I've been a member of this community for a year, well, it may be only eight months, but I'm not certain now. And in all that time I've never actually posted my story. I've actually never told anyone my story. I can say it happend, I can even say a little. But I'm filled with such rage about it that I want to stab someones chest until they're sputtering blood. Just so you understand how angry I get.
I've told my husband a few things. First things first, if I'm ever contemplating a lasting relationship with someone, which has only been two people, I tell them I was abused as a child, just so they know. But I've never really told anyone more than that, that was, until about a month ago. I told my husband what I didn't like and reasons behind it, crying my eyes out the entire time. I think he has much more respect for me now, now that he knows some of the details behind it.
I'm also doing this so that maybe I can talk to my soon to be social worker about it. For years all my therapists have said I need to talk about it, but I can't. I don't even remember things. But the last year has gotten really bad for intrusive flashbacks, and I think I'm finally ready to tackle the problem. I want the horrors to stop. Maybe getting it out to a group of people who I don't have to see react to my statements will help.
So it's time for that life-saving LJ cut for the sad story of a child that's been silent for so many years. This is going to be long, so I warn you ahead of time.
I believe I had been abused way before any of these memories. I've buried them for so long that I don't even know when or who did what anymore. I've always had signs of being a victem. I used to have a wetting problem. Not the bed, but my pants. At least every day. I remember the problem, I'd get spanked everytime it happend. I know that that's a sign of abuse, wetting, but never really thought about it until recently. I went back home to visit friends, I live across country now. And two days after I'm back in the same city it starts. Now, as an adult (and even a teen) I don't completely wet myself, but a little leaks. That's the easiest way to describe it. Maybe even a few drops or half a second of leakage, but it's enough to make my panties wet, and it's rather embarassing if others knew. I think the fact that this problem only occurs when I visit home is another sign of something I haven't figured out yet, something I still haven't let rise to the surface.
Anyways. The first time I was ever violated, it wasn't so much a violation, but just a feeling. Because of the above mentioned bladder problem I was taken to the doctors by my mother. They did something to me down there in hopes to stop it. I don't remember much except that I was naked on the table, and my mom was there, he pushed something in the lower regions inside me (not sure where or what) and it was really uncomfortable. Then, later, I was supposed to go to the bathroom, my mother came with. They said I might throw up, I don't think I did, but I felt ill, very ill. Now, I know it's not abuse, but just the same, it was violating to me and my body, especially as a child.
The first time I remember actually abuse was from my older brother. I was around four or five. Heck I may have been younger than that since my dad was gone when I was five and some of these things happened when he was still around. My brother was three years older than me, so I'm sure it was just him being curious, but again, I remember these things, and how uncomfortable I was with them. He'd tell me to do things like touch him. And being the little sister that looks up to the brother I did. I remember one time, we were in a car at my dad's work, he told me to stick his penis in my mouth. Of course I did, I'm only four or younger. And then he proceeded to urinate in my mouth. It made me sick. I threw up. I remember that.
I remember a few years later, maybe six or seven, so now my brother was nine or ten, that he had found my mothers 'plesurable' item. He was always going through my mothers stuff. I remember, since I'm still clueless about anatomy, that he wanted me to touch it and his and decide which one felt better. I remember he touched me with both it and him. I had no pants. I don't think anything happend, just some rubbing. I had no idea what was going on. He used to tell me to touch his friends. I'd do things for these guys. I didn't know anything about it. I even would put them in my mouth because that's what they told me to do. Still to young to realize anything was up.
At about seven or eight, I have a memory of my first 'boyfriend'. Just a term because we weren't really dating. He was my brothers friend and older as well. He'd do things to me, like suck on my nipples. It was just wet at the time. I don't think I knew much then either. He would have us lay together with my shirt off so he could be close to me. I was a huge tomboy so I never saw the difference between having a shirt on or off until I was like ten. One time, we had this huge field by our house where the grass grew up to 4 feet tall, he had me lay naked on top of him. I think this is where I first started to not like the idea. I remember feeling sick thinking about it. It took a lot of convincing before I did it. He rubbed against me, but that was it.
