This will be difficult for you to read. Almost as difficult as it is for me to tell. I was five years old, and my best friend, Roman, and I were playing Batman and Robin in my backyard. It was a sunny day in Salt Lake City in 1976. Thanksgiving weekend. I wore my Batman mask and cape, and Roman had borrowed my younger brother’s green Robin cape. My mother was inside with her sister, Rose, working on a quilt, checking on us every 15 minutes or so.

It was that time in America before cell phones and the Internet, when we could still play in backyards, and when you knew your neighbors. We didn’t know how it would all change–Facebook, Snapchat, terrorism, and The Bachelor.

I remember leaping off the doghouse and pretending to punch The Joker in the face, Roman following behind and finishing off the villain, and then we laughed and laughed.

My mother poked her head out the back door. “Roman? That was your mother. She needs you to come home to help her in the garden.”

Roman’s mother, Mia, worked full time and minded the yard. Her husband, Roman’s father, John, was blind and in poor health. He couldn’t work and so he occupied his time by teaching piano lessons to the neighbors.

“Can Aaron come to my house?” Roman said.

“If he helps out,” she said, looking at me.

I nodded, and got the green light to go.

Our neighborhood was located near Granite High school, between 3900 and 3300 South, just off 500 East. It was my parents’ first house out of college–they both graduated from the University of Utah—and I remember the red brick, the chain link fence that wrapped around the front yard, and the unfinished basement where I kept my toys.

Roman and I set out, taking turns tossing rocks ahead of us on the sidewalk, and racing to the spot where the last rock had landed. He looked a lot like me except he had straight hair. At that age, in my memory, we all sort of looked the same. I remember a green pair of Toughskins and a six million dollar man button-up shirt I liked to wear with them. I assume he dressed much the same, though I can’t really remember.

What I do remember is that as we came to the end of the street, and turned right, Roman froze. I was looking at him, and so I didn’t see the man approaching us. That response from Roman, looking back, tells me everything I need to know about that man, but what did I know then? I was four.

And anyway I had no power over what was about to happen. I think I should have, and in many ways, my innermost self still tells me I could have, but the rational adult in me knows better.

The man wasn’t even a man though it made no difference to me at the time. He was seventeen, much taller than we were, and had long curly hair inspired from seventies rock bands. In my memory, he wore a T-shirt and jeans, but of course, I can’t be sure, and it doesn’t matter anyway. There is nothing significant about what he wore, really.

“Who is your friend, Roman?” he said.

Roman didn’t say anything.

“What’s your name?” the man put his hand on my shoulder.

I had been taught stranger danger (if that’s what they called it then), and I knew this was bad, but it was already too late. That’s what education can’t prepare you for. It’s like a car accident.

I remember trying to get away, but the hand on my shoulder did not let go. I remember Roman backing away, being told to go home, and making eye contact with him before he disappeared around the corner. I remember being told that it was going to be okay and knowing it wasn’t, but having no idea what was about to happen.

I kicked and screamed, but Cory was bigger and stronger, and he dragged me into the garage.

Then he shut the door.

You likely know a version of what comes next. And this is where my job as a writer gets tricky. I could tell you beat by beat what Cory did to me. The risk of doing this is that I lose the reader. Nobody wants to read what Cory did to me. It’s horrible. Still, to not say what happened is rhetorically ineffective, unethical, and disrespectful to the four-year-old me, to the forty-six-year-old me, to my fiancé, to my children, to my ex-wife, to my parents, to all the therapists and mental health professionals that have assisted me, etc. This blog is about what happened, and what came after. 72 Hour Hold is about recovery from PTSD, and it’s not pretty.

So if you don’t want to read what happened you can stop here. I can’t stop. It happened to me. And I have relived the event every day for the last forty-two years. This is the legacy of childhood sexual abuse. This is PTSD. And this is my life.

Here we go:

The garage was empty, and Cory pulled me inside. Still holding onto me, he shut the door and we found ourselves alone in the dark.

He kissed me hard on the mouth. He stuffed his tongue down my throat. He said I needed to make him feel good, and he kissed me again.

While he kissed me, a teenage girl came into the garage, his sister, and without being asked, turned around and went inside. It happened so quickly I didn’t have a chance to cry out for help. I knew this was wrong, felt it in my bones, but the feeling I remember more than anything else is helplessness. I couldn’t get away. No amount of ingenuity or cleverness could overpower this man who stole me away into his parents’ garage.

Cory bent me over and tried to insert his penis into my anus. It was too big, and it hurt, and I started to cry.

Cory lifted me up, held me against his chest, and told me everything was going to be all right. He said we could do it a different way.

He directed me to kiss his penis. That was his word. Kiss.

His penis seemed huge to me–the head of it was red and shiny and smooth, and he held it right up to my nose, rubbed it on my cheek. He was shaking, clearly turned on, and I clamped my jaws to keep my mouth shut.

The man was not more determined than me but he was stronger, and he pressed my cheeks from the side to open my mouth, then stuck his enormous penis in my tiny mouth.

I nearly choked.

I don’t know how long this went on, but I remember my mouth and throat hurt, and my shoulders were sore from kneeling on the cement floor.

This is where my mind shut down. Technically, it dissociated to protect me. The next thing I remember is the garage door being flung open.

I’ll never forget this image: my mother, a superhero, surrounded by light, stormed inside the garage and rescued me.

This event affected my life more than I could ever have imagined.

When I was 45, I began to break down. Triggers came from every direction, and my life fell apart. Fortunately, I have a very wise and very loving partner who fought to get me the help I needed. Eventually, I was diagnosed with PTSD and my whole life came into focus. That’s the story of this blog. How I began to recover. How we, Linda and I, recovered. Trauma rewires the brain. Trauma rewires families. Trauma affects everything.

I’m a male survivor of childhood sexual trauma. My name is Aaron. Holy shit.