Michael Jackson Groomed Everyone

It was 2002, and the first time I saw Michael Jackson was him dangling his infant son out of a window.

Even at such a young age, I understood that Jackson was just showing him off to the crowd. It was stupid, but as a kid I'd made plenty of naive mistakes and I would go on to make an infinity more. I suppose this connection between my childish self and Jackson is what led me to become a fan of his later on.

I remember the trials and the melodramatic headlines. I also remember watching Moonwalker and thinking it was the coolest thing ever. Thriller scared the shit out of me, and I immediately wanted to watch it again. Eventually I realised that newspapers existed primarily to sell, which subsequently meant maintaining a sensationalist circle-jerk to feed more sales. To this day I have zero tolerance for 'celebrities,' 'gossip,' 'drama' or the ilk. I avoid newspaper/magazine websites and keep well within my subscriptions box on YouTube.

Being a natural outsider my entire life, I am also prone to thinking about the multiple sides to any story. To any story there are two conflicts, and I explored both. I looked at the narrative built up around Michael Jackson, and I thought: "Wait? Why is everyone writing about him?" Why is he this figure of scrutiny, and not the people bullying me? So I decided to actually listen to his music and find out what made him so rich in the first place.

From then on I was a die-hard fan. As a teenager I was ugly, scared, and deeply in the closet. My own repressed homosexuality meant I didn't have a proper childhood. My parents hated me doing drama. My father constantly mocked my effeminacy and openly hated LGBT people. He always gave me a brutal buzz-cut when I just wanted my hair to better reflect myself. Once he got drunk and forced me onto the hair-cutting chair; making me start secondary school looking uglier than ever. He would laugh cruelly whenever the hair grew beyond a few inches, calling me a girl. My sister would be encouraged to join in, when my Dad wasn't teasing her bucked teeth and thick locks.

He was also a large, hardened man who as a senior figure in education was a natural at disciplining children. He would pull down my trousers and hit my buttocks hard. This was only when I was small. Later he knew how much I was afraid of making him angry, and didn't need to hit me. He would still slap me round the back of my head, calling me "stupid boy!" in an infuriatingly cartoon-like voice whenever I made one of my naive mistakes.

He also spoiled me rotten. To my shame I still have shelves full of incredible LEGO sets bought by him. LEGO became my escape from a fearful existence, and he fed this habit. His abuse made me hit my classmates. It turned me into an angry, feral boy endlessly teased. But I didn't need friends. I had parents and all the LEGO I wanted. I would start telling stories with the LEGO, and that's how my writing began.

My father wanted to be in complete control of me. He wanted me to fear him, so I wouldn't do anything wrong. But he also wanted me to unconditionally love him. In addition to spoiling me, he would read me bedtime stories. He was always trying to get me alone with him for 'boys days out' where for once he was entirely at my will. To this day, I could probably do anything with him. Anything as long as he feels like he's the greatest father ever.

I had a bizarre childhood filled with no responsibility, endless leisure, bullying, and stress. Just like Michael Jackson. We were both freaks and outsiders. Children in bodies too big that we hated. As I became a diehard fan, I imagined being coached by Jackson as I learnt all his dance moves. Ritually watching him both perform and be interviewed, I built a virtual version of him in my head. I never met, or even saw him. I don't think we were ever even 100 miles of each-other.

I started showing my dance moves off to my classmates. It's embarrassing to look back on because it was so terrible and these were the same classmates who caused so much agony. Even at 12 years old, I was self-harming and contemplating suicide. I would starve myself, not use the toilet, avoid crowds, cry when I got home. Whenever I made a mistake, I would hit my head against something saying "stupid boy!"

But whilst a 14 year old imitating such an eccentric as Michael Jackson obviously was hilarious to many, a lot of classmates actually supported my 'act.' I even won a talent contest; which was the first kind of award for anything I'd ever won. In June 2009, Michael Jackson died, but that only made his presence in my life stronger. I didn't feel sad because he only ever existed in my head and on YouTube anyway. I felt the same about David Bowie.

Dancing was the closest I could come at school to expressing my sexuality. Since as long as my classmates were able to string two sentences, I would be called 'gay' and other homophobic slurs. So when I couldn't stop staring at other boys across the room or whilst changing (how the fuck does he have a six-pack already?) I didn't think anything of it because I was so in denial. I never believed Michael Jackson was a paedophile, but I understood his love of boys because I loved boys too. The difference was that I was still a boy, which Jackson was an adult.

