Thoughts Of An Innocent Victom

This is my true, honest, and genuine story and I do not mean to offend anyone who is a part of it. I know I shouldn't apollogize, but in my weak heart I feel that is is necessary to continue my story. So I am sorry for what am about to confess because it has not been confessed before now and my soul in blackened with truth that surrounds it and I must say these words.
When I was growing up, I was unaware of the real world around me and for the most part I thought that life was good. That is unitl I realized that my family was living a devastating lie. I was just four years old and had an impressionable mind that seemed not to be the concern of my mother and father. I wasn't the only child, but I do not feel that I should include their story in mine since they are not willing to confess the hardships that they endured during their upbringing. So I will leave out their part, but trust me when I tell you that some of their experiences were far worse than mine.
And so it begins with me telling you that I was brought up in the Mormon Church and thought that my life was like any other child my age. However, one late night my mother and father were arguing as usual, but this time it was different. They sat us down in the living room with my father having his bags packed laying beside him on the couch. The words are vague to me now, but the main points I remember like it was yesterday. He explained that he loved us all so very much, but that he and my mother were getting a divorce.
I know what you are thinking, this is going to be another story about a child who suffered from divorced parents. I only wish that were the case. However, my family had no such luck. What I discovered next was devastating. My father had been molestinng my two older sisters for years!
At a young age I was exposed to things that should not have been in my thoughts. What was molestation? Why was my mother kicking my father out of the family home? Why was everyone crying? Who is this man I call my father? All valid questions, but not the one I was asking. Why did my mother let this happen? was the one racing through my mind. This is the night he left and the night that I started despising my mother. Reading this you should be asking who in their right mind would blame the mother? Please remember that I was four years old and was not aware of the actual circumstances. All I knew was that my mother made him leave and it was all her fault.
I know now that [that] wasn't the case.
Years passed and the suit my mother filed against my father was not successful becasue it was my sister's word against his. Plus his therapist testified in his favor that he was not in the right mind because MY MOTHER WAS NOT PERFORMING HER WIFELY DUTIES! This was the injustice served to my pour sisters. He was released and they actaully gave him partial custody of his children. This was a dreadful conclusion to this part of their lives. The story does not stop here. It actually is just begining.
Only a few years passed before my mother met a man named Phillip who was nice and interesting enough. I liked him for his interst in my mother's children and his love for the stars! My mother was not the best at knowing who she brought into her home with her small children. Phillip had a teenage son named Joel who was straying from his family life as well. With Phil and his son both living in our home was probably the single worse idea my mother ever had. My sister, who I will call Sarah, who is five years my senior and I were the only two remaining daughters in the household as my oldest sister had moved out to go to college. While these two men were living with our family there was a series of events that shocked our world.
When I was only six Sarah told me that Joel, the son, was touching her when everyone was asleep. I totally believed my sister because she had never steered me wrong before and plus, I loved her with all my heart. Every night after she told me about this she made me play games with her when we went to bed. She would say in a playful manner to peak my interest, "Kris, let's see how many layers of pajamas you can wear to bed?" I played along and started to put layer after layer of clothes on my body. I had no idea at the time what she was actually doing. I want to remind you all that my great devoted sister was only eleven. After I put on as many clothes as I could, she then asked me to sleep with her in her bed since we already shared a room. I had no problem with this since she was very comforting and much better than sleeping alone. What she said next will always be a part of my life and I will never know how to repay her. She whispered to me "my leg in your leg". She then explained what this meant. "I'll put my leg down first and you put one of yours in between my other." She was protecting me from her attacker. Later that night Joel entered the room and tried to move me out from under the covers with my sister. Because my sister was so aware of the situation she had prepared for this by intertwigning our legs together. When she felt me moving away she awoke and stopped him from taking me. She sacrificed herself for my sake! She was repeatedly raped by him for years and made me sware not to tell our mother. Even though she tried to protect me with all her eleven years of wisdom, she was only partially successful. Joel molested me on multiple occassions and I had no idea what to make of it. I had not yet experienced sexual abuse until this evil teenage boy entered my life. After the third time being violated, I told Sarah about my encounters with him. At this point she told me we had to tell our mother. We did, however our mother did not believe us at first. Eventually she left the man who had brought into this world the most evil of sons. This was a day to celebrate for we were forever to be safe in our home again or so we thought.
This is the part of the story the I am ashamed to talk about because it means that it wasn't just the females in my family that were violated but the males too. When I was around ten years old, I WAS RAPED BY MY BROTHER! Many nights he eneterd my room without my sister knowing, since for all she knew the "bad man" was gone from our lives. This may have been true for her, but for me my torment was just begining. I actually can't remember how many times this action occurred, but I do know that it was too often. I knew that it was so very wrong, but it was different outing a member of my own family for doing such things. Why would my mother believe this coming from such a young girl about her own son? And so I never told her to this day. I might not be able to tell my family, but I am finally able to tell strangers which I guess is the first step.
As of right now I am twenty three years old, a veteran who signed just after high school during war time, and served a total of almost two years overseas in just four years of service, and currently a full time student at a university. I strive to be the person I would have been if these devastating events did not happen to me, but I am afraid I am falling short. I am currently medicated for depression, anxiety disorder, and a type of social phobia. I am not who I was supposed to be and I am unsure what to do next. My brother has two daughters now and I am afraid that the cycle will continue if I do not inform the right people of his actions. I am also torn between totally removing myself from my family by not contacting them again. I know I have an obligation to his daughters, my neices, to make sure he has no contact with them, but I am afraid of the consequences I will endure from the rest of my family. All I want is for him to suffer just like I saw my father suffer for what he did to my older sisters.
I was actually fortunate enough to witness my father's last breath, his last tear, and his fetal-like position when he went spiriling down to hell's depths. He was skin and bones, looked as old as his father (only 56), and was crying when he left this earth, which I like to think was the time he was being judged by God. The last thing he said to me was when he called out "Katrina!" The bastard couldn't even remember my name (Krista). I would be lying if I said I did not cry during his last breaths, but I don't believe it was because my father was dying, but more because I knew I no longer had to see him and live a lie. He will always be the man who gave me life, but will never be my DAD, my protector, or a respected soul to me.
If only I could witness my brother's same young death. I hope people don't think this is cruel of me to say. We live in a world where death is a penalty for crimes; all I ask is that God himself will help carry out the justice my sister and I deserve.