Anonymous's Story

I have my earliest memories of my father, molesting me. From the information I've been able to piece together the sexual abuse started when I was only two years old. The memory is as vivid as if it happened yesterday. I was walking past the bathroom door. My father was sitting on the toilet, and called me in to him. He took off my diaper, sat me on his lap facing him, rubbed his penis against my vagina, and asked me if it felt good. I started to cry, and he told me to stop crying, it's ok, daddy loves you.

The abuse lasted for fifteen years. My father wasn't the only one to violate me. My three older brothers were abliged to follow my father's example, along with two uncles, a cousin, and various friends of one of my older brother's. The older brother that brought his friends over for me to "put out" to was also physically violent. Several times I was subject to his rage, and sadistic appatite, and there are some things he did to me that are still too traumatic to remember.

I did finally turn my father in to CPS, not for myself at the time, but for my younger sister. I had become pregnant by my father. He told me that I had to have an abortion. No matter how I pleaded with him, and said that I wanted to keep the baby, he wouldn't hear of it. As the fates would have it, I miscarried shortly after. In hindsight I know it was a blessing for both of us, but at the time, abortion or miscarrage, it didn't matter to me. My baby was gone forever. From then on I became noncompliant to my father's wishes. It didn't matter anymore what he did to me for saying no. Often times he wouldn't let me eat. I had the same clothes for the longest time, and he forbade me go anywhere but school. I hated where I was and who I was living with. I made plans to run away from home, until my father sent one of my older brothers to kidnap my younger sister away from my mother. He was going to use her as a replacement for me, and I could't leave my little sister to endure what I had to, so I turned my father in. My brothers disappeared out of fear of being turned in too. After spending six hellatious months in foster care, the county saw fit to return me to my father. My sister was sent home to live with my mother. I stayed with my father for another year and a half. I couldn't take the abuse anymore so . . .

I finally ran away from home to live with a friend's mother. I thought I was running away from being abused at home. She said that she would keep me safe, only to find out that the woman I ran to had the same ideas my family did. I stayed with her for four years because I didn't know where else to go. I was seventeen when I moved in with her, she was fourty-four.

When I finally left the woman I was living with, I became emersed in religion, using it as a protective shield. I started seeing my family again. I did love them, and wanted them to love me too, but in hindsight I realize I was begging for the scraps of affection they would give me. You see, I wasn't the dutiful daughter, and didn't keep my mouth shut about my family's dirty little secret. My step-mother minced no words in letting me know that I was in the wrong for telling on my father. While trying to win my family's approval, I did over the next several years learn how to take care of myself. I learned a profession, and had a good job. I had made the decision that distancing myself from my family was a good idea, and moved out of state to advance my career. I loved my new job, and thought I had it made until . . .

One day in October, 1991 I got a phone call from the older brother who was not only sexually abusive, but sadistically violent. I hadn't spoken to him for twelve years. To this day I don't know how he got my phone number, but that one five minute phone call set in motion a set of events that I would only wish on my perpetrators.

It was as if someone had pulled the rug out from under my feet. My life became turned upside down. Everything that I thought I had sucessfully gotten away from came back to me in a tidal wave of emotions I didn't want, or understand. I went from a happy, vivatious, energetic young woman, to someone who was battling the full onset of PTSD. I had it all . . . the flashbacks, the night mares, the loss of appetite, the struggle with suicide, but the worst for me was the depression. I didn't want to do anything anymore. Not the religion I was so acustomed to, not my friends, hobbies, nothing. I was able to still go to work, but my coworkers noticed a drastic change in me right away. I felt so lost I didn't know what to do. By the following February, I was in therapy.

I spent the next five years relearning how to live. For those of you who have been in therapy, digging up the past that you tried so hard to run from is necessary. Again, the effects of an experience I would reserve only for my perpetrators. I can say with assurance it was the most awful liberating experience of my life. I was fortunate to find a talented mentor to guide me in my journey. Week in and week out she would hold my hand while the nausiating past unfolded, and I looked at it for what it was. An unspeakable tragedy that happens all too often to children. I learned that the abuse wasn't my fault. I actually believe that now. I learned that not only was I loveable, but that I could love in a healthy relationship. I learned to value myself. I learned that it's ok to set limitations and boundries. I learned to enjoy life and all it holds out for me.

I have since become a mother. One of the richest rewards I will ever know. My mentor told me that the greatest joy, and the greatest sorrow I will ever feel will be with my children. She was right. After my son was born, I held him and I cried. I knew I could kill with a clear conscience. I vowed to keep him safe. He wasn't going to have to endure what I went through. I was successful for one year and ten months. I needed a babysitter so I could work. The woman came with the finest recomendations, and I called them all. I interviewed with her three times, and did two home visits. My son was with her for a week and a half when he was molested by someone while in her care. My greatest nightmare had come true.

I don't blame myself for what happened to my son, however, I do blame the system for their unwillingness to persue allegations by young children. Yes, my son was very young, but he was able to tell me that certain body parts hurt. At first I thought he might have had an infection, but the sudden personality change was very telling. I couldn't even undress him without him screaming "no no no hurt penis! No hurt tushy!"

