This story makes me cry every time I read it. I am in awe of such strength and resilience and honored to have her story here. The trigger warning here is for a lot of graphic details and the fact that she was a child when they happened to her.
It's been 13 years since I saw his face, although it haunts me everyday, I
have learned that some things in life are to be a reminder of your existence.
The incest started as far back as I can remember: around 4. Although he has
admitted to me that he started sexually abusing me since I was a baby. My only
memory of those early years was the abuse. I don't remember playing dress up or
with Barbie dolls; it wasn't until I was in my mid-teens that I realized this
was NOT normal.
You know, as a child, you're supposed to be taught good and bad touches, that
no one is supposed to touch certain areas with the exception of parents. I don't
remember being taught that. Instead, I was told only he could. It was "our
secret." So I went through my childhood thinking this was normal. I had been
awoken multiple times and bribed with Pocahontas ice cream. The sprinkles were
the best! Of course I wanted some, but only after I performed on him. He would
say to be quiet and cover my mouth so he was reassured I didn't make a noise. We
would then make our way to the bathroom in the dark and he then made me perform
oral sex. Being so young, I, of course didn't know how to do that. So to make it
easier on himself, Vaseline was his weapon of choice. I say weapon because to
this day, I can't even look or touch it without it being a constant reminder of
the abuse. Once he applied it on himself, I was told to hold his penis, with his
hand over mine and when it was close to ejaculation, I was forced to put it in
my mouth. The taste and texture made me gag every time but he said no ice cream
if I didn't swallow. I had to pretend it was good and as time went on the taste
and texture didn't phase me. He told me I did a good job and ice cream was the treat of choice.
As the years went on, my biological father was in and out of my life. He and
my mother divorced when I was very young. I was just told he was abusive and an
alcoholic. I later realized he was more than that.
He was a monster.
A rapist.
A
child molester.
There was another side of him that made me believe that he loved
me. The occasional visits as a child with him turned into living with him around
age 12. Those years (ages 11-13) were my most traumatic.
The molestation turned into rape. I was 12 when it first happened. The abuse
started the same way as it always had, but this time, I was older and more force
was used. I laid there scared, helpless and violated. I was used simply as a
tool to pleasure him. I can remember kids at that age talk about "popping
someone's cherry", I never understood that term, till it happened. My virginity
was taken from me, unwillingly and it left a painful scar for years to come. I
remember pleading him to stop because it hurt so bad. It felt like sandpaper on
my skin, I tried to scream but couldn't. I tried to fight back and failed. My
body was being crushed by his and I felt like dying was better than this, at
least it would have permanently ended this painful experience. This happened
daily and I didn't realize the battle I would later fight.
When I turned 13, my mother decided that I live with her again. I was
relieved to be finally away from my father, at the same time, I felt sad to
leave him. He loved me. I was his daughter and who else would take care of him?
As I look back and think how sad I felt, I now understand how manipulation can
change any scenario and make you guilty. As I was packing up my stuff to prepare
for my move, the monster in my father got worse. I saw a side of him that made
me believe he was possessed. My life was almost taken from me and I honestly
don't know how I survived that night. It must have been my made up prayers to
God, I didn’t know God at that point in my life, but knew something greater was
out there.
Sitting innocently on the couch watching TV, my father after a day and night
of drinking, got into my face and started yelling. I didn't understand what
provoked him to get that way so I tried to turn the conversation around and
change the subject. That didn't work. He walked away and came back with a long
sword in one hand, and a gun in another. I was 13. Scared, speechless, and
begging with all I had for him to stop. He proceeded to put the sword to my
neck, rubbing it lightly back and forth. "If you tell anyone about what I've
done to you, I will kill you." I stood there silent and remained for years to come.
Moving back with my mother was a relief, till one day I decided to open up to
her. Immediately, she took me to the police station, where they took my statement
and tried to prosecute my father. Obviously, speaking up when the rape happened
would have been my best option, but at the time, it was the hardest thing
to do. The police were no help; I was told there was not enough evidence. That
was the end of the investigation. A child molester is walking the streets scot-free. After we heard the news about there not being enough evidence, something
in my mother change and to this day, I am not sure if I can ever forgive her. We
became distant and her priorities were not her children. I was called a whore
and a sick-o for having sex with my father. Her own words made me believe it was
my fault. This whole rape could have been prevented. I told myself one day I
would see the truth.
A few years went by-I am 15 now, in school and somewhat functioning. I hid
behind a smile everyday. At night, I couldn't sleep- I didn't quite understand
why. I couldn't shower without a panic attack and constantly checking to make
sure no one else sneaked into the bathroom. Before trying to go to bed, I had to
check all closets and under my bed. It became a ritual. If I didn't check
constantly, I just sat in one place and didn't move. I feared the dark, It was
like I was a child again. I later found out this was PTSD. My mother decided
that I needed some professional help, and had me try counseling- I just couldn't
open up with anyone. It caused more anxiety in me than helping. So I tried
medication, until one day, decided to overdose. I had enough with all this pain.
I honestly wanted to die. That was my first attempt to commit suicide. That
wasn't enough. I later attempted to hang myself and was unsuccessful. I also
battled cutting for years, finally after five trips to the hospital and in a
psychiatric ward, my mom gave up her rights. She felt I was too crazy and she
couldn't help me anymore. I was transferred to a group home then later placed
into foster care. Some say foster care is the worst thing that happened to them.
For me, it saved my life. I still stay in contact with a family that took me in
when I was 17. Over the years, The PTSD has lessened, honestly it's barely
there.
It's been 13 years.... I am a grown woman. A mother. A wife. A person full of
life. Many question why I am so positive, even during the storms of my life. I
just say because life is too short. I refuse to let my past hold me captive
anymore. Those 13 years of on and off abuse, does NOT define who I am or who I
once was. Looking back, I believe I did the best I could. I am glad to be
sitting here today. I am a survivor. I even failed at taking my own life on
numerous occasions but it's because I am here for a reason. That reason, I am
unsure of yet. However, this story may be why.
I am not a victim. I have a voice and it has been heard.
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