Children cannot consent to puberty blockers.

Anonymous

Content warning: descriptions of sexual assault

For B., who gave me the greatest gifts of all—a firm grasp on reality and a deep understanding of the importance of child safeguarding, and for every child who will one day wake up from this social experiment wondering why so few adults held the line on their behalf. 

Growing up, I had a personality similar to that of which Abigail Shrier has since outlined in her book, “Irreversible Damage: The Transgender Craze Seducing Our Daughters.” I was a highly-feminine presenting, "high-anxiety, depressive… [girl who]... fell prey to anorexia and bulimia [and] multiple personality disorder” after the autogynephile next door lewd and lasciviously battered and raped me to the tune of three first-degree felonies the summer before my senior year of high school. My overbearing yet docile behaviors were often described as “too much,” and I experienced social isolation from being “different” at school, which I now believe may be due to austistic-presenting traits which are often ignored or misdiagnosed in females. My personality differences lead me to spend time at neighbor’s houses more often than with peers, and I truly loved my built-in community.

I attended a neighbor’s Sweet 16 birthday party with the rest of our next-door neighbors on a balmy summer evening in late May. I wore my prom dress to the party: a pink, paisley-patterned, sequin-covered BCBG dress with matching pink kitten heels. The adult son of another set of neighbors, also attended with his parents. Since he and I both attended the party alone with our neighboring families, I saw no harm in spending time with him to keep him company and make sure he didn’t feel the sense of aloneness I often did at high school events. He was quick to keep me company, and helped feed me vodka sodas from the open bar at our country club before asking me to dance to “It’s Your Love” by Tim McGraw—”it sends a shock right through me” is an apt lyric to describe the lifelong PTSD he injected into my nervous system two nights later. Adults expressed to my parents that it was inappropriate for us to be dancing together, and my mom communicated that to me, but I didn’t think a thing of it: I had danced with many male friends at prom only a month prior. What made our family friend different? No one truly took the time to explain, and I projected any intuitive sense of his malevolence away with my good intentions.

Little did I know I was the perfect prey: naively unaware I was in the hands of a fetishistic, sadistic predator with an erotic target location error. He paid attention to me in the way most biological males do to teenage girls, but in a manner in which I wasn’t yet able to discern as anything but neighborly: What I thought was friendly fire was a predator poking and prodding, testing my paper-thin boundaries until he broke through any barriers that my sixteen-year-and-ten-month-old self could have held against the firefighter-sized biological male named after his father who I now refer to as Dr. Jame Mengele. To provide context, the name Jame refers to what Buffalo Bill is called when he isn’t locked away in his basement wearing a suit made of female skin. Mengele references the man known as the Angel of Death who was a physician at Auschwitz. Josef Mengele performed ideologically-driven experiments on prisoners that advanced the field of modern eugenics.

We ended up kissing for a few minutes after his parents drove us home from the party, him holding my hand the short drive home. I remember that his mom came back out of the house, through the garage to check that Dr. Jame Mengele made sure I got home. Instead, he put his finger over his mouth to show that I should remain silent so he could kiss and grope me for a few more minutes while I was pressed against the wall of his parent’s house before disposing of me for the evening. I naively thought nothing of our age difference because to me when he reached for my hand in the car, because to me, he was inherently safe. I was shrouded by familiarity. I was with adults I knew and trusted. my home and my parents were within eyesight and shouting distance. My scope of experience was barely larger than the neighborhood I lived in. What could go wrong? 

He called me two nights later. I was watching TV in my bedroom after working a shift as a hostess at a local Mexican restaurant and again, thought nothing of walking across the street to meet him.  I thought nothing of this request from who I considered to be a family friend and because I heard voices in the background and naively assumed others were there continuing to celebrate. By the time I crossed the street, barefoot in my pajamas—a white tank top from one of my mom’s corporate retreats at a nearby hotel and loose-fitting, black Old Navy yoga pants. He was standing alone just outside of the door under the darkened awning of his parent’s home, already working under the cover of darkness. The memory mirrors the scene in “The Silence of the Lambs” where Jame Gumb opens his home to Clarice Starling by first poking his head through a slightly ajar opening. He grabbed my hand and led me through the dark living room, around the kitchen and into the enclave that housed his and his sister’s bedrooms. I was entirely unaware of the grooming tactics he used over the course of the weekend to gradually turn up the heat on the pot of water I was about to boil alive in before he closed the door behind me. He started kissing me again before asking if I wanted to “have sex,” knowing full well of my inability to consent to the operation he had in mind.

I nodded in agreement, thinking, “Who would be a better option?” Like many teenage girls, I felt an immense pressure around the topic of losing my virginity and, frankly, a part of me just wanted to get it over with to relieve myself of the pressure. At the time, it made sense to share that experience with someone whom I believed to be a family friend, in a “safe” environment surrounded by family and friends—his parents were even under the same roof—and to someone who I thought carried at least a baseline amount of respect for me. After all, love thy neighbor, right? What could possibly go wrong?