Unwillingly, I grew up. I still danced when I thought no-one was watching, and I still listened to Jackson's music. Recently I was creating a Spotify playlist of upbeat dance music as background for my stream, and I quickly realised about half of it was Jackson's music - with most of Thriller and Off The Wall (my two favourite albums of his) on there. I became more interested in politics, and the human condition as I continued my writing. Human atrocity, the emotions that cause it, and the damage it does became my forte.

To any story there are two conflicts. Or so I thought.

There is a third. The extras. The minor characters. The devices used to enable both conflicts. The ones caught in the middle. The victims.

I finished University and returned home to what I can only describe as a slow-motion breakdown. Suicidal thoughts hound me to this day. I'm on anti-depressants that do nothing, and every time I have a particularly bad few days I lose a part of myself. I forgot how to write, and I still find it so hard to to because my depression is so bad sometimes it feels like brain damage. I still wonder if I'll be better in an psychiatric hospital.

This happened the same time as there was a breakdown in abusers. Jimmy Saville, the BBC presenter and entertainer of a generation, was found to have abused over 100 children. Analysts said that "he groomed the nation," which stuck with me. My father was stunned by the reveal, but I was surprised no-one saw it coming. Watching his scarecrow-like face, how he leered over children, and how he surrounded himself with teenage women, why was my Dad surprised?

Then the barrel burst. Rolf Harris. Harvey Weinstein. Kevin Spacey. Bill Cosby. R Kelly. Woody Allen. Countless catholic church officials. All sexual abusers. All of them grooming not just their victims, but everyone around them into believing they're innocent. These are all people in power first of all stripping power away from others, then making them do what they least want to do. It is abuse in it's most primal form. It's what gives us the misery we endure today. From killer cops to Vladimir Putin, it is the powerful toying with the powerless.

There is of course the most prominent abuser in the world. The one who is diplomatically immune from punishment and who has lived a life of luxury, having never once experienced any repercussions for his vile actions as he balloons into a grotesque monster; becoming inhuman.

Donald Trump.

I remember when his presidential campaign was actually starting to gain traction thinking: "How can this people not believe what's in front of their eyes. Their hero is an illiterate, incomprehensible piece of white trash! There are millions of caricatures and derogatory cartoons of this man, and none of them are as damning or ugly as the man himself. How can people be so blind?" (Oh, and guess which pop-star Trump was friends with?)

I still believe that Jackson had a rare skin condition (vitiligo) that turned him white. I no longer believe he just had two surgeries on his nose. If he can lie about ruining the lives of innocents, he can lie about anything. Just like my father and abusers of his ilk, once you enter such a state of denial then that's it. You're lost.

So how could I have been lost too? How could I have not looked at Jackson's House Of Wax face and experienced admiration. Love, even? Jackson surrounded himself with ridiculous memorabilia to stroke his ego. He set up an mini-theme park to entice children and dull adults. The mad-land Jackson had surrounded himself with didn't fool everyone, but I feel so much shame that it fooled me. I was groomed. Everyone who believed him was a victim of his careful manipulation. He groomed everyone.

The same time I returned back to my childhood home, my father became an alcoholic. He would stumble home from work, yelling at everyone he could see before collapsing into a fat heap on the sofa. Often I would come downstairs next morning to find him still there. Eventually the rest of my family would just work around him. We would eat dinner in silence whilst he slopped it down his front, loudly banging his fork against the plate as he batted his food like a late-stage Alzheimer patient. Sometimes I would think he was normal, and he was being nice to apologise for his behaviour. But then he'd come close and I'd smell the alcohol.

To this day, he treats my mother like shit. He once drunkenly ranted about how she wasn't being 'sexy' enough, whilst he was slumped on the sofa surrounded by rolls of his own fat with crusted food down his front. He yells that she's useless when she does the housework. My Dad can't sit properly on the toilet and always leaves skid-marks on the bowl which either Mum or myself has to scrape off. He laughs whenever my mother tries to engage, calling her 'low level' and saying that her working an unskilled manual labour job makes her lesser than him.

Of course, I work the same job as my mother. Dad's professional career is crumbling around him because of the mess he's made with his life. He was sacked from one teaching job for repeatedly showing up drunk, and was forced off the premises. But he holds over us his domination. He constantly reminds us of how it was him who bought this house and paid for everyone. It's he who's worked for 30 years to provide for this family. He's surrounded by no-good parasites who don't have 'real' jobs. Once, on my day off and being burned out from another bad week, I slept in until 11pm. My father kept trying to call me, but I was having a shower and shaving so I couldn't hear him until he started swearing at me. When I finally confronted him, because I'd committed the crime of waking up late and not unloading the dishwasher yet, he called me a good for nothing fucking parasite, a waste of space who does nothing all day and will be kicked out of this house to get a real job.

