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About Jason Campbell

copyright 2010 comidacomida

Jason Campbell; you've probably heard the name if you're really big into political media, or if you're familiar with the term 'Burb Dog'. I never really meant to make a name for myself... it's been more about finding ways to make the world a better place than anything else. A lot of people think about ways to improve the world; I just took the next logical step and started talking about it. That makes a difference I guess when it's such a heated topic.

There's a lot of information here I want to cover, and some of it isn't pretty. Because of that, I'm not going to discuss names or exact locations since plenty of people involved might want to remain anonymous. If I do talk about names, it's because they are people who are aware that I'm doing this, and that they both support and encourage me and the viewpoints I express during my segments and at my speeches. I'm doing this because I feel that people have a right to know why I say what I say, and why I feel the way I do.

See... I didn't plan on being an activist when I was growing up; I didn't really have any plans at all beyond getting from one day to the next. Nobody's family is perfect, but some have more challenges than others. I was blessed in that my family wasn't poor. We didn't have to scrimp or save and making ends meet was never much of a challenge. I had both parents, and didn't come from a broken household in that regard... but I never felt 'at home' when I was home; I didn't feel safe-- I didn't really FEEL at all.

Hmm... you know... I can't help but feel that what I'm feeling now is a lot like what I felt when I used to go to therapy. It was my parents' idea. Things weren't easy at home because my parents spent most of their non-work hours drunk... both of them. I learned at a young age how to help keep the household running, and how to stay out of their way when they were at their worst. Apparently my emotional release was school, where I was 'not a nice boy' with the other kids. When I bit a girl for taking my red kick-ball, the school stepped in and held a conference with my parents. The therapy started the following week.

I'm not exactly sure how my childhood compared with a 'normal' childhood; who's to say what's normal? What I do know is that life continued to be a combination of drunk parents, taking care of all the chores they couldn't and didn't do, going to school, and going to a therapist. My parents thought that 'normal' was a very important vibe to give off because 'normal' is what everyone should aspire towards. They didn't drink on work days until after they got home, so they were able to set on a 'normal' face for everyone they worked with... but without any alcohol to blot out the time at home for me, I had to work harder at it.

Life continued that way until my parents decided to move. It wasn't so much a decision as a necessity though, because three therapy sessions a week put a pretty big strain on the family budget. My parents felt that therapy was a good thing for me; I didn't object because it was time for me to be away from them, and someone was able and willing to listen to me talk about anything and everything I wanted to talk about. It was cleansing... being able to open up like that and tell someone every little thing. I wonder if maybe that isn't a little about why I'm taking about this stuff now.

But that's getting off track. My whole point in talking about the move is because we went from an upper-middle-class neighborhood, which was just at the top end of my parents' price range, down to a lower-middle-class neighborhood... or, if you're familiar with the semi-illegal red-lining practices of most cities, it's the place where all the middle-class Dog families are coerced into moving. I know-- I'll try to keep the political statements to a minimum, but if you ever drive through the suburbs San Diego, you'll see what I mean.

I was almost twelve when we moved, and it took awhile to get used to the new neighborhood and the new school and the new people and the new cultures that were all around me. Ever since I can remember I've been exposed a little of everything regardless of human or Dog, skin color or breed... but there, I think my family was MAYBE one of four human households in the entire subdivision. It made for a more interesting childhood... especially because I had become withdrawn and aloof by that point, barely talking to my parents, and not really talking to anyone else except my therapist-- we still drove half-way across town so I could see the same one; my dad thought some consistency would be good for me.

The next big event in my life is one I've never really talked about, except to my parents and my Dog, JD (and then swore him to secrecy). I think it's important to be open and honest though, especially when you have any degree of fame... even if mine is marginal and topic-specific. I was thirteen when I first had sex... and it was against my will. I was anally raped by one of the Dogs in my neighborhood-- he was sixteen year old rottweiler, and his friends watched. They laughed when we ended up tied together, and walked off, leaving him stuck to me behind a cinder block wall out of view of everyone.

It took twenty minutes before he managed to slip free and during that time he was whispering threats and growling promises of horrible things if I told anyone about it... not that I planned on it considering the embarrassment and shame and feelings of helplessness. I just wanted to be free of him and run and hide... maybe curl up in a corner and die. After his knot softened enough that he could pull out, I remember smelling the musk and the blood. I remembered shivering and curling up into a fetal position. He stood there longer, even after getting his shorts pulled up, staring at me. He knelt back down, and licked my neck... then left.