The second I gave consent to the plans he had manufactured, Dr. Jame Mengele turned on a dime and left his room. He closed the door silently, knowing he didn’t want anyone to be aware of his footsteps. The door closed and I was left wondering where had he gone, why had he left me alone and what was going to happen next? That action, which I now recognize as what Gavin De Becker refers to as a pre-incident indicator in “The Gift of Fear,” heightened my intuition like the flip of a switch. I just didn’t yet know exactly what that something was. I remember thinking that he didn’t have the leeway to kill me, but I didn’t know what he had in store would in many ways be a fate worse than death. I kept waiting and wondering, ignorant to the fact that my body was quite literally beginning to freeze in place and tunnel vision had set in. When he came back in what felt simultaneously like hours and seconds later, my feet were glued in the same place—pointed toward the door, my escape. I was barely able to speak and couldn’t begin to fathom the idea of screaming for help from his parents, who were asleep under the same roof. I remember strategizing to give him more of what he wanted: an unknowing, meek-mannered little girl who would make light of what was about to occur in order to keep him calm and work with him in order to get myself out.

Then, Dr. Jame Mengele thwarted my plans when he handed me a pair of nude control-top tights. I mistakenly took them from his outstretched hand, not knowing that was my first step toward losing my first battle with my neighbor’s adult son. Looking up at him, I said lightly, “I’m a virgin,” with a quizzical look on my face to show that his request was well beyond my non-existent sexual expertise. He remained silent, staring me down like the lamb out for slaughter he trapped. I questioned him again, “So, you want me to put these on?” Despite the fact that I was directly asking for instruction, begging for him to pull back, he kept staring me down, pushing me toward his end goal. As naive as it sounds now, it felt safer at the time to know that I’d at least be wearing some sort of clothing to cover my private parts. I hated wearing tight clothing like turtlenecks as a child and couldn’t understand why anyone would want to be so constricted. My brain was already working to normalize the action at that moment, thinking that “maybe this isn’t weird, just because you don’t like to wear turtlenecks doesn’t mean this has to be as strange as you think.” 

His blue eyes were rimmed with a bright pink. At the time, I thought he had just been drinking Grand Marnier in the driveway with our neighbors and tried to act in a familiar manner in order to keep this volatile man in a steady state as best I could. Looking back, I see an amped-up autogynephile intent on completing his mission—enacting an irreversible medical experiment on the innocent, trusting child who lived next door to his parents. 

After he handed me the tights, I challenged him to take action into his own hands, thinking it would wake him up to understand that the teenager who lived across the street from his parents couldn’t comprehend what he was asking of her. I talked back to him all of the way down, gently and increasingly quietly explaining that I couldn’t comprehend what was happening asking for him to stop, until I was face down on his bed and the world around me began to melt away. After another period of fighting to stay present to make sense of this overwhelming experience my brain overloaded and became unable to process any additional information. I can now remember the moment my mind and body disassociated from each other all too well. It felt like my brain was an overheating computer that couldn’t hold another megabit of data without frying, and then I crashed. I can now see that being out of consciousness under the bright light of his ceiling fan is a familiar environment for him, as if I was in a hospital operating room under anesthesia while he was helping a doctor perform open surgery on my brain. “Do no harm” must be an ethos of a time gone by.

After instructing me to maneuver so I was face down on his bed, Dr. Jame Mengele suggested I buy sex toys to learn what I enjoy sexually. The last panicked request I made acknowledged his inherent maleness: to wear a condom, which he left the room to put on to ensure I couldn’t possibly speak to any details of his male anatomy. He laughed, praising me for asking the question, saying that I should “always make men wear them.” I was operating on hypnotic autopilot, and was neither conscious nor sentient while he lewdly and lasciviously battered me by ripping his nylons off of my teenage body prior to digitally raping me by swiping his fingers through the hole he tore to check whether I was “ready” before raping me. It was as if my private parts were nothing more than an ATM machine. I remember coming face-to-face with my grandmother, who had passed away a decade earlier, and feeling so much at peace, which I’ve since learned is common in near-death experiences. When being traumatized to that extent, the body often secretes hormones that provide a feeling akin to that of taking opiates in order to protect you from feeling pain. While he was raping me, he proclaimed, “one day you’ll understand why men like to do this,” acknowledging his biological sex while experiencing the euphoria associated with that which he simultaneously despises and desires most—the feminine and ultimately being female. This is an impossible reality for my delusional male batterer and rapist—even during the midst of experiencing his ultimate fetish he was aware that he could never truly become a member of the opposite sex.

When he was through with me—he so graciously helped me exit through the window in my not-yet-aware state—I walked back home, confused and alone. That was one of the cruelest jokes he played in order to humiliate me: I never snuck out of the house as a kid so I didn’t think to leave through his window. I don’t remember what time I left my home through the front door, or how long I was under his spell, but I know I stayed awake trying to make sense of what happened long enough to hear my mom leave for work. The next day, I woke up feeling heavy and frightened with the weight of what I didn’t know had happened. I knew that I had agreed to have sex with a man I thought was a family friend, but I couldn’t remember anything else. I just knew that I felt bad. I called him from my red Motorola Razr flip phone and the line rang and rang, before another man answered. He gave the phone to Dr. Jame Mengele, who barely said anything at all, and I could barely speak. All I could remember were the tights he had made me don, and the assumption I made when he handed them to me, my last tangible memory, that he must have acquired them from his sister’s room. While my brain ran off on a ferocious tangent of all of the possible negative connotations associated with that thought, in hindsight I can recognize these fearful thoughts that saved my life. I believe these thoughts pushed me headfirst into matrescence, kept me tethered to reality and focused on forging into the unknown future. 