Around the same time my brother tried to have sex with me. He had me against a wall and tried to stick his penis in me. I don't know if it happend or not. I remember it hurt and I was stuck against the wall, I couldn't move. I cried. He said things like that's what you're supposed to do, you do this to grow up, you want to be grown up don't you. I think either he realized that what he was doing was wrong or something because he stopped bothering me after that.
At nine I found out why my brother started to leave me alone. He started getting my sister to do those things to him. She was six at the time. He was twelve. I walked in a few times and got pissed and would literally proceed to hit him. I'd threaten to tell, but he would always bring something up that I did wrong. He'd threaten to tell about me and his friends, even though I was too young to know any better then. He had complete control over me. But I wouldn't let them be alone anymore. I protected my sister, because I knew it wasn't right. I found out, just a year ago, that she's really broken up about what she did as a kid. She didn't tell me spicifics, but she said that our brother used to touch her. I think I know what she means, after all, I went through the same thing with him. She was nearly hysterical since she was crying to hard about it. This was ten years after the fact, and she was torn all up about it. I'm glad I was there though, that way it didn't get to horrible for her.
My brother also beat me. He'd choke me until I almost passed out. He'd leave bruises and then after it all he'd promise it would never happen again. I finally got big enough to fight back, and started hurting him if he hurted me. He stopped beating me around the age of 12. He never touched my sister. I'd stick up for her. I never let another person hit me as long as I lived. It's funny how you learn to defend yourself without any practice. I could throw my little 85 pound body around and make people who were 130 or more leave me alone. I've only had to do this a few times. Even now I don't let anyone hit me or push me around. I can hurt you too. Anyone who's ever tried has learned that.
I believe ten was when I started getting abused by my step-father. I think it was that age because of the time-line of things. We were in the only apartment we ever lived in. But were were in that apartment at nine too. It may have been nine because my youngest brother was born at that time, and I remember he was still a baby baby when it started. Also I was in 5th grade, so I think that means I was nine going on ten. Maybe I was older when it stopped then. I'm not sure.
I was sleeping in my bed, we had a bunk bed because my sister and I shared a room. I had the top because I was bigger, she was still a kid, six or seven. And I felt something grab my foot and yank me to the side of the bed. I don't know if I said anything the first time, I don't know if I woke up and sat up. I don't remember when it really started, but these things are what I remember. These are the worse of the worse, finally warning.
I think he told me to go back to bed. He then pulled off my underware. I wore nightgowns at that time. And then he started touching me. Caressing my sking and mainly my butt. I'd always lay on my stomach during this so I don't think he ever touched my vagina. This went on for a few nights and I started to pretend that I was asleep through it. I don't know why I would pretend I wasn't awake. Maybe so I didn't have to try to tell him that it wasn't ok. I was only nine, maybe I was wrong about everything. I was scared. I remember that. Then it got worse. He started inserting fingers into my (I always am not sure what to say here to make it sound not so childish, or too grown up) rectum I guess. I could say butt. It hurt. It hurt a lot. I'd clench and I think it just turned him on more. This happened for months.
I started trying to protect my self by sleeping all the way next to the wall. Maybe he couldn't reach me. I started tucking the sheets not only under the mattress, but under the boxspring itself so that it was so tight I could hardly move. Maybe that would discourage him. He actually ripped the sheet, I remember because it was my favorite sheet set. My mother still has it, and ever time I see it, with that torn area, I remember how horrible it was.
There were times when he actually crawled into bed with me. He'd stick me on his chest, I was curled into the fetal position. I remember how his hairy chest felt, and how much I hated it, I still do, scruffy hair makes me go homicidly if it touches me. Something boyfriends learned long ago. He was black if this helps why his chest hair was scruffy feeling. He'd have me touch him. He'd put my hand there. He told me to squeeze. I tried to hurt him. I thought that if I left marks maybe my mother would find out. I dug my nails in and, and he liked it. I hated him. I couldn't do anything to make him stop. I'd play dead, pretend I wasn't there. I'd leave my body and see it, all clear in the dark. I'd disassociate, sometimes I don't even remember anything happening, but the signs were there.
