think that they deliberately proceeded with a calculated irregularity, so that I always lived with the uncertainty that it could happen again at any time.
I quickly got used to sleeping with only half-open eyes, so that I was at least prepared for the next event. Because nothing was worse than being ripped from a deep sleep and thrust into one of these nightmares.
Unfortunately, my sellers changed their approach over time.
Because they became more cautious.
Taking us somewhere at night, of course, carried the risk of eventually being caught. Having to explain to the police, for example, during a routine check, why there was a tied-up child in the trunk, would probably have put my tormentors in a difficult position.
And so they created the necessary conditions to avoid that.
Even today, I remember that room on the top floor of the home, where a red sofa stood.
We called it the Red Room.
A place that promised us nothing but terror.
A dark, dirty den where I was always draped naked until one of the clients arrived to do whatever they pleased with me.
The events in this Red Room were the worst.
Perhaps because, despite all adversities, one still wanted to feel somewhat safe within the home, and now even the hope for this supposed safety had proven to be an illusion.
I had been degraded to a piece of meat, a mindless object whose sole purpose was to satisfy the desires of others.
They used my genitals, my backside, and especially my mouth, as they pleased.
As I later learned, our caregivers only allowed acts on me that left no traces.
For example, well-endowed clients were not permitted to anally penetrate me.
Perfidiously, they were afraid of injuries. Having to take an adolescent with such injuries to a hospital would probably have exposed the whole thing too quickly. Abrasions or bruises were one thing, an injured anus quite another.
Other, ‘normal’ men, however, did not have to restrain their perverse urges and were allowed to indulge themselves with my backside to their heart’s content.
Although most details of the respective abuses have long been lost in the chaos of my memories, strangely enough, the oral abuse left the strongest impressions on me.
Impressions that haunt me to this day.
You are surely asking yourself at this point why these activities remained undiscovered for so long. You are surely asking yourself why I didn’t just run away one day and scream my suffering to the world?
The answer to that is quite simple: Who would have believed a four-year-old in the sixties?
But that wasn’t the only reason.
Behind everything that was done to me was a sophisticated system.
A perverse strategy.
Not only concerning the organization of all these procedures, but also how we had been conditioned for them.
The perfidious routine with which my tormentors had sold my body and soul suggested that these people had extensive experience, which ensured that they would never be caught in their activities.
A significant part of our conditioning, for example, consisted of simply forbidding us any communication.
In the room, at meals, even during play, there was always absolute silence.
No one dared to speak.
And my so-called educators watched with Argus eyes to ensure that no one defied this iron doctrine.
The consequence of this was that I was barely able to speak.
A very clever approach, wasn’t it? A boy of that age, unable to articulate his pain through speech and thus involuntarily condemned to silence, ultimately became the perfect accomplice for all these criminal schemes.
I was later told that they had to teach me to speak through a laborious process, so that I was only somewhat able to communicate with others at around five years old.
And this, of course, only because I had previously undergone this arduous process, during which I slowly learned to trust adults again.
My only comfort was that I was not alone in my misery.
Today I know that dozens of children before me had suffered the same fate. And I have already mentioned that the other children alongside me had not fared any better.
Of course, only the pretty ones. Or those whom our tormentors considered pretty at the time.
I think the worst thing about all of this is ultimately the realization that as a child, you can get used to almost anything.
Even to abuse.
These constantly recurring, terrible experiences eventually became a fixed part of my life.
They had become routine.
I actually believed that all children in this world experienced the same and that it was normal to have to serve adults in this way.
But everything in life leaves traces.
Leaves wounds that simply won’t heal.
Because even during that time, my body developed mechanisms that have since become a fundamental part of my being and primarily serve to send me subconscious warning signals.
I spoke earlier about oral abuse.
That type of abuse that was most frequently inflicted upon me.
It has left the clearest traces in my behavior.
For example, every dental visit is still a distressing experience for me today. The insertion of fingers into my mouth still triggers panic attacks in me, which always results in me beginning to cry, albeit quietly and barely audibly.
It took a long time until I gathered the courage to explain to the respective doctor what exactly was going on.
Today, I think it’s primarily the duration of the abuse that has made me who I am.
Had all of this happened to me only a few times, I probably would have been able to simply suppress everything over the years.
But unfortunately, that was not granted to me.
Because during the few years I spent in the children’s home, I was abused well over five hundred times.
Something like that can no longer be suppressed.
You will surely ask yourself at this point how I arrived at this number, won’t you? Whether it’s merely based on speculation or flawed memories stemming from the childlike fantasy of a naive adolescent. An adolescent who uses one or another bad experience to invent these horror stories, thereby justifying why he has become such a collection of emotional deficits.
Perhaps you also wonder if I’m simply lying.
Well, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.
Because I actually learned the details of the cruel activities during my early childhood many years later, after my adoptive parents became witnesses to the testimonies of many victims during a court case.
When they finally revealed the truth to me during my teenage years, the puzzle of fragmentary and consciously experienced memories, which I had tried in vain to piece together throughout my adolescence, formed into this shattering overall picture.
And this picture, this final, irrefutable realization, ultimately also provided me with the explanation for the peculiarities I had noticed in myself.
The conclusions drawn from this were relatively simple.
My soul had long since closed itself off to me.
We simply wanted nothing more to do with each other.
In short, I was broken.
The resulting emptiness, the inner loneliness, coupled with manifold fears, had over the years shaped a personality permeated by countless flaws.
And these flaws accompany me to this day.
Besides countless flashbacks that haunt me in my dreams during the night, it is primarily the fears that temporarily paralyze me in everyday situations.
For example, it is still impossible for me to travel alone by bus, train, tram, or subway. A companion is always necessary. If none is available, I take a taxi or simply walk.
The fear of being overwhelmed by anyone is my constant companion, although the rational part of my mind constantly suggests to me how absurd my behavior fundamentally is.
And there’s something else.
Something that will shake you, as a religious person you might be.
I hate any form of religion.
Please don’t misunderstand me, because I have nothing against the concept of belief in God. I just see absolutely no need for a religion or even a church for it.
While Oscar Wilde called religion the opium of the people, its meaning for me goes far beyond that. From my perspective, it is the perfect breeding ground where many cruelties can flourish unnoticed, while hiding under the cloak of hypocrisy.
Perhaps you understand this statement as an impermissible generalization, which it might be. Because undoubtedly, not all adherents of religious collectives are of the same ilk as my former tormentors.
But for me, even one is already too many.
Because it was primarily these oh-so-pious people who made me who I am.
A victim.
A willing victim for all those who were able to sense my weaknesses.
Predators searching for helpless prey.
And it wasn’t long before these predators picked up the scent again.
But that’s another story.
Ultimately, I did learn that most of my tormentors were convicted for their crimes a few years later.
I couldn’t find out, however, if they had to go to prison for it.
It’s meaningless to me now, anyway.
Because I no longer harbor any thoughts of revenge against them, as most of them are certainly dead by now or will be soon.
And even if justice did not prevail for some, I live in the certainty that it is death that ultimately always ensures justice.