The return trip home was only three blocks, but it felt like a few miles. I was in a daze, and didn't realize I was visibly bleeding through my underwear and shorts. When I got home I figured I'd go into my room and change... or shower first... I remember really wanting to shower. My mom was home, and was just starting in on her drinking, but she wasn't far-gone enough to miss the red seeping through my shorts. That moment might have been the closest she had ever been to being a mom since she started drinking.

She didn't let go of me until she found out what had happened. I told her to just let it go, and to forget anything happened-- that's what I wanted to do. She let me shower, and helped me pick out new clothes for the rest of the day. She spoke about it with my father when he came home later. I was in my room, but I heard them talking about it. They started their drinking again after deciding that not doing anything would be the best decision. They would keep it quiet and let everything continue as normal... because normal was good. They knew I wouldn't say anything because my mother already heard that I wanted to forget about it. That was healthy, right? They reaffirmed before my next therapist appointment that the "interaction" (as they put it) with the dog didn't need to be discussed-- they made me swear that I wouldn't.

For the next few days I remember feeling abandoned by the human race... like I wasn't really a part of it. I was just an onlooker seeing things happen that didn't include me-- that didn't concern me. I was numb to most of it. My therapist said that it was a coping mechanism... I overheard the conversation my parents had with him. He gave them a number to call for a psychiatrist. I remember my mother objecting, saying that psychiatrists perscribed medicines a lot of the time and that she didn't want her boy becoming a pill-popper. I knew her well enough at that point to tell it was one of those 'normal mother responses' that she needed to act out; social norms had to be preserved, after all. They promised him that they'd consider it.

The rottweiler and his friends cornered me again the following day. They laughed and jeered at him, asking if he was going to get stuck to me again, but he shut them all up and said that he had a better idea for me. It was the first time I ever had a penis in my mouth, and the first time a Dog had me swallow. The other dogs patted the rottie on the back and again, went off on their merry way to whatever important teen hangout was on their list of things to do after sexually abusing an abandoned member of the human race. The rottweiler didn't follow them right away though... once his flesh was back in its sheath, he knelt down next to where I was sitting, staring down at the ground, head hung forward.

"Hey..." he said to me. I didn't respond... I was trying to will myself into a state of amnesia. I remembered that I'd read something about the brain being able to block out memories... and I think I was trying to get it to do that. I don't know much about anyone else's experience of being sexually abused, but I know mine left me numb and feeling even more alone. "Hey." he repeated, grabbing my hair and pulling my head up so that I would face him. I didn't meet his eyes. "If you don't like it, you shouldn't be such an easy target... man-up, kid."

Man-up. The rottweiler told me to man-up. I didn't realize why he said it to me at the time. It felt weird, that kind of interaction from someone who was sexually abusing me... talking... it was foreign. Nothing made sense for me, but I knew enough not to talk to my parents about what had happened... I wasn't going to talk to anyone about what happened. After all, things needed to remain normal. Normal was good-- normal was right. Normal, though, wasn't meant to be. A week later, the Dog caught me on the street again, near the same corner. This time, though, he was alone.

"You know how this is gonna go, human... you rather do this here, or behind the wall?" he sneered, motioning to the cinder block wall with his muzzle. I walked behind the wall and took down my pants. He came around the wall and went to unzip his jeans... and my fist caught him on the side of his muzzle. He laughed, "Is that all you got?" I tried to fight, but there wasn't much point beyond that. The rottweiler was far more powerful than I was, and he reminded me of that fact for the next five minutes. By the time his knot was inside me, I couldn't help but sob. I realized that I was going to be the rott's plaything until he grew tired of me.

The strangest thing happened though as we lay tied that day... he started crying too. I didn't really know what to think, and the whole situation felt... well... I don't know what I felt... but it wasn't the usual feelings I had-- because I didn't usually have any feelings. And then, things just started coming out of him... he started talking to me like I was a real person, not just a toy. He started confessing things, like the fact that his mom was dead and that his dad was not a nice Dog. He told me that his dad always told him to 'man up', which is where I guess he got the idea to tell me.

His knot stayed hard for awhile... almost a full hour, and he never stopped talking. It was like his body knew that he needed the verbal release more than the sexual one. He explained that he and his friends saw me walking often enough and one of them got it in their heads that I would be a good target for 'some fun'. 'Some fun', he called it... at that point I was too stunned and numb to be angry. I would have been angrier with him later except for the next words that came out of his muzzle.

"I'm gay." he said to me.

It's an odd thing to hear from someone when you're not-quite-fourteen... especially from a 16 year old Dog with their knot inside you. It was the 90s, so it wasn't at all THAT crazy to assume that a teenager was exploring their sexuality, but the simplicity of the admission betrayed the significance and I understood it even then. More so than humans, true homosexuality among Dogs was (and still is to a degree) considered a great flaw. I do make a differentiation between TRUE homosexuality and 'casual play' for a reason.