I decided to tell another neighbor, the birthday girl, what happened about two weeks later in another neighboring bedroom to my own. She unknowingly reprimanded me that if I told anyone I’d be labeled a “homewrecker.” At no point had anyone—not my neighbors or Dr. Jame Mengele—mentioned the fact that he was engaged. I stayed silent, thinking it would protect my dignity and that of the women in this male’s life. My neighbor also told me that Dr. Jame Mengele once told her that “he would marry me if I were old enough.” I wish I understood at the time that women don’t always have the best intent and don’t often prioritize looking out for other females, something I especially understand now that I know his now-wife has knowingly brought multiple children, including a daughter, into the world with her autogynephilic husband. I naively tried speaking with Dr. Jame Mengele at our neighborhood New Year’s Eve party later that same year. He was accepting congratulations for his upcoming marriage and looked rightly terrified when I approached him, still barely able to speak. He said a quick, blunt hello before turning his back to me. I didn’t think much of it as it didn’t differ too much from my high school friends losing their boyfriends after losing their virginity: What can I say? The bar for male behavior at any age is under the ground, and men are excused time after time from atrocious behavior under the guise of “boys will be boys.” 

My inability to articulate what happened led me to fall head-first into the rabbit hole. I lived at the bottom of Buffalo Bill’s well, mentally and physically, for more than a decade to come. While I was quickly losing control of my brain, Dr. Jame Mengele went on to graduate from a top-ranked Catholic university. He later became a physician’s assistant in both the trauma and plastic surgery departments at a university’s college of medicine while simultaneously teaching as a clinical instructor. Dr. Jame Mengele provides “gender-affirmative” healthcare in a progressive city in a captured state. While he couldn’t have been geographically farther from where he committed crimes against my body, mind and spirit, he will live in my neural pathways for as long as I am alive.

I am so lucky to have begun to wake up from this nightmare when I turned 25, not coincidentally after my frontal lobe started to fully develop. I couldn’t articulate why, but I inherently understood there was something different about me compared to my female peers. I felt less competent, unsure of myself and social norms, and generally out of place. It took almost five years of memory recovery to outline what happened to me when I was living on the edge of 17; now, at 33, I can understand why and tell my story.

While I knew my childhood neighbor was studying to be part of the medical profession, I didn’t realize that his Master’s level understanding of trauma could cause me to block the memory of losing my virginity, the first time society tells us we “never forget,” until my brain and resolve were strong enough to remember. For some odd reason, I thought he was going into dentistry. Dr. Jame Mengele’s knowledge of trauma caused me to not only become detached from life—and myself—but to block the overwhelming memory of his lewd and lacivious battery and rape. This, combined with my familiarity of him, his family and the inherent “safety” provided within our neighborhood community, led me to be easily discredited when I tried to make sense of what happened with students and even teachers I tried going to for help. He was able to completely dissociate my brain from my body, and because he and I shared a modicum of familiarity I lost any sense of normality around female sexuality, how to steadily pace relationships or what appropriate boundaries were around the male sex. 

The subconscious state he put me in allowed my brain to “remember” by reenacting the depraved behaviors he taught me when my brain reacted to any man who reminded me of my rapist. I couldn’t understand why the repetition compulsion, actions and questions I was raising seemed so "natural" from me, since he and I had such familiarity—his personality and mine were fusing by the second—and I was both too scared and unable to speak to where I learned this behavior. After all, he told me not to tell, and he made me well aware of what he is capable of carrying out. Little did I know, my rapist’s fetish combined with his knowledge of trauma programmed my brain to pattern map and sexually respond to males who reminded me of the sadistic autogynephile I came into contact with across the street from my childhood home. 

In addition to gaining an understanding of how trauma affects the body and brain, I have since developed a deeper understanding of his transvestic fetish, a common paraphilia of serial killers like Ed Gein and Jerry Brudos. His proclivities align with how autogynephilic men want to wear the skin of a woman to feel like their tucked manhood makes them the female on the receiving end of what they consider to be “pleasure.” The neighbor and family friend I thought I was alone in his childhood bedroom considered me nothing more than an object to look at with psychotic envy, hatred and anger, and as a nothing more than an prop to be used to fight his gender dysphoria and fuel his gender euphoria, delivered via sissification hypnosis porn at the rough hands of a trauma medical professional. 

According to The 11th Hour blog, sissies are "male-identified person[s] who [engage] in feminization and sometimes humiliation in order to reach a different emotional or mental state… A man who considers himself submissive deliberately consumes this porn to learn how ‘to adopt ultra-feminine behaviors and perform feminine activities under the guidance of his Dominant partner,’ including pleasing men via ‘taking dick.’” 

