As a child, I suffered sexual abuse from my father. Repeatedly, strongly, harshly, every day from my 10th or 11th birthday -can't still remember clearly- to my 19th was a death hold on my emotions. I couldn't recall it clearly, everything was hazy and fearful for me and even as I tried very hard, I couldn't nail the problem itself and see its roots. My mother never new about this, even though she separated from my father in the year 2002.

We all came to know this reality in 2006. So, basically? I've known the reason for most of my problems for three years now. The autoboicotting, the painful fear of intimacy, the evasive nature...
It made a clear connection, now.

Time passes. I worked with some therapists, worked with some kinesiologists, worked hard to get back the presence inside my body, command of my own mind and heart.
And then, something else. :)

I worked in the year 2007 with kids if foster homes and the like with an NGO in Colombia. Colombia is a very beautiful place and a strong musical powerhouse, but its violent nature makes you only think about cocaine and military help. And in the part that I worked that was almost the day-to-day basis: armies everywhere, pain everywhere, humilliation up in your face.

I wanted to share my most highlighted moment of this work, fully related to this page.
I'm a drawing and painting artist, so I teached them to draw, to color, to create, tried to help them cope, from arts, with a really harsh reality that never gave you a breather.
One day in class a small girl went and kissed me on the cheek. I hugged her softly and was surprised (very) when this little girl of barely 6 years old gave me this hug that contained every ounce of strenght, light, love, of goodness her body could summon up. She almost broke my neck and my back ache for the rest of the day.
One of the Social Workers later in a meeting told me that what I was doing was wrong. That, in order for this child to have an 'effective program' that helps him or her to be a good human being and 'progress any social disorder or traumatic experience', (s)he can't have someone hug him, or he/she may not know when that same person is trying to sexually aboard her.

I told her that has inhuman.
She needed love. I never asked for anything and always asked for her permission to talk to her and to every boy and girl that attended my class. And never touched them if it could be avoided, precisely to eliminate misunderstandings.
And she did that in the presence of her classmates, feeling emotionally protected... something you can't do in the streets or it may be misunderstood as a sexual invitation of some sort.

I wanted to share with you that the first thing a child feeds on is the recognition of his own power. Of the power of his own love, his own life. And if you are empoverished and have been through abuse, make that a thousand-times more. I can never, ever, repay those children for the love they gave me. Maybe they will grow up thinking that the Art Class was a clown's act, but at least they could open up their hands from a fist and allow their hearts to grow half and inch, or two: that, cannot be bought, neither can be stolen from a life experience.

It IS true.
Love PROTECTS. Love RESTORES. Love HEALS.

I only hope that in a few years I can be a totally full man, happy and joyous and with my scar waaay behind me. So far? Amazing progress. :) And maybe, help again. And reading all this here on your page has make me even a happier man. I want to give this to you and to everyone on your teams. Don't give up. Go for oxigen, change sometimes the focus on something less painful -dunno, sports?, barbie dolls?, clothing?, long nature walks?, yoga?-, so you can get back on the horse, but feed your own love always, so you can have the strength to protect that child within you and those around you, a thousand times more.
As we must, we can, and we will.

From south of the border, with a lot of heart,

J.