I found myself back in therapy. This time it was for myself and my son. I had to win his trust all over again. Maybe I didn't blame myself, but he did. I put him in that awful situation. I have to say, that the greatest anger was due to not knowing who put their hands on him, and having no closure to seeing the person punished. I did however take the opportunity to tell the babysitter that I was aware of what she allowed to happen to my son, and I called every one of her references, and told them also. I made it known in the community that she was an unsafe enviornment for children because of what she allowed to happen to my son.

From that time to now, I still am not quiet. I attend the Take Back The Night rallies and tell my story. I mentor other women survivors, and do my best to support them in their recovery. My best friend of many years has for the past couple of years, endured the resurfacing of the repressed memories of her ordeal. I've had the privledge of standing by her in her struggle to reclaim herself. And if my son ever remembers what happened to him, I will stand by him and see him through too.

Though it's been seven years since I said good bye to my mentor, I still hold dear everything she has taught me. I still ritually take care of myself and am teaching my son to do the same. I value the people I have in my life(none of which are my family of origin). Dispite all it's trials and ass aches, I can say with confidence, I'm so glad I didn't die that day when I really wanted to. Life is a hoot, and I'm taking it for one hell of a ride. I wish the same for all of you who may read this. Perhaps in my sharing my story, I've been able to give a little inspiration to someone to keep going. I know you have given inspiration to me just by being you, and not giving up. Thank you.

-Anonymous

I was raped (I think) in May 2000 by someone I knew - an acquaintance. He offered me a ride home from a club but took me to a house he was looking after instead; I was a bit annoyed because I had a lot of stuff to do the next day and I'd wanted to start early, but I didn't want to seem ungrateful so I didn't say anything. There was only one bedroom at the house, and only one bed; I was shy about sleeping in the same bed as him so I kept my clothes on. He started touching me; I asked him to stop; he carried on; I got freaked out and started to cry, so he said 'I don't want to look at THAT while I'm having sex' and put a pillow over my face and carried on. Is that rape? I didn't fight, I don't know why. Maybe because I didn't feel like I had any right to say what happened to my body? Maybe because I didn't want to seem impolite - after all, it was his house (sort of)? For a long time afterwards I only felt gratitude that he hadn't killed me - I thought he was going to smother me - because if he had then people would eventually have found out that I'd been raped, and I was just so embarrassed. I didn't want anyone to know, and I really don't think anyone would believe me. I'm not even pretty so why would anyone believe that he'd want to have sex with me?

I was celibate for a couple of years afterwards and then I started seeing this guy who very quickly put pressure on me to sleep with him. I thought I was fine so I did, but it was awful. I hated it but I made myself do it; every time I felt like I was punishing myself, forcing myself to have sex when I really didn't want to. I wanted to cry and throw up, I felt panicky and terrified, and eventually I told him what had happened, just so he would leave me alone. He took it very badly, and I just couldn't stand to be around him once he knew, I felt like all he saw was a victim, so we broke up.

What I want to know is, how does anyone who's been raped ever have sex voluntarily again? I have a new boyfriend who I just adore, butI don't know if can I tell him what happened. Do I have to tell him? I am so afraid of how he'll react - poor guy, I sometimes think that no matter how he reacts it'll be wrong - and I'm so afraid that I won't be able to face him once he knows. I don't know how honest I can be with him about how I feel; I'm not good at being vulnerable. I don't want to cry in front of him, or show him how weak and feeble I am. I hope I can figure these things out, because I really don't want rape to be the end of my life. I've made it this far, right? So maybe I can go a bit further.

-Rachel

MY BROTHER WOULD COME INTO MY ROOM AT AGE 10 TILL THE TIME THAT I WAS 15 OR SO AND RAPE ME AT LEAST 2 TIMES A WEEK IT WAS SO TERRIBLE !! i WOULD JSUT LAY THERE AND PRETEND THAT I WAS A SLEEP AND I REMEBER THE FRIDT TIME IT HURT SO BAD BURNED SO BAD . BUT HE THOUGHT NOTHING OF IT HE WOULD MAKE ME HAVE ORAL SEX WITH HIM GROSS!!! AND HE WOULD DO IT TO ME TOO THEN HE WOULD TELL ME THAT I DISGUST HIM AND THAT IT\F I EVER TOLD HE WOULD KILL MY CAT / ADN STUPID ME BELIEVED HIM SO I KEPT MY MOUTH SHUTiF I HAD MY PERIOD AND HE COULDN'T HAVE SEX WITH ME HE WOULD MASTERBATE OR SUCKS AND PALY ON MY BOOBS IT WAS SO DEGRATING!!! FINALLY HE MOVED OUT WITH MY FATHER AND THE ABUSE STOPED IT GOT SO BAD AT ONE POINT I THOUGHT THAT I WAS PREGNANT SCARY !!! I HAVE NEVER BEEN IN A RELATIONSHIP SINCE THEN HAVE NO USE FOR MEN AND NEVER WILL THEY SAY TIME HEALS ALL BUT I DON'T BELIEVE THAT FOR ONE MOMENT!! THE SCARY PART IS NOW HE HAS 3 KIDS OF HIS OWN AND 2 STEP CHILDREN AND IT JUST SCARES ME TO DEATRH THATS HE DOING SOMETHING TO THEM .WELL THANKS FOR LISTENING TO MY STORY TAKE CARE EVERYONE

Mary

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