Andrea Long Chu, a trans-identified writer who claims engaging in this type of porn “made him trans,” says the following of the genre:

"...to be sissy is always to lose your mind. The technical term for this is bimbofication. Captions often instruct viewers to submit themselves to hypnosis, brain-washing, brain-melting, dumbing down, and other techniques for scooping out intelligence.”

If you’d like to watch Dr. Jame Mengele in all of his autogynephilic glory, you can see what it was like for me to lose my virginity for yourself. HBO showed viewers what forced feminization fetishes look like in Season 1, Episode 1 of “Euphoria” when Cal rapes Jules at timestamp 31:40 of the series premiere. There is an immense difference between reliving a traumatic memory that your own brain has normalized in order to survive and seeing someone else experience pain in real time. Watching not only the rape, but the fact that this scene ends with Jules picking up a wedding ring and Cal’s iPhone screen displaying his family photo mirrored what I lived through in 2005. The scene caused me to jump out of my own skin to take action and address Dr. Jame Mengele in late 2019. 

To speak quite clearly, I believe one of Dr. Jame Mengele’s goals was to not only freeze my consciousness at a low level but to program my trauma-addled brain to respond to other fetishistic men like himself, not understand or be able to hold any boundaries with said sadists and be conditioned to respond as if I were also their captive, unconscious sex slave, or a “a fuck doll to be humiliated.” That, combined with the concept that evolutionary psychology states that ephebophilic men prefer younger partners whose bodies may have gone through puberty but whose brains are not yet developed speaks volumes to the type of male he is. (Read: not a man). 

Call me old fashioned, but there should be no such thing as “live and let live” when it comes to accepting AGP fetishes, and this acceptance is a Trojan horse that will allow for the downfall of society. To put it bluntly, this is the most base, degenerate behavior, and it is currently being not only accepted but applauded by what seems like the whole of “polite” society. I believe that the ability to introduce depraved fetishes to minors, like drag queens reading to children at storytime in libraries, in tandem with the effects of puberty blockers on the brain and promoting the concept that “sex work is work” is grooming society to see children as having the faculties to make adult decisions that will eventually lead to the acceptance of pedophilia in society. This is no understatement: If we continue on this path, it will only serve to aid in opening the gates of hell to what feels like our coming downfall.  

I was lucky to have learned what I’m now writing about by not only locating and processing the memories, but by speaking with my male rapist directly after calling his father to ask whether I could speak with his son. After a few rough starts, Dr. Jame Mengele’s father asked if he raped me when I confirmed my inquiry was “related to sex.” During that call, I said that his rape was “unfortunate” behavior since the behavior was so obviously appalling and he had many opportunities to stop. His father asked if I knew whether he was married at the time, which gave me the opening to confirm I told our mutual neighbor, who said I would be labeled a “homewrecker” if I told. As much as I needed to have these calls in order to move forward from the pain their son caused, it was an awful responsibility to shoulder to bring this to people I cared about deeply as a child.

Unsurprisingly, Dr. Jame Mengele avoided my calls to his home, the hospital where he presently works and the message I sent to his Facebook page. He and the majority of his family have since blocked me on the social media platform. 

I did this because what kept me silent after waking up to his crime⁠—the fact that my intuition told me that his sister was in danger⁠—could have been correct: budding young autogynephiles often test the waters of their fetish by wearing their female family members’ clothing, and younger males can often assault their siblings because of feelings they don’t yet understand. A prime example is Bruce Jenner, another dyslexic autogynephile who has “openly joked while speaking in public about using” Kendall and Kylie Jenner’s “clothing as props for his masturbation,” according to Twitter user @redtache. and who was caught cross-dressing by Kim Kardashian, who he then swore to secrecy. Kim and I followed a similar thought pattern: “‘I don’t know what I just saw.... I didn’t come home...I thought… If I tell… I’m going to break up their marriage... so I better keep my mouth shut. I didn’t say a word.” About a month after I told our mutual neighbor, the birthday girl, Dr. Jame Mengele’s family put a “For Sale” sign in their front yard. I naively assumed she had told her mother, who then told his parents, who moved to retain their family secret and daughter’s mental health. And, after all, tights are for girls. 

Dr. Jame Mengele and I spoke at least twenty times over the course of the fall and winter of 2019. Our conversations included calls from his cell phone, calls he made to me from the hospital where he performs gender-affirming surgeries on children to this day and face-to-face Zoom video calls where I watched him sweat and pace while chugging Diet Cokes in a plaid button-down shirt from his wood-paneled kitchen. I found it disturbingly interesting to learn about the man who did so much damage to develop my brain to his liking. We mainly spoke on Friday afternoons when he was off of work before picking his children up later in the day. I like to joke that, considering the timing of our conversations, that I prepared him to work remotely during the pandemic the following year. Though it took me almost 15 years to be ready for that first call, he had full access to the memory and called me back five days after I made the request to his father. I have recordings of most of these calls, and the following paragraphs are from not only said recordings but notes I told him I was taking in Google Docs during our conversations.

