A TORTURED LIFE

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A TORTURED LIFE ————–

JIM PECHA, B.ARCH., MINISTER OF CREATIVITY
copyright 2015, CHRISTIAN ARTIST —————–
Since I have leukemia and will die soon, which is an appropriate ending for a tortured life. So many people, mainly men, have come forward with their sexual abuse stories from childhood, I thought I would add a unique story. The men were abused sexually by priests as children, but I was abused sexually and emotionally by my Mother, who enlisted my Father and Sister, although my father was uncomfortable with it and my sister was a child; so what did she know at that young age.

My Mother was terrorized by her brothers when she was a child and when she was married, swore that no male was going to abuse her again. When I was born, the first years seemed normal enough, but as I grew older I began to feel my Mother’s anger towards me, which resulted in a speech stuttering problem, I was afraid to talk to her, or my Father or my Sister. Her solution, which fit nicely into an abusive plan, was to tell my Father and Sister not to talk to me. My entire childhood was a lonely experience. My parents told me what to do and critized me, but there was no love or support. This secret the family held from me lasted into my adult years and they would activate anytime they wanted to. The stress from my childhood finally erupted with multiple health problems in my early twenties while I was working in architectural and engineering firms. Within a week I began having a couple migraine headaches a month, I had rheumatoid arthritis in my joints and lower back muscle spasms. It knocked me out of my career in architecture.

During these early years the memory of my artist Mother asking me to pose naked for her while she was painting pictures of the crucifixion haunted me. She had, early in my childhood ridiculed the size of my penis, calling me a sissy. This combined with references that men should be made impotent affected me greatly. I remember going into her studio and taking my red robe off and laying it over the back of the red stool, then standing up, spreading my arms outward and upward as if crucified as she looked critically at my skinny body and small penis.

Occasionally, while married, I would go out into the garage and rig up a cross and crucify myself. My wife, surprisingly, liked watching or looking at the pictures I made. She had rejected me sexually early in our marriage and preferred watching me masturbate on the toilet backwards. I was adaptable and made masturbation my sexual outlet instead of actual sex with my wife. She liked that. We didn’t have children, I think, because she was too much like my Mother. I couldn’t imagine bringing more kids into an environment like I experienced.

I began an Internet web site, artcrossnewmexico, to simply work through all this past history by writing about it. In the back of my mind I knew I needed to complete my Mothers to desire to see me crucified, at least in a picture. I am impotent, from an operation, which she wanted and i am skinny most of the time, which she accomplished by limiting my food intake. Now I have leukemia and will die soon; so this is the time to write the final chapter, with picture. I am not ruling out the possibility of “actually” having myself crucified to complete my “tortured life.” I am sorry for being so visual and vivid, but no one helped me in Albuquerque, teachers, preachers or friends. My sister is attempting to show me love in my last days, I thank her.

I am a graduated architect and an artist as my web site reveals. I have heard so many sexual and emotional abuse stories from my peers as I was in school and in many art shows. My girlfriends were abused, which, of course, ended badly because of the lingering influence of the abuse, acting itself out over and over.

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