It Happened…
It started when I was about 10 years old until right around when I turned 12. I was still a little girl. I loved playing with baby dolls, I played softball, I was a daddy’s girl, I remember being happy and friendly, I loved school, I made really good grades, I loved to catch lizards and snails, I talked to my teddy bears and thought they were real.
It was…
My mom’s boyfriend. She’d been with him since I was 5, but I don’t remember any sexual abuse at first. It started with emotional, and physical abuse. Then he started to come into my room at night after everyone was asleep. He’d pull off my clothes, and I’d pretend to be asleep every time. I wasn’t sure what was happening. (Later on I learned he was sitting next to my bed masturbating) I knew it felt wrong because I’d have this terrible feeling in my stomach, and I felt so afraid. No one ever talked to me about things like that happening, so I wasn’t really sure. Eventually I told my older brother when it kept happening. He told me we had to tell, but I had made him promise not to tell anyone my secret. He swore he wouldn’t. Instead he started to sleep next to my bed at night to keep him away. But he would only yell at him to go get in his bed. Instead, my brother started to knock on the wall to warn me when he saw him coming. My mom had to work at night sometimes. When she did, he would bring me into their bed and hold me tight against him. Feeling his erection in my back, It almost felt like a threat. I would lay there, heart racing. Again, pretending to be asleep. So afraid. He started to smack my butt in broad daylight when I’d walk through the house. Tell me what a nice butt I was going to have when I grew up, how all the boys were going to love it. He would give me open mouthed kisses. Eventually it started to escalate even more. I’d catch him spying on my sister and I in the bath tub. I became fearful he’d try to start doing things to her too. He even found my diary once, and read an entry where I wrote about what had been happening. He ripped the page out and told me I couldn’t write things like that because if someone found it he would get into trouble. One night my mom thought she saw him come out of my room. He tried to say he was coming from the bathroom, but she knew it was a lie. The next day she asked me if anything had been going on. I lied.
It made me feel…
I was angry, ashamed, embarrassed, confused, fed up, disgusted, and scared. I started wearing baggy clothes, not putting in any effort at school, withdrew from my family, quit softball. I remember my dad yelling at me at one point because I didn’t hug him or tell him I loved him anymore. I wanted to scream “IF YOU ONLY KNEW!!” Now as an adult I don’t feel ashamed or embarrassed, I know it wasn’t my fault. Yet I still struggle so much. I have terrible anxiety, PTSD, depression at times. Becoming a mother was incredibly difficult. I was actually afraid I would molest my own children. His excuse for molesting me was that it had been done to him as a child. I am still fearful every day that someone could do this to my children. Parenting has brought up many triggers for me from my childhood. Being molested has caused many difficulties in my marriage. I have fear of intimacy, trust issues (in all relationships).
I told…
I finally told my mom the truth about a week after she asked me if he was coming into my room. I felt relief, knowing that it wouldn’t happen again. Knowing he wouldn’t get a chance to do it to my sister. It also felt really scary. My uncle was a police officer, so my mom called him and we went to the police department that day. I had to sit with someone and tell them everything I could remember happening (I had a harder time remember things at first). I worried a lot about him, what would happen to him, if he’d get into trouble, etc. I felt really guilty that I told for a while. The police removed him from our home that same day. I believe I was 14 when we finally went to court. That day they informed me I was going to be able to choose his punishment. I think I was still struggling with guilt and shame, It was a hard task. Ultimately I decided supervised visitation, court mandated therapy, and needing to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life would be better than jail time. I got therapy too for a short time. Until they told me at the end of the program everyone had to tell their story in front of the group. I was terrified. I begged my mom not to take me back. I wish I would have stayed and completed the therapy. I’ve gone back to therapy a couple of times throughout the years, but I definitely still feel like I have issues that need to be worked on.
I survived…
I think what has helped me heal is a lot of reading, and self-educating. Being open and honest about what I went through. Almost everyone I know, knows about what happened. Telling people helped me not feel ashamed, and it helped me feel heard. Because, for what felt like so long I couldn’t tell, but I refuse to pretend to be asleep anymore.
I dream…
I would love for there to be more education for parents, AND children about sexual abuse (something in schools would be great). Knowledge is power. Children should be respected when they don’t want to give hugs and affection, even if it’s to family. This teaches them they are in charge of their body. I want parents to know a sexual offender can look like anyone. It’s most often not a stranger, it’s often even another child. Don’t only teach stranger danger. Let them know from an early age the proper names for body parts, talk to them about what to do if a situation were to occur. Tell them you will believe them if they ever tell you something happened, and mean it.
I want…
People who have never been through anything like this to know, this should be something that is talked about more. Not stigmatized. Don’t think we are overprotective, or paranoid. We are grossly aware of something you have no knowledge of, and thankfully never had to live through and we are trying to make sure other children don’t have to survive it too. For other survivors, I want them to know-you are strong, you are brave, and you aren’t alone.
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It wasn’t my father but so much of your story is my story. Telling my story, discovering the power of my voice, has changed my life. Thank you for sharing. I stand with you.