Time To ShareI haven't really talked a whole lot about my past here, but recently, I think I have felt inspired to do so because of the strength of other friends in my circle who have talked about their experience. I think it's important to share, not for the purpose of reliving the experience, but to help others see that they are not alone. That what they are feeling is ok. And to build one another up.
I am pretty sure I was treated well for the first five years of my life. I only have a few memories, but they are happy ones. Sadly, my dad died when I was three of a heart attack. And then at the age of five, my mom died in a car accident, that the whole family was in while on vacation. Along with her, I also lost my oldest sister.
Now an orphan, I was sent to live with people that my mom had instructed in her will that I live with. My new guardians were nice at first. The first memory of abuse was around the age of six from my ( I will refer to him as) step-father. He would touch me inappropriately and come into my bedroom every night and perform oral sex acts on me. This lasted for a few years, until at the age of eleven, I told a class mate what was happening. She in turn told her mother, who called child protective services and they hauled me out of school. I was questioned by them and the police, and I told them everything. I was sent home that night. (my step-father was well known in the city we lived in, and worked for the city) I was chastised at home by my step-mother who yelled that what happens behind closed doors stays behind closed doors! She instilled in me a distrust of everyone on the outside. The physical sexual abuse from my step-father basically stopped there, but he would still pick the lock to the bathroom so he could watch me shower, (I learned to put a towel up on the glass door), look in the peephole in the old fashioned door knob on my room (I covered it with tape), Use a mirror to see underneath my door when I would undress (I put a pillow down in front of the door) and frequently "accidently" expose his genitals to me. So, the mental abuse never stopped because he was always trying something.
Meanwhile, she was extremely abusive verbally, physically and emotionally. She blamed me for the sexual abuse I had endured from my step-father saying that I shouldn't be so affectionate. I shouldn't want a hug, and so on. I was just a little girl who lost her parents, but she had absolutely no empathy. She put on a great show for everyone else, but behind closed doors, she was evil to me. I regularly got the double leather strap, I was hit all over my legs with kitchen utensils until I was badly bruised, hit in the face, beaten in the head with a brush until it broke, and screamed and yelled at, called a ***** and that I wouldn't amount to anything. This was all for infractions such as eating ice cream, or touching her makeup. I was treated like their maid, and cleaned the entire house, did the gardening, mowed the lawn, everything basically except for cook dinner which she did, and then I did the clean up afterwards. I wasn't allowed any friends over, and no tv except maybe an hour on the weekend. I lived in my room when I wasn't doing chores and wasn't in school and read read read. I read everything I could get my hands on.
At the age of thirteen, my three step-siblings (children of my step-father) pressed charges against him for the abuse they had endured over the years. They were much older than me, and were out of the house, but they came to the point in their lives where they needed to do something for what was done to them. I was removed from the home for two years until the sentencing date. He was sentenced to three years of prison. Everyone knew. It was humiliating even though I was a victim as well. Just knowing that so many people knew was extremely stressful. My oldest step-brother committed suicide a few months later.
While he was in prison, my step-mother divorced him. i lived with her until I was eighteen. I am surprised I lasted that long, but she engrained in me that I couldn't live on my own. I believed her until I couldn't take it anymore and left. At the age of eighteen, I was to receive my inheritance from my dead parents. Much of it was already spent. I used what I had to go to college and to support myself and to put a downpayment on a house.
I don't feel sorry for myself. I hate what happened to me, but there is no sense in being sad about it forever. When I add up the years of abuse, it was about thirteen years. I am not going to let those thirteen years dictate what the rest of my life will be like. I refuse to. I have a lot to be thankful for. I ended up with a nice man (yes, he drives me crazy, but he tries) and two beautiful children. I think I did amount to something.