I know you've probably heard some of the stories that Dogs are more open-minded about that kind of thing and that they can occasionally 'mess around' with the same sex... it's true, but to them there's a bit difference between 'messing around' and having a 'relationship'. I'm not saying it's fair... it's just the way things are in their culture (which is a little to complex to sum up in a single paragraph, so I'll just move on).

The rottweiler had told me it started out as 'some fun', but I came to understand exactly what it was... he had found an outlet for certain emotions... expressions... needs. He decided that I was going to be that outlet and I didn't have a say in the matter. Shortly after I made that realization his knot finally loosened, and he pulled out from me. It wasn't quite ready to release, but he didn't bother waiting. It hurt, and I cried, remaining face down on the ground as he left. "It's just me from here-on out." he told me, "My friends lost interest, but I'm not done with you yet. If you say ANYTHING... anything at all... I'll probably kill you." the words were said with a snarl.

I'm not sure if I believed him at the time, but I did what I was told. Nobody found out. I'm honoring his wishes even today... I haven't said his name, and I don't intend to. I suppose in some ways it was an eye-opening experience for me... my first understanding that people are more than they pretend to be. He was as much a victim as an offender. It wasn't a good way for him to cope, and he ended up victimizing me. He knew it was wrong, in the end... three months later he killed himself. His dad was a cop-- he used one of his dad's guns to do it.

The suicide was the talk of the entire neighborhood... a cop's son killing himself. There was a note and everything... I heard that it talked about all sorts of stuff, but it never mentioned... well... what he told me. To this day, I'm not sure if anyone else ever found out about that. At the time though, I remember feeling... something. It was weird, and I still don't know how to explain it even now. I felt bad... like I'd let him down somehow.

After over ten years of experience between then and now I can look back and see why I felt that. Although I didn't realize it at the time, I was able to peek into that rott's real nature and see that he didn't like what he was doing... or at least how he was going about doing it. He hated himself... but at that time I could only think about the fact that I hated him... and that I hated myself for not hating him as much as I thought I should have. If I had known more about Burb Dogs then, and certainly if he had been exposed to the sub-culture, he might still be alive today... and I still feel bad about that.

I suppose it DOES sound strange, I guess, the victim of sexual assault feeling bad that their abuser committed suicide, but looking back at it, I can't help but feel how things might have been different if that rottweiler and I had met under different circumstances... if we'd... well... all I can do is shrug because what happened happened. It was my first real exposure to a Burb Dog, even if neither of us knew he was one. Very few Burb Dogs are like he was... a minority in the subculture called 'The Bad Dog'... but that's getting off topic. What that interaction did to me and for me, though... that was unforeseen.

That rottweiler helped me realize that, despite the negative introduction to sex, that I was interested in and could form some very powerful emotional connections to males... and to Dogs. Looking back I see that it was a bad thing to tell my mother and father. It was, in fact, around that time that my parents finally decided that a psychiatrist would be a good thing for me... as long as "we keep that whole 'rape' thing to ourselves". "We" did, of course. The psychiatrist was happy enough to treat the symptoms without understanding what was really bothering me. I think I liked him less than I liked the rottweiler, and felt okay with that.

For the next few years I lived life at a mid-level... no real highs and no real lows. I suppose it wasn't a bad thing being devoid of any real emotion since most of the emotions I seemed to experience were the negative kind. It gave me time to dwell more completely in my head and go over things logically without the nagging feelings that often accompanied it. I don't know about anyone else that's ever been on medication before, but I remember really distinctly feeling like I wasn't myself, but more like myself than I'd ever been. It felt 'better' for a time, but it's not something I'd ever want to repeat again... especially because, looking back, I realized they weren't better-- they just 'were'.

I was on the 'controller medication' for about a year and a half. During that time my father got a promotion and was transferred north to Los Angeles County, and my mother managed to find other employment up there too... so we moved. In a way it was starting fresh-- my parents decided that me heading into high school was a chance to begin everything anew, and the new therapist I saw (cheaper, and unable to prescribe medication) helped them come to the conclusion that I should try and live life without being in a drug induced stupor.

Emotions came back... feelings and thoughts that I had been living without. It, along with being introduced to a new high school, was a little overwhelming. It was a lot to process and I spent a lot of time finding the best ways to overlook them and keep them from interfering with what I had been told was 'real progress'. Sometimes the emotions were confusing; I felt happy about bad things and felt bad about good things... kind of like I felt I need to be punished, or that I had to be guilty when positive events came my way. I didn't really understand it all at first, and wondered if I ever would.

And that's when I met Jack Daniels... no... not the whiskey... the Dog.