Opening Up No. 3 (when I Was Thirteen)
Today I was informed that I will be able to sponsor my son's education, and medical expenses throughout his life, and with these great news in my mind, and a fabulous future to look forward to, the time has come to share this part of my story, that I had kept so well, and for so long.
From the age of seven on, my grandparents stopped abusing me, and I had many years of peace. Things were as good as could possible be, and I had the most normal childhood I could, counting my personal characteristics, and the fear that had become inherent to me.
When I had just turned thirteen, the nightmare started again, in the shower. He showed up and raped me one day, and did so a couple of more times that same week. He didn't do it again, but I found out pretty soon I was pregnant. The news were sour sweet. It was another secret to have to be kept from everyone, another time he had abused and hurt me, but feeling the baby in me was also beautiful. We were linked immediately, and I have loved him ever since.
Hiding the pregnancy was not difficult, since at the time I was very skinny, and wore very over sized clothes. Also my family never paid much attention to me, or asked about my personal life, and the general environment of negligence made it possible to go as far as the 33rd week. I always knew he was a boy, and was very proud of him. Of course in my mind, I had no clue what would happen when he was finally born, but I dodn't think much of the future back then, so it didn't bother me, as long as I had my baby with me.
One day, I was having a relaxing bath while rubbing my nice tummy, and talking to my baby. Grandfather came inside and grabbed my head trying to drown me in the tub. He slipped and fell down, and I could get out and ask why he was doing that. He said he was very afraid because of the pregnancy, and because "you and I know that creature cannot be in this world, it would be indecent". Indecent? Wasn't it indecent what he did to me all my life? How this child was conceived? And he dares tell me that in the face, refering to my beloved son disparagingly. I slapped him, and asked him to shut up, and he was very enraged, and started beating me, and kicking my tummy on the floor hurting us both badly.
When he saw blood, he got scared, wrapped me in a towel and drove me to the hospital, where my son was born, and of course he had been hurt during the beating. I have a picture holding him there, staring into his beautiful eyes, and feeling very proud of him.
Afterwards, he took him, and I spent the night at the hospital. When I woke up, nurses, doctors, and him said the baby didn't survive, and gave me their condolences. I was of course devastated, I am still... remembering the awful feeling of losing my beloved child.
For me that was the absolute truth all these years, until recently I started reseraching about my past, trying to understand why so many horrible things happened, and found out my son is alive, and was adopted by a good family that loves and supports him. He needs lots of attention, since he developed a serious condition because of the violence he was exposed to, but knowing he is alive, after all these years feels so warm inside...