I'd think about how tonight I'm not going to be a chicken. Tonight I'm going to wake up and pretend I didn't know what was going on and ask him what he's doing. Tonight I'd say something and tell him how much I hated him. But that courage never came. I'd have it before I went to bed. Then he'd come. And all my plans to stop him vanished. And I'd not be me. Then he'd leave. He never gave me my underware back. I'd get up and find it. I cried, and cried every night. I'd tell myself that I was stupid because I couldn't say no. He'd go in the bathroom, always with the fan on, and be in there for hours. One time I tried to stay awake until he got out so I could tell him I was angry. But a hour and a half went by and he was still in there, I fell asleep. Then I didn't have that anger the next day.
This had now gone on for at least a year. I wasn't eleven yet, so it must have all started at nine. I was so afraid of him because I knew he had a temper. He had hit my mom, the cops were called, then they got back together. This was during the worse of it. Why'd they have to give me hope and take it away. He had broken walls and dishes when he got angry. I wasn't able to stand up to him. I started wearing my cloths to bed. The clothes I would wear for school the next day I wore at night. It's a lot harder to take off jeans than it is a pair of panties. My mother asked why, she complained I'd get all sweaty at night and dirty them up, I told her because I wanted to, it was more comfortable at night, and that it saved time in the morning. I had stopped giving him hugs and kisses before bed soon after it started. I never said I love you to him. I hated him.
I don't remember having much of a childhood during that time. I cried all the time at school and was constantly going home ill. I couldn't finish my homework or sleep enough to be awake at school the next day. I'd ask to go to the bathroom during class and sit there for hours. The school thought I had anger management problems, that I was the wrong doer. I joined everything I could so I wouldn't have to be home. I was in a city sport. I'd walk home instead of ride the bus. I'd lie about homework being done so I could go somewhere else. I hid. I didn't want to live my life. Then it suddenly stopped. I had just turned eleven, I was in middle school now, I thought that for some reason me being eleven saved my life. Like he decided I only had to go through that pain until I was eleven. It was wonderful. I can't explain the joy that I was filled with that I was eleven.
And then the worse of it happend. My sister and I had a mini-slumber party. That's just us laying blankets on the floor and eating popcorn and watching movies, just us two. I woke up because he had pulled the blankets off of me. I had foolishly thought that I could wear nightgowns again since it stopped. He tucked my sister in bed and pulled off my underware. I was on my stomach already. He then proceeded to do what he did every night. This time though, it escalated. He propped me up so that my head and shoulders where on the ground and my pelvis was in the air, I believe I was on my knees too. Pulled me that way because I still thought that maybe I could try to sleep through this, maybe if I just lay there he'll go away faster. We'll he didn't. He stuck his penis between my legs. I don't think he pentitrated. But he proceeded to have sex with me, rubbing against my but and my crotch, between my legs. Hed spit on my to lube me. I don't know if he did this ofter, I can't remember. I think it was a possiblity. I saw it all from above me. I saw him spitting on me. I saw him getting off on it. And me, a rag doll, dead on the ground. I don't know how long it went on, I think it was a while. I don't know if he got off, but I do know that when he was done he didn't even put my clothes back on. He had taken everything off this time. He did that sometimes. And he laid me down in the giant wet spot on the blanket. I don't remember much after that. I don't know if he went to the bathroom like usual. I just remember I was cold, I was cold and wet and I don't even think I cried. At least he didn't touch my sister. I remember thinking that. I crawled into my own bed. Completely violated. Then the same routine started happening again. I was not saved because I was eleven. Eleven ment nothing.
This is when I really started acting out. I was in middle school. I'd miss the bus often so I had to take several hours to walk home. I started hinting at what happend to me to friends. I told my friend that I hated him so much. She had no idea why. One day I wrote a put it down on paper because I couldn't say it. I said something along the lines of him doing things to me that weren't ok, that he'd done it to me in a term 'doggy style'. I didn't write a name, it wasn't even complete sentences, but she knew who because I had said who before hand. She promised not to tell anyone. She was the same age as me, she didn't know what to do either. He mom found the note, asked her about it and she said I wrote it. She told my mom. My mom asked me who I was talking about and what the note ment, (it was pretty indistinguishable) and I said that I was just talking with my friend. We were joking about things. I coldn't even tell my friend, how'm I going to tell my mother.