He made fun of me when I answered his first call as it took me a second to even gather the courage to speak. Dr. Jame Mengele may just be another man to anyone else in this godforsaken world, but to me, he is my living nightmare and an absolute terror to this day. He first tried to gaslight me out of my own recalled memories, asking if he made me either “suck his dick” or “wear something,” indicating that this is not a one-time occurrence on his part. Both are common among transvestic fetishists who want to feel like they are the female in the bedroom. When I asked my first question, starting our private trial, he confirmed that my memories are correct, saying "oh, you really do remember everything.” He then said he was confused as to why the tights were “such a focal point,” and compared my experience to the loss of his own virginity in the back of a car, stating that “every experience is unique.”

Dr. Jame Mengele apologized at the top of our first Zoom call before I even had the courage to turn the camera on. I saw through his crocodile tears, and he later confirmed he didn’t care about how he treated me like a disposable object or effects of his handiwork, but I stayed silent nonetheless: he was admitting guilt in a courtroom’s eyes. He read a hand-written apology from his kitchen counter, drafted from his daughter’s favorite purple writing pen as I sat a country away from my rapist on the other end of our Zoom call at my own kitchen table. I was surprised how quickly he gave it up, but he didn’t realize I knew he was burying the lede about what really happened when he lewd and laciviously battered and raped my body, brain and spirit. He admitted guilt for taking my virginity, taking my pants off while I was frozen in place in his bedroom, telling me to not make noise so I wouldn’t wake his parents up, telling me that I should play with sex toys to increase my knowledge of my own body, laughing at me for begging him to wear a condom, telling me not to tell anyone, ignoring me when I called him the day and again at the our neighbor’s New Year’s Eve party later that year. He pleaded with me to not tell anyone, again, and said this was something he’d carry as a burden the rest of his life. Funny that, as he doesn’t seem to be troubled to get paid to operate on confused, unconscious children to this day. 

He admitted he has no idea how to judge the scope of how this affected my life, that he likely acted as an “invisible force” in all of my relationships, and that he would do anything “within reason” to help resolve this. I corrected him, saying that “when the child you battered and raped calls you and makes a request, you fulfill it, no questions asked.” I told him what I wanted: a hand-written, signed letter acknowledging what he did to me as physically writing this down would force him to acknowledge the depravity he put me through by forcing me to engage in his fetishes as a child. I also requested an in-person meeting between our families so I could transfer the responsibility of this knowledge back to his parents and sister to ensure they are aware of the true extent of his proclivities. 

I also wanted to meet with him to run my own medical experiment on Dr. Jame Mengele. There would be no denying the chaotic energy that would come to life if you put us in the same room together. I was curious to learn whether seeing him in the flesh would help my brain recognize that it is no longer stuck in 2005, and to communicate to my body that it no longer feels the need to resolve the moment where my life went off course. He told me that he didn’t think that wouldn’t be healing for me, citing his own experience working with trauma. He told me that he “spoke with people who handle this,” saying that “meeting with parents isn’t how it’s done” when I told him that I wouldn’t meet with him and his wife alone, and that “you meet with the people you live with today,” likely in an attempt to hide his depraved behaviors from his parents. Neither request came to fruition, so I made my best attempt to run an experiment on my professionally-traumatized brain: I went back to my hometown to his parent’s house in hopes of reentering his bedroom. After giving the current owner a brief description of what happened, she graciously allowed me into her home. The energy in the room is the total inverse of the white noise of being dissociated: it was frenetic, unrelenting mayhem. It broke my heart to see the little girl living in his room had a framed picture of Beauty and the Beast on her wall: the vicious cycle continues.

Getting back to our calls, Dr. Jame Mengele spoke about my own father, saying he remembered and was scared of my dad, though he later called him in an attempt to apologize to my “rightful owner” as a further attempt to silence me. He told me his own father called him a “dumb shit,” to which I heartily agreed. He seemed nervous about what I may have communicated to his father during our first call, which heavily suggested he didn’t want him to know any details about his appalling behavior, so I made sure to later mail his family the notes from our conversations along with the police report and a write-up of his crimes from my perspective. The police recorded that he changed his phone number after he and I spoke in his file associated with the report.

He asked me to go easy on him, a kindness he didn’t extend to me in years past, framing this as an “error in judgment” and a  “mistake” that “we'' made together, encouraging me in an intimidating manner to leave it in the past. He mocked me, asking me if I was calling him because I wanted to “be'' with him again. I told him that despite my childish confusion around the boundaries of his neighborly behavior that I never wanted to be alone in a room with him ever again. When I made a comment that I had never seen nor engaged with his male anatomy, he manically asked me if I wanted him to show me his penis. He told me he drove around with tights in his silver truck, and I would be naive to still think his sister and I were the only females at risk of his potential harm. I asked if he ever wore the tights, as most serial killers hold onto mementos from their crimes like trophies, to which he told me “no,” because they were “all ripped up.” He even admitted to enjoying the conversations we were having, and that he wanted to “resolve the issue but keep them going.” I can understand where he was coming from. Part of what made it so easy to get him to admit to his crimes is the fact that autogynephiles like Dr. Jame Menegele are entirely aware of their seemingly endless array of depraved fetishes and rarely get to discuss them, let alone with their own lewd and lacivious battery and rape victim. He told me he did it because he thought I was attractive and that I “seemed older than I was.” He told me that brunettes were his type (to debase, I presume, as he’s married to a blonde—classic Madonna/whore complex, and my pronouns of choice)—which raised another flag for me as he was living in an area of the country with a high concentration of Latin people at the time of the incident and Latin women typically tend to have darker features. I imagine he dresses up in a brunette wig when his now-wife rips tights off of his body, the Gerda Wegener to his Lily Elbe.

