It Happened….
…somewhere between the ages of seven and nine and continued to hang over my life like a strangling fog until I turned 18 and left the country.
My father and stepmother had spent almost six years fighting to retrieve me from an (itself rather abusive) foster care system after authorities had struggled to pull me away from my biological mother. My mother had proven herself unfit to care for a child. She laced my food with narcotics and once tried to abandon me on the side of a road in the middle of the night. I remember bouncing between two or three different homes and being told that no one would ever come for me. But someone did come, and when they did, everything changed.
The first couple years were more fairy tale than reality. I remember asking my stepmother for permission to call her ‘mom’ and receiving it. I remember bright days filled with love between my father and I. We used to play in the park and read books together. I’d sit in his lap, and he’d help me sound the words out. I remember feeling the warm summer sun on my skin and then suddenly realizing I could feel the same warmth on the inside, too. I’d never felt that way before.
It Was….
…my father. He used to tuck me in at night with harmless things like comforting back rubs. But then the back rubs turned into something else. It happened again, and again, and again. And then it invaded the daytime hours when he and I were home alone and got worse.
At first it was easy to keep me quiet. I didn’t understand what was happening and was confused by the conflicting messages between what he was telling me, and what my instincts were telling me. I believed I would get in a lot of trouble if I said anything; that I’d be blamed as much as he would.
It got harder as I got older. He couldn’t talk me into believing what he was doing was ‘okay’ anymore, so he took to manipulating me into giving him what he wanted with intimidation, gaslighting, and false promises. If I succeeded in denying him, he would often dissolve into rage and accuse me of being pathologically ‘prudish’. He’d periodically promise to ‘never touch me again’ in a tone filled with contempt and rejection, only to break that ‘promise’ some days, weeks, or even months later. After the second or third relapse, I stopped trusting anything at all. He once gave me a detailed description of what would happen to him and my stepmother if I ever told anyone, made it clear that this would be entirely my fault, and then swore he’d make the rest of my life hell.
It Made Me Feel...
…weak. Powerless. Invisible. I learned that I was only worthy of being a part of the lives of others if I did whatever they wanted of me and always met their expectations. I learned that my feelings, desires, and rights only mattered when they didn’t cross with anyone else’s. I was only as good as my performance.
I retreated into myself, and – when I could – from home. When school wasn’t in session, I’d pretend to sleep until 2:00, or 3:00pm, quickly eat lunch, and then leave, taking care to never return until I was sure my stepmother was home. Summer camps and extended trips were a sanctuary of peace. I eventually grew intensely depressive. I withdrew from my friends and was locked in a state of constant anxiety and hyper-vigilance. I blocked as much of the pain and anger out as I could and created an alternate reality for myself that kept me from seeing things as they were and let me believe I was fine so that I could keep moving forward.
I Told…
…no one, really, until a failing romantic relationship pushed me to speak to a therapist in college. I did, once, put out a clear message in a bottle that got the attention of one of my fifth grade teachers. She took me aside and asked if things were alright at home. I admitted that they weren’t, but couldn’t give any details. She believed me and told me she could help, but was very honest about what that would mean. She spoke to me like a real person, let me make a decision, and then respected that decision. I asked her to not call CPS, because the thought of going back to not having a family was more terrifying than the existing conditions. It was the first, and the last time I ever felt I had any power of my own.
I Survived…
…’phase one’, I think. I’m still trying to figure out how to rebuild myself and heal. Two years ago, I broke the silence with my stepmother and confronted my father in person. I gave the burden back to him before declaring my decision to remove myself from his life, and him from mine. It was, by far, the most painful and terrifying thing I have ever done, or can even imagine ever doing.
I Dream…
…of a world where adults are not only more aware of the subtler hallmarks of child abuse, but also more courageous in confronting it, particularly within family units. Any individual who believes it’s acceptable to use children to quench their thirst for physical satisfaction does not deserve to remain a member of that child’s family. That is not what ‘family’ means.
I Want…
…those who have never had these experiences to understand that trying to come up with an immediate ‘quick fix’ for relieving an affected loved one’s pain might not be the answer. Your loved one probably doesn’t need to be saved. What they need is for you to stand with them as they save themselves. They need you to sit down and experience the pain with them so that they know they’re not invisible and alone anymore.
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