Two days later, he slept in until 3pm.

I can't really tell if he's sober or not anymore. Twice he's drunk too much and ended up in Hospital. Both times he was being wheeled into care whilst yelling abuse at my mother, who'd driven all the way across three towns behind the ambulance to the hospital and stayed there all night. Both times he discharged himself early, not listening to anything anyone said, and came back home to resume his life of yelling whilst we all picked up the pieces.

He was even arrested for doing what he still does: driving to the local off-licence, buying the cheapest drink he can find, downing it all at once, getting enough disgusting food to feed an elephant, then passing out in his car. He still doesn't believe he's done anything wrong, and amazingly, despite pleading guilty to being in possession of a vehicle whilst intoxicated, he was merely given several points on his licence. He deserves to lose it. Several times he's driven home drunk.

He was nearly arrested again, but my mother and I found him and drove his car back whilst he called Mum a "sanctimonious fucking bitch." Of all the hospitals, police stations, and just the times we've had to pick his drunken carcass up from wherever he's hiding, we have received not a single apology or thanks. Several times I've had to use my first aid training to help my own father recover from something he could prevent any day if he'd just listen to us 'low level' people.

My mother has finally filed for divorce, but nothing has happened yet. My Dad doesn't want to give her half the value of our house, despite my mother paying her grandparents inheritance into the mortgage. The shock has stopped him drinking for now, but he doesn't think it's his fault. He keeps saying he doesn't know why Mum's doing this even though for the past four years he's abused her and me.

His students and colleagues still love him though. My friends loved him. Anyone who knows him will be shocked by what I'm saying, but that's because - just like any abuser - he's an actor. He's manipulating you just as he manipulates my family and I. He pretends to be friendly. He keeps buying sweets and cakes for his classes. Especially around women, he acts like he pisses golden syrup and shits truffles. You will not find a nicer abuser.

This was true with almost all my housemates at university. They all had abusive fathers, and they were all much worse abusers than mine. But their fathers lied too. They manipulate everyone they meet to hide what they've done. They think they're right, but they know there's repercussions. So they hide in plain sight. Jimmy Saville made sexist jokes. R Kelly sung about 'bitches,' Bill Cosby worked his domination into his 'big strong dad' gimmick, Kevin Spacey laughed along with 'ridiculous' rumours, Trump surrounded himself with beauty contest entrants, and Michael Jackson walked around holding his chosen 'boy of the month' like a lover.

And like Jackson, my Dad still hasn't stopped acting like a fucking child. He bounces around, uses fake speech impediments, and just pretends I'm a child too even though I'm an adult sick of him. It's all an act. You can't accuse a child of anything wrong, can you? A child shouldn't suffer, should they? A child's free from abuse, right?

So I was prepared. I wasn't even surprised when I heard about Leaving Neverland, a documentary about two men abused by Michael Jackson. I don't care that the two previously defended Michael and only now years after the fact are speaking up because until a few years ago I loved my Dad. Part of me still does. I have recurring nightmares about his abuse, and recurring dreams about murdering him. But I will never lay a finger on him. Once, during a heated argument, he threatened to kill me. I threatened to kill him too. Neither of us will ever do it.

I watched both parts of the documentary. The parts explicitly detailing the sexual abuse actually made me rush to the bathroom because I thought I'd be sick. But for some reason I felt satisfaction at the end. Because it all fitted. My father killed my childhood already. I've lost huge chunks of my personality. Knowing that everyone was right, that after all this time Michael Jackson was a paedophile was a conclusion in my study of abuse and how it related to my own experiences.

My Dad never raped me. He never did anything physically aside from a few smacks when I was less than nine years old. He isn't Jack the Ripper. He was not born evil, and I wouldn't call his abuse evil now. In his eyes, he's done nothing wrong. But he's an abuser. He's ruined my families lives. I know how lives are ruined, and Leaving Neverland was a textbook example. Michael Jackson wasn't Jack the Ripper either. He cared deeply for the suffering, but his twisted ego led him to abuse boys. My Dad loved me, but his twisted ego has made me hate him.

For now, my father seems stable. But he's dead in my eyes. I can never forgive the misery he's caused my family. I've deleted everything related to Michael Jackson. I wish it was that easy with my Dad.