Us kids hated him because he was mean. We had seven pm curfews during summer. Weren't allowed to stay the night at other peoples houses but once a week. He yelled a lot. Broke things, and made our mom cry. My brother used to always say he was going to run away. Go live with our Grandparents. I think I may have had it worse than the rest. I hated my life. My mother, noticing my behavior asked me, when she was mad at me for something, if I was on drugs. WTF? I was eleven. No I said very pissed off, then I got my mouth slapped for taking that tone with her. My brother did drugs. But I had to be the bad one.
He still came into my room. I was so angry that I wrote a letter to CPS (Child Protective Services). I knew where their office was too because I had a paper route and delivered to them. I made my own envelope to send it to them in. I put my name and who did what and that I wanted to leave as soon as possible. That or throw him in jail. It was a two or three page letter about how angry I was and how I knew it was wrong and how I needed help really bad.
I turned twelve. It was still happening, but more of something I lived through. I don't even remember how many times or how long, this is when I truely began to just black it out. Sixth grade ended. One of my good friends had a end of the school year party which was a sleep over. I got to go. I liked her house. It was safe. She lived with her mom, and her mom was nice. It was in the middle of no where with lots of land and a pond. I wanted to stay there forever. I called to see if I could stay the night a second night. My mom told me she found a letter and needed to talk to me. I knew what she was talking about. I hid it so well in my stuff, but she found it. She said I cold stay. I didn't want to go home, my heart felt heavy, I felt sick. I asked if I could stay the night a third night. She said yes, but we really need to talk about it. I had to come home the next day. No exceptions. So I go home.
She sat me in her bedroom, she sat on the bed, I sat in a chair she brought in, and he was there too, sitting on the bed. She asked me about it, I said I was mad, that's why I wrote it. She asked me if it was true (I hadn't put anything specific in there, just that he'd come in at night and abuse me). I said yes. She didn't want to believe it. She kept saying that she loves me and would kill for me but that he swears he didn't do anything. I sat quiet through most of it. How could she expect me to talk with him right there? She kept suggesting it was someone else, like one of my brother friends. I almost laughed. No, I said, it wasn't them, it wouldn't of happend everynight if it was. She just kept asking if I was sure. I don't think she believed me. I don't think that she would have even believed me if I told her straight out what happend. She always thought so little of me. Years later she would tell me I was her worst child, straight to my face. I never got arrested, like the other two. I didn't do drugs until I was moved out of the house, which I know the other two did. I never got kicked out of the house, I left because I couldn't take the bullshit. I'm the only one who's done any college. And I'm the only one who had a job before I was eightteen. And I'm the only one who never failed a class. And I'm the worse one. She made me feel like crap all the time. And I was always there to do the cooking and cleaning and the raising of the younger ones. Not to mention listen to her grown up problems when I'm not even done with middle school. I'm the worse one, maybe because I wasn't lieing about what happend to me.
She stayed married to him, I think it was for two more years. He had gone away to college about a year after this incident. He didn't touch me anymore. When they divorced, because they weren't really married anymore, he was across the state and they only talked on the phone, she asked if I wanted him to talk to me anymore. I said I don't mind answering the phone and saying hi, but I don't want to talk to him. I think now she believes me. But then I'm sure she didn't. We don't talk about it though. I never wanted to, not after she didn't care. She never pushed it, never brought it up. I remember for so many years I just wished I'd get aids and die and then someone would believe me. I guess he didn't have aids because it's been a decaded and I'm not dead, let alone infected.
When I was thirteen I used to babysit for a friend of my mothers. This lady was awesome, she had the most intelectualy boy I've ever met, he was only five but could hold conversations and play board games. All that good jazz. I got paid a ton for just the night, then I'd stay over because they had a guest bedroom and they wouldn't come home until like four am. One night I woke up because I couldn't breath. I felt the pain in my lungs. Opened my eyes and I was being squeezed. The husband was in my room. I sat straight up, I wasn't going to let my life replay like that. I asked what was going on. He said, while he was getting ready for work he had heard me wheezing, so he came in here to wake me up. Bullshit. Why'd he have a chair then, when the chair was on the other side of the room when I went to bed. Plus, I've never snored in my life, let alone wheezed while I slept and I wasn't sick at the time. I refused to go to bed until he left. I think he was trying to do something to me, and I wasn't having that. From then on I slept on the couch to go home with my mom. I only stayed the night when he was on deployment.