Dr. Jame Mengele aggressively DARVO-ed me, "deny, attack, and reverse victim and offender" being a common manipulation strategy of psychological abusers. He exclaimed that he “can’t live like this,” when speaking to the stress of accepting the consequences of his actions, stating that he was “living scared of every phone call and doorbell ring,” that I was “tearing him and his family up,” that he had “lost 20 pounds,” was on the verge of “divorce” as his “marriage was hanging by a thread” and threatening suicide. He admitted he would “be behind bars” if I continued to move forward and tell the truth about his actions. He told me that since he was “raised with morals in private schools” and is now a firefighter, EMT, Boy Scout leader and highly-regarded at work that I shouldn’t tell the truth as it may harm his picture-perfect, lakeside life. He staged a call with his wife to try to shame me into silence. They used their two young children to guilt me, presenting them as “brilliant,” of which I have no doubt, though I made CPS aware of their parents’ behavior nonetheless in order to help keep them safe. The heteronormative couple told me they were working on having a third child but that bringing this to light caused his female wife to have a miscarriage. The way he phrased my responsibility for this unconfirmed loss, horrible as it could be for them to have lived through, was that “every action has an equal and opposite reaction.” She said that I “don’t even know him” when I asked if she thought he was a safe person, to which I responded “and yet look at what I do know.” Then she confirmed that his family would lie under oath to protect him, a fact I’ve accepted since I was a child myself. At times, I could hear her going in and out of their house, screaming. It makes perfect sense: her husband’s fetish puts both of their jobs at the hospital at risk. He said he was grateful that we could “keep the lines of communication open,” code for don’t report me to the police. Worst of all, his wife used the term “homewrecker” against me, stating that reporting after all of these years is what would truly be homewrecking. I wonder if she recognizes my position as the honorary transwidow in her marriage. I asked her to consider the ways this wrecked my childhood home and concept of safety in the world, to which she remained silent. He later stated that he didn’t care about what he did to me, or the mental, physical and spiritual effects it had on me as an attempt to drive the knife in further. 

Dr. Jame Mengele’s methodology of introducing me to sissification hypnosis porn, by way of first-degree felony lewd and lascivious battery and first-degree felony rape—which should be considered two counts, though my brain only allowed me to remember his first-degree digital rape after I filed a police report against him in my hometown—combined with the Master’s-level degree of knowledge he has about how a brain can hide traumatic memories and prevent development directly parallels with the gender industry. His sadistic skills are currently being utilized in not only the trauma but plastic surgery departments of said hospital—aligning directly with learning about the effects of puberty blockers on the brain and conducting gender-affirming plastic surgeries performed on children with dysphoric feelings, often of an unknown origin. 

I believe my body reacted to the trauma of his battery and rape by halting brain development, developing PTSD and going into hormonal overdrive in thanks to the surge of wrong-sex hormones rapidly delivered by the gender doctor next door, sending me into early-onset menopause. I experienced memory loss, mood swings and hot flashes immediately following his crimes and to this day. I would often wake up following a nightmare about Dr. Jame Mengele in a cold sweat, having thrown any comforters off of me and sometimes even having removed my pants, leading me to believe I was reenacting my rape in my sleep when I couldn’t push away my traumatic memories. While I haven’t yet attempted to get pregnant, I fear I may not be able to have my own children due to the imbalances lying in wait in my own body. That being said, I like to joke that I’m lucky to have a uterus on stand-by: I was born with a congenital condition that would allow me to carry multiple pregnancies at a time. I told this to not only remind Dr. Jame Mengele that if he didn’t put a condom on his—and it has to be said in today’s culture—inherently male penis prior to raping me but to nod to the fact that I knew more about Dr. Mengele’s profession than he could even begin to imagine. Transhumanists, including medical professionals like Dr. Jame Mengele, seek to implant donated female uteruses into their own bodies in hopes of entirely removing females from the childbearing and childbirth process. It seemed like a more polite way to introduce the concept rather than saying “farm me out” to the man with a likely breeding kink on the other end of the line.

The medical experiment he ran on me traumatized me to such a degree that a part of my brain will forever be stuck at 16, similar to how puberty blockers prevent teenagers from fully progressing through a successful maturation process. One of the scariest realizations to look back at is that the world considers an eighteen-year-old fully able to consent to having sex with adults of any age. However, if the brain is paused from continued development at a younger age, it doesn’t matter how your body continues to develop and how time continues to pass—you’re still mentally a child. 

