Breaking Free: "When My Hero Turned Into My Abuser"

By Paul Jones

"Breaking Free: When My Hero Turned Into My Abuser" is a memoir about a boy struggling through both sexual and mental harassment, how it changed him, and how it informed his growth as an adult. A successful businessman became his father figure, allowing him to live with his wife and children in a welcome escape from his childhood of poverty. Within a few years, however, he felt entrapped by the man's domineering personality and obsession with transforming him into a sexual partner. He rejected the idea but was conflicted by his respect for the man who had achieved so much, given him many opportunities, and made him a surrogate son and big brother. "Breaking Free" raises issues facing the mentally ill, drug-addicted, and closeted gay men. At heart, it recounts a decades-long battle to maintain dignity, overcome denial, and learn positive lessons from an intense connection to a talented, troubled man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667868394

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Breaking Free

Copyright © 2022 by Paul Jones

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Thank you for your support in safeguarding the author’s rights.

Print ISBN: 978-1-66786-838-7

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66786-839-4

Printed in the United States of America on SFI Certified Paper.

First Edition

Contents

INTRODUCTION

Feeling Trapped

Finding A Role Model

Seizing Opportunity

Facing Realities

Seizing Control

Distractions, Fresh Starts

Painful Endings

Limits, Limitations

Love, Renewal And Loss

Stepping Into The Void

Paying Back

Finding My Peace

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION

After my mother passed away, I discovered she had lived with a dark secret my father didn’t even know: She had two children out of wedlock before marrying him. One of them I knew as an aunt, rather than as a sibling.

I understood why she kept her secret. Opening up old wounds brings back the painful past.

Yet, I could no longer deny that I lived with a dark secret, too. As a teen, I was molested by a powerful friend who I trusted and admired. This memoir confronts that fact and the emotions I had buried.

The late Fredrick E. Barrett – family man, electronics engineer, entrepreneur and federal official – was the mentor and father-figure I had always wanted. Our complex relationship offered me great advantages and joy, as well as pain and betrayal.

Years after it was over, I would wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing and arms flailing against an imaginary attacker. For decades, I was suspicious of any male approaching me, whether it was with a handshake, a pat on the back or googly eyes.

While I believe people are free to determine their own lifestyles, I knew deep down in my soul the kind of life I wanted to live. To do so, I had to work to protect my pride and my dignity.

I had to break free from the shadow of a brilliant man. And I had to acknowledge that he also had dark motivations.

CHAPTER 1

Feeling Trapped

I awoke one night to see Mr. Barrett sitting alongside my bed. I didn’t know what was going on. He slid his hand inside my underwear and fondled my private parts. He then put his tongue in my right ear.

Frightened out of my mind, I was in a state of shock. My body froze, unwilling to cooperate with his advances.

He then left the room as quietly as he had entered.

That night, my trust in him began to shatter like a pane of glass breaking into pieces. Yet I realized that everything I thought was mine could be taken away with a snap of his finger.

As I tried to decipher what had happened, I could not ignore my situation. I was 16 years old, living in his house and working part-time at his company. I was a friend to his wife and a big brother to his children.

What would I do? Where would I go?

There, I had my own bedroom with a king-sized bed, separate bathroom, workspace for studying, TV and a telephone. I could not go back to living with my parents in a cramped, rodent-infested apartment.

I had come too far.

. . . . .

I was born in Far Rockaway in New York City on Aug. 21, 1953. My brother, Cleveland or Clee, is four years older; a sister, Ann, a year younger than me. My parents, Paul and Adele, were hardworking but found it difficult to make ends meet.

When I was around five years old, my father moved us to Raleigh, N.C., to live near his parents in a small wooden, unfinished house. Prefabricated, it was delivered on a tractor trailer and laid onto cinder blocks. It had running water but no heating system other than a wood-burning stove. When it got too cold, we spent nights at our grandparents’ home across the field.

My grandparents showered me with love and kindness. They lived a happy, humble life and were pillars of their church. The land surrounding their home was planted with varieties of apple, pear, peach, plum, fig and walnut trees. A small portion of the rich soil was used to grow tomatoes, collard greens, string beans, cabbage, cucumbers, watermelons and cantaloupes. They were proud of their nine acres and never took for granted the struggle they made to obtain it.

BigMa – we loved calling her that even though she wasn’t a big woman – had a calming presence but didn’t tolerate sass. She kept a picture of The Last Supper in her sitting room, where she and Grandpop relaxed in cozy recliners.

She spent a lot of time filling books with S&H green stamps she’d saved from grocery shopping, hoping to get additional savings or a free item. Both mornings and evenings, she would feed stray cats table scraps from a dented aluminum pan.

Grandpop, who tended the garden, would read the newspaper or watch wrestling on a small black-and-white television. He enjoyed fishing, as well as hunting rabbits and squirrels with Old Betsy, his double-barrel shotgun. He walked with a gimp in his right leg.

I fed the chickens, cut the grass, chopped wood and sometimes fished at a nearby pond. During the summer, I rode around on Saturdays with my uncle who sold produce from his truck. I was named after my father. But my parents wanted to change my birth certificate to Donnell Angelo Jones. They never got around to it, but everyone in the family called me Donnell or Don.

My mother grew up in nearby Elizabeth City. She and Dad attended the same vocational school; Dad drove the school bus part-time. At 19, he enlisted in the Air Force and proudly served three years and five months during the Korean War. When he got out, they got married.

My mother was of medium build with a light-brown complexion and a tiny mole on her right cheek. She did part-time domestic work for a white family who lived less than a mile away. Mostly she kept to herself, staying in the house. She and I never had long conversations about anything. One of the few times you could catch her laughing was when she watched The Ed Sullivan Show.

Dad returned to New York to work, and promised to send for us when finances improved. I recall vividly how my mother’s face would brighten when a letter came from him. He always sent money.

It took four years, but the time came for us to move back to New York. I had mixed feelings. We were attached to our grandparents. At the same time, I missed not being closer to my father.

One morning, just after breakfast, Dad drove up honking the horn of the ’57 Buick. After giving me and my sister big hugs, he went inside to look for Ma. Adele, where are you hiding? he said. She had gone into the back room, pretending that she didn’t know what all of the excitement was about. They embraced and kissed. Dad told her how much he loved her and how much he had missed