Out of all the pages I've included in this journal, this is the hardest for me to write. It talks about my *******'s treatment towards me when I was too young to judge whether it was right or wrong. Of course, I now know that it was wrong. I try to detach the memories from my mind, constantly pushing them away because I cannot bear to feel them. It is too distressing. In some ways I have deserted the child I was as I cannot tolerate the images of suffering that she has to endure day in and day out. In other ways that child is very much alive inside me and I'm trying to stop her crying, but because I can never forget, the tears keep on pouring from her eyes.
My ******* sexually abused me. Still I feel uncomfortable writing those words. I am in no doubt that the abuse happened but it was only when I was thirteen that I realized what he did was abuse. Before then it was …….. it was life, my life. Instead of being hugged I was kept at emotional distance, instead of being listened to I was ignored, instead of being encouraged I was made to feel worthless, instead of being shown love I was given nothing and instead of being a happy child I was a sad child. That is just the way it was and I didn't really have any reason to fight against it as I believed it was how every child was treated. I even loved my ******* which with all the things he did astonishes me, but I can remember that feeling of pride that he was my *******. I suppose this was the result of mental abuse, years of manipulating a young mind into believing that what is being done is right and for your own good. My ******* was good and I was bad - that was my child perception of the constant abuse, a child view that lived into adulthood causing years of guilt and shame.
Instead of 'abuse' the word I feel is more appropriate for the ways in which I was mistreated is 'cruelty'. Cold hearted cruelty - although I am not sure whether my ******* has a heart at all. The cruelty was constant but there are images that stand out more than others. These are the ones that revisit me again and again in flash backs that cause me to regress back into the body of a whimpering child. I hate them, I hate that the events in these flash backs actually happened, but however deep memories are buried, they always resurface sooner or later. And somehow they seem to gain strength until they become as clear as the animated screen of a horror movie.
I did not cry, crying was for babies. I have since made up for these suppressed tears and still grieve for a stolen childhood.
The less obvious ways of causing me distress, without me realizing it was actually intentional harm, are too many to list here. He forced me to eat food I did not like and served quantities that were far too large for me to manage. I often wonder whether he ever thought that his actions were wrong or whether he was born with a twisted mind that enjoys watching others suffer. He certainly never cared about anyone but himself and had what I'd call an unhealthy obsession with horror films and murder novels. Anyway, I do not like to psychoanalyze my ******* as his profile always seems to be too similar to criminals who calmly commit horrific crimes against human kind.
So where was my Mum when all this was happening. Well, she was never far away, but definitely not in the next room. She should have started worrying when I began sleeping with naked dolls.
I turned the water on as hot as I could because I felt so cold inside and I scrubbed and scrubbed because I felt so dirty. I think I was in there for well over an hour. With my skin red and hot and raw and prone I was still soiled. Today as I'm sitting here, lot of years later, I still don't feel clean.
I never really forgot about it. Still I pushed it in the back of my mind and tried to move on. I changed...I would do whatever I could to not draw attention to myself. I wanted to kill myself. I would walk home from school with tears in my eyes wanting so much to never have to face anyone ever again.
I want so badly to hate him. He not only sexually abused me, but he killed me as well. Everything innocent and new in me was replaced by cynicism and bitterness. I miss who I used to be so much. Sometimes I think that part of me isn't dead, she's just hiding in some deep corner and she's scared of being hurt again. I want to find her. There was so much good in her, and I'm scared that without her there's no good in me. He affected me in every way, to the core--emotionally, physically, spiritually. But I still can't hate him. What did someone do to him to make him do this to me?
It's killing me inside. I'm so sick of it being the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last thing I think of when I go to sleep. I don't want to cry myself to sleep anymore. I want to be able to sleep all night without a nightmare. I want to be able to go on a walk alone without a panic attack. I want to believe that not all men are rapists. I need to believe that sometimes people have sex when it isn't rape.
Some days are okay; some aren't. I'll be fine, but then the rape suddenly hurts more, suddenly I can feel him and smell him and hear him. I'm all-alone. I know I'm not all-alone, but I'm still all alone.