I felt so small crying out for help, but was treated like an adult by the world—by parents and teachers who looked at me like I was a rotten apple or treated me like I was a stereotypical bimbo, and especially by other men—around me. I used to liken the way I felt to being a “turtle without a shell.” I was never suicidal prior to the battery and rape, like many gender non-confirming children or their parents claim to be to make their way into surgery, but the constant humiliation of trying to learn what happened to me combined with my body’s reaction to the trauma have led me to now isolate to a degree I never could have dreamed I would have dreamed of at sixteen. It’s challenging to trust in the good of the world after seeing endless amounts of the direct opposite at a younger age.

His now-wife is a natal female who I believe identifies as a trans man and works in the same hopsital’s urology department. This leads me to believe they could have a “trans pipeline” operating within their own home, and that she may approve or conduct “gender-affirming,” reconstructive phalloplasties herself before sending unassuming children to her husband’s sacrificial surgical altar to cut off their still-developing, healthy genitals. One of the hardest concepts I’ve yet to come to terms with is that some autogynephilic males have castration fetishes and sexual fantasies about castrating children. Knowing the depths of my rapist’s depravity, it chills me to the core that he likely derives sexual pleasure while watching his operating surgeon “affirm the gender” of innocent children while they are receiving either gender nullification, phalloplasties or double mastectomies in an effort to feel non-binary or like the opposite sex, as well as when he is communicating with his patients before and after surgery. 

While I consider myself having been groomed into autogynephilia, though I never believed I could become a male—and the world has never once let me forget I am a female—the outcome of his actions comfortably parallel with the social contagion we’re seeing that’s leading girls to want to escape their biological sex. Dr. Jame Mengele understood I didn’t fit into my home state—or even my family’s—razor-thin definition of femininity, even though I loved the color pink, often wore sundresses and had a standing mani-pedi appointment at the local nail salon. He watched me playing with electric cars with boys who lived in the neighborhood in the street in front of our homes when I was about seven years old. Even when I since spoke with him, he implied that since my traumatized brain “accepted” my disassociated, subconscious introduction to AGP that I was likely a “fellow” lesbian or a burgeoning trans man. In hindsight, I see a confused teenage girl trying to make sense of what her parents taught her about “normal” sex combined with the treatment administered by Dr. Jame Mengele. I was in no man’s land, and my still-developing brain was programmatically reacting to anyone who reminded me of my neighbor and family friend. He also implied that the men my brain landed on would have been gay or bisexual, a cruel joke knowing my conservative Catholic upbringing and innate desire to start a family. I believe my brain programming led me to another sociopathic narcissist who left me with nothing but Stockholm Syndrome and in hindsight, am disgusted thinking about the pedophilic men who were attracted to my sexually immature physical features and lack of cognitive and emotional development.

The shame I felt after being battered and raped made me want to be invisible to men’s desires, so I starved myself until I weighed 107 pounds, down from 125, the healthy weight my doctor encouraged me to maintain later in my teenage years. According to Parents with Inconvenient Truths about Trans, there are striking “commonalities between Anorexia and Gender Dysphoria patients” as evidenced by “visible connectivity changes within the Default Mode (DMN) and Salient (SN) Networks which are believed to be the neurological basis for the sense of self.” 

My neighbor traumatized me to a point that irreversibly delayed my development in a way where a part of my brain will never develop past the age of 16, which he acknowledged on our calls, akin to blocking my puberty from proceeding through to full maturity. “Damage to the brain, including leaching water from astrocytes, disruption to neural pathways and brain communication, reduction in brain volume, and high risk of cancers and neural-pathologies are expected outcomes'' of the gender transition process, and are certainly in line with the side effects of the hack job this trauma and plastic surgeon’s PA performed on me under the roof of his parent’s home while they asleep. While Dr. Jame Mengele never injected me with puberty blockers-only his inherently male penis-and I never took and never will take cross-sex hormones, the degree to which he traumatized me prevented me from fully passing through puberty into maturity. The dissociation that occurred when my hippocampus shut down during his battery and rape caused my brain and body to split, and in the disocciated state he groomed me into autogynephilia, the most misogynistic, male, testosterone-fueled fetish that exists.

The effects of his degrading, misogynistic crimes combined with my dissociation during his iatrogenic, hack job trauma surgery induced gender dysphoria in my still-developing mind. Prior, I was a high-strung, albeit happy-go-lucky girly-girl who loved all things pink, horseback riding and pop stars of the early aughts. Following the experience of the loss of my virginity at the hands of an autogynephilic, trans-identified male, I first simultaneously clung to my own femininity but hated seeing it presented in others, especially men who enjoyed anything I considered feminine. I unknowingly mocked them mercilessly. Because of my presentation—clinging to what I considered my last shreds of femininity—and the PTSD experienced after being professionally traumatized, society started to shame me for behaviors I now recognize are normal after experiencing such a battery. I consider being groomed into autogynephilia the highest level of internalized misogyny a woman can experience. I began to develop embarrassment and shame about anything about my outwardly feminine, “girly” presentation. This snowballed into fear and contempt for any and everything related to womanhood and led me to consider femininity a pathetic weakness, which was a complete deviation from my former self. 

