by Jess
My childhood sexual abuse still haunts me. I fear trust and love. I carry a constant shame. I consider there to be something very wrong with me and feel different and unworthy. I know my past will always be with me. And though it still humiliates me, I can accept it as my own. My story is not unusual. Effects of abuse, especially of sexual abuse, are strong and long-lasting. Those effects change -- no, warp the next generation. We cannot comprehend why an adult who was supposed to love and protect us would hurt us at all. Even as adults, we feel no control in our lives, so we brand ourselves victims.
Looking back, I know secrecy is the problem in combating abuse. If no one tells, it continues. That is how it was for me. My parents had been abused. Then they became the abusers.
I was barely three when my father started touching me. Initially, it was playful and soft. Soon, though, it frightened me. His breath would come in short heavy bursts, reeking of gin. "Doesn't that feel good, honey?" he'd whisper, with his hand in my pants. I'd nod to please him. But my heart was pounding, the room was swimming, and I was absolutely terrified. I couldn't believe what was happening. In later years, I was forced to perform oral sex on him. During our episodes, I became an expert at not feeling. Living two seperate lives, I was a carefree young girl in one, and in the other, I kept dirty, shameful secrets. I thought this was how every other little girl lived at their houses. By the time I was five, I didn't know who I was, I couldn't feel anymore. When I looked in the mirror, I didn't recognize the child staring back. I had no idea what I had done so wrong. I thought, 'I deserve punishment. I must be a very naughty little girl.'
"No one will believe you," my father would tell me, "or they'll think you're crazy just like your mother." (and she was) He threatened to kill me first and then himself if I told anyone our secret. It was a heavy burden for a small child to carry. I tried telling my mother in indirect ways. I believed she could read my mind, but did not care. She spanked me often and tried to mold me into the perfect daughter, a role I still have not fulfilled. I had frequent nightmares and night terrors. I'd wet my pants because I had lost touch with my body and didn't know I had needed to go. I drew a picture of my father when I was four. It clearly depicted my father naked, with male genitalia scattered all around him on the page. My mother only laughed when she saw it.
Obviously, my clues were not alerting her, so I decided to tell her. I had to tell someone. Looking down at my nail bitten fingers, I told her, "Daddy touches me sometimes and makes me touch him too." Well, she yanked my arm hard and hissed in my ear, "If you ever tell a lie like that again, you're going to die." I was stunned. She washed my mouth out with soap, and sent me to my room. I quit telling after that.
My parents divorced when I was eight. For me, it was a blessing and a curse. The greatest relief was not seeing my father daily. But now I had to go visit him three times a year, for two to three weeks at a time....alone. My mother remarked many years later how I came home a different child. I would not speak and I would cry off and on for two weeks, but would never tell her why. Why would I tell her anything? She hadn't listened before.
I began using drugs and drinking around thirteen. I needed anything to numb the deep pain I carried with me constantly. I felt alone and couldn't trust anyone. At fifteen, I attempted suicide. I was hoping for some caring, compassion, possibly some help. I should have expected the response I got. "You're only doing this to get attention and embarrass me. You just want to be crazy to hurt me," my mother yelled, so close she spat in my face.
I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital and was finally believed when I told my story there. I entered a sexual issues group and learned that I was not alone. I stayed three long months, but it changed my life, and my thinking. I learned how to feel again. After staying there, I found enough strength to end all contact with my father. I don't know whether he has any remorse, but I do know he's lost his only daughter forever.
Now I have a husband who loves me and cares very deeply about my safety and well-being. He has worked very, very hard to earn my trust and been patient throughout my healing. We have three great kids, who I taught early on that nobody can hurt them in any way. Their bodies are their own, and they have the unquestionable right to say no to anything that makes them uncomfortable. They know they can tell me if anyone ever tries to do anything to them that makes them feel bad. They have learned to listen to that "uh-oh" feeling, the one I had been taught to ignore. They know they can tell me anything and I will listen and believe.
I am breaking this cycle. I will not carry on this destruction. I continue to struggle every day. I know my healing will be a life long process, but I know I cannot give up on me, not only for myself, but for my family as well. Some days I think of deleting this page, afraid my mother might see or someone I don't want to may come across it..... but I still have to be brave and fight for the little girl in me that nobody fought for when she was in need. I still self-injure when I am overwhelmed, but have worked very hard on that. I have my good days and my bad, just like anyone else. I guess I just wanted to share my story with you. :) Thank you for taking the time to read it.