There are other times I think something may have happend to me when I was younger. I know a friend of the families had gone in my room and grabbed underware out of my drawer, then used the bathroom. I don't know why, I assume because he was a sicko like my moms husband. I think that someone in another family may have done things to me. There was one instance where I was staying over there, they weren't my friends, but my mothers friends who had a family and often would watch all us kids (3 of us). They were a mother, father, two boys and a girl, all older than me. Another little boy, younger than me, was staying there too and he had to sleep on the couch because he was a chronic bed wetter. I think I was ninish at the time. I got to sleep on the bed because I didn't have that problem. That night I wet the bed five or six seperate times. I would have a dream that one of the older boys was in the bathroom with me and would want to watch me pee. Or that they would touch me until I had an uncomfortable feeling and started peeing. I was so embarrased. I don't know if she ever found out, I cleaned it up and changed the sheets so many times that night. I think though, that it wasn't just stress, I beleive something may have happened.
I never had a problem with things like this as I've gotten older. I've been groped by men, and I stand my ground. Tell them to never touch me like that again or I'll hurt them. I've been pressured but it's always my choice. I'm not living through hell again, now that I know I can say no. Each year I get stronger and I stand up to more people on what is right and what is wrong. Never again will I be there. I am a survivor, and that's how it's going to stay.
These things have effected my life in good and bad ways. There are things I absolutely cannot stand. There are things about me that I will not stand for. I am strong because of this, because I chose to never let it happen again. But I am weak at times because these things trigger something I haven't fully delt with yet. My anger is my key. If I deal with the issue, and that anger subsides, I don't know if I'll continue to stand my ground and not get pushed into things.
I have to say though, sometimes I hate my sister for not having to endure it. Not that I wish it was her instead of me, no, I wouldn't wish that apon anyone. But I put up with it (and this sounds sad) for the longest time because I didn't want it to happen to her. If I took the pain, then she could be happy. That's how it was when my brother hit me. If I was the one getting hurt then she never did. I did it for her, in a sense. And I get so angry at her because she doesn't appreciate me, she doesn't know how much of my life I've given to her. I know it's not right to be angry. But I gave her a life without all the pain, she should live it to it's fullest and she chooses not to. She finds something else that has to be worse. But, that little thing, that I think is just and inconvience, like loneliness, is the biggest thing in the world to her because she doesn't know it could be worse. Eh, I'm getting off topic here.
There's so much I want to say and explore. There's so much I've learned from re-evaluating these experiences. I now know why I do certain things and why I hate somethings. I'm grateful for this community, because, through your stories I've gained the strength to speak up, I've learned that I'm not completely alone. I know that all those distructive things I've done and think are not because I'm wrong, but because wrongness happend in my life and there wasn't much more I could have done to stop it. I used to think that it was my fault. I never said no. I never told him to stop. I lived with that pain for so long. But I was a child. I was a child that truted someone that should have known better than to ever put me in that position. I didn't even get a choice. There was no decision to be made. It was not my fault.
Wow. That was unbelievebly difficult and took forever to write. I didn't proof read it either, so I hope there's not too many mistakes. Plus, if I left something out then that only gives me more reason to contribute later. I hope no one got discouraged. I've never told anyone any of that. I actually feel light now, like I could float away. It's amazing, you hear of people saying how much better they feel to talk about it, but you can't imagine how it feels until you do the same thing. Thanks for those of you who stuck through it and read everything. I can imagine how difficult it can be.
I suppose that this actually might help. Now that everything's out there, I no longer have anything to hide it should be easier to talk about it. Thank you everyone for being here and supporting me through the good and the bad. I know it seems there is more bad than good in our lives, but it's all on a matter of perspective.
I love you and hope the best for all of you. Thank you again.