I have experienced other deficits, including a reduction of, or perhaps a permanent halt in my then-developing, IQ as well as sexual and health deficits similar to those whose puberty was blocked via medication. The older I get, the more I have been aware of the fact that my sexual organs did not develop as they were meant to, and I have recently been experiencing symptoms of vaginal atrophy as it relates to the rush of testosterone he injected me with during my disocciated state. I often wonder if this is meant to derive an internal state of confusion, as Dr. Jame Mengele could also be a gynandromorphile or GAMP, a person who is attracted to feminized males as my curves and womanhood did not have a chance to properly develop. He damaged my relationship with my family as I wanted to be anywhere but next door to his house and immediately became distrustful of all adults. Worst of all, the proximity and familiarity between us, our neighborhood community, and the responsibility I took for his sister and fiance further forced me to shoulder the burden of his crimes. I gave cover for his crimes by expressing that my sadness was due to losing the race for senior class president after holding the title for the previous two years. I remember watching The OC episode with my parents and close friend, who is aware of who I lost my virginity to, in which Marissa Cooper died just prior to sailing around the world with her father. I started crying with fear for what was to become of me, and sadness for feeling like I knew too much about another family but not knowing what was appropriate to share knowing I didn’t want to humiliate another female. I was leaving for a gap year program after graduating high school that my parents pushed me to attend—they could see the struggles I was failing to hide—and was terrified of what was going to become of me. 

It was nothing short of a wake up call to have learned his family invited mine to the wedding our neighbor told me that I was “homewrecking,” which was held at the same venue as our mutual neighbor’s Sweet 16 party. I was ignorant to his invitation—at the time, I was two weeks from completing a Canadian experiential education program that promoted principles of “community service, leadership and personal development” with the intent of creating global citizens, where my admittedly erratic behavior and cries for help were met with shame, silence and social ostracization from students, teachers and staff alike. I was sexually abused by multiple male staff members while living in tight quarters with them and even sent to one by a female nurse at his behest when he requested my presence in the ship’s engine room. I was never given any concrete advice or support other than being told “it’s always the man’s fault” while my barely-adult, mentally-a-minor self hysterically laughed like Harley Quinn at the idea of Dr. Jame Mengele in nylons as I was trying to learn what happened to me from teachers and staff who, at the time, I considered older and wiser. I’d like to ask the passive staff a few questions now: what assumptions were you making about me, do you think you “made good choices” when it came to keeping me safe, and are you willing to take responsibility and accountability when it comes to your own poor decisions? Unfortunately, I already know they don’t have the same courage in their convictions they taught their students to carry. I’ve called their offices multiple times over the years hoping to inquire with leadership to learn why they never thought to inform my parents about the direct questions I was asking yet couldn’t answer in hopes of learning about the biological male who battered and raped me. Funny enough, they have never returned my calls, emails or messages and in hindsight a group of people who refer to themselves as nothing but “nice” didn’t take my cries for help seriously enough to extend any genuine kindness, leaving me feeling a level of infamy and shame that could rival Amanda Knox’s. The worst institution I could have landed in after being groomed into pure queer theory was cult-like gap year program I attended: one seeking to create “global citizens,” run by liberal social justice warriors who seem to adamantly believe in “rules for thee, not for me.” I have to ask: Where the fuck were⁠—and are⁠—the adults? 

Some days, I marvel that I was able to not only recall but make sense of the memory of losing my virginity, let alone that I went toe-to-toe with a medical professional from the omnipresent, all-powerful gender industry. I’m thankful he was quick to admit to the felonies he committed against me, opening the door for the more pressing conversation at hand. Though he didn’t have the courage to admit to his profession during our conversations, and likely only admitted guilt to act as a cover to hide how he enacts his adult fetishes on children under the guise of health, he realized I was aware of it. When he did, he underhandedly acknowledged that I can see the truth behind societal lies by saying, “You need to be a mother,” pointing out the fact that the wrong-sex hormones he so rapidly injected into my unknowing body could cause me to one day become infertile.  

Funny enough, my batterer and rapist never uttered the words “TERF,” “transphobic” or any other radical feminist dog whistle during our conversations. During our last call, I could hear the fear in his voice as he asked what I was planning to do with the wisdom I’ve learned from the crimes he committed against me. As difficult as it is living with how my peers view the knowledge that came out of the experiences I was forced to bear, I’d rather be awake than woke. It is a heavy burden to bear to be so aware of how one childish misstep can lead to a lifetime of tragedy, how much the world actively hates teenage girls and adult human females and how careless adults can be with children crying out for help who are unable to speak. It breaks my heart to think of the damage I have caused and could have caused myself, our families and community and to children and society at large to this day. Now that I’ve climbed out of the deep mental well Dr. Jame Mengele dropped me in, I am committed to opening eyes to the harms of gender ideology, puberty blockers, transhumanism and the ills that will continue to occur as women and children are forced to invite autogynephilic males with perverted paraphilias into our public and private spaces. 

Goodbye horses, Dr. Jame Mengele.

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