Just a reiteration here-please be advised this blog contains adult content. it will range from emotional to slightly graphic. Please do not continue to read if you're offended by this material.
I've put this off long enough. I have only one more day of my long weekend left and I haven't blogged at all. And I have no excuse, really. I just don't want to deal with what I'll be going over tonight. I don't want to relive that. But as a bit of forewarning, if you're sensitive to rape/abuse please don't continue to read unless you're sure you can handle it. I don't want anyone having to deal with flashbacks-I still struggle with those. I do however want to get this out and move on with the blog-I'll only be covering this one time.
Before I get started, I do want to mention that I talked to my sister this weekend. She ships out tomorrow, and I'm glad I said my peace before she left. As always, she was perfectly understanding and supportive. I told her about the blog, told her its purpose and how it was going, and then told her I wasn't giving her the website address until I was finished with the past. I don't want to inadvertently censor myself to keep from hurting her. She was perfectly fine and actually encouraged me-"You do what you gotta do Sis, it's time for you to heal." She said it didn't matter if I ever gave her the web address, said there was nothing I could say here to hurt her because it's done and over with. She also said that even if Mom did find out about it later on down the line then that's just too bad. Yeah Mom would be hurt/angry/possibly livid and may never speak to me again, but I'm finally doing what's right for me. I love my sister. She's the best person I've ever known.
I'm not going to build this up, make it anything like a story. I don't think I could even if I tried. Apart from the social worker assigned to my case-who was nothing short of an ill-tempered bitch-I've never told anyone this much detail. I didn't tell her all of it anyway, because it seemed like she didn't believe me and had more important things to be doing. And I'm not putting it all out there-I don't want any perverts getting off reading about what my daddy did to me should they stumble across this. No, here I'll be addressing my feelings. How it felt...I've NEVER told anybody that before. I've only discussed the cut and dry aspects.
The events here happened before I ever even had a boyfriend. I had never had the chance to experience what a lover's embrace should feel like, what being touched by someone you love (or even lust after) should feel like, what a kiss should feel like. I'll go into more detail later, but it took that innocence away from me. Not it-*he*. My damn daddy took that away from me. And it's only one of the multitude of reasons I hate him.
**ABSOLUTELY DO NOT READ FURTHER IF DISTURBED BY RAPE/ABUSE SITUATIONS**
Sometime in middle school-I believe it was 7th grade?
I don't remember why I was the only kid at Mom's that weekend. They were all gone somewhere, I don't even know where. Mom and Dad's bedroom was at one end of the house, the four of us kids shared a room on the other. For some reason I had fallen asleep in the living room. Mom was asleep on the love seat, I was on the couch. When I woke up, my bra was on the floor. My pants-maroon jeans-were unbuttoned and pushed down to me knees. And he was there. I could feel him behind me, pressing into me-such a repulsive feeling, I can still feel it. His hands all over me...on my breasts, my stomach, my ass, pressed inside of me...and his damn breath in my ear. I'm haunted by it. I've never been able to escape that memory. I felt so dirty, so used. I don't remember how long it took, but it seemed like ages, and I was just there, frozen in time. I waited. I tried not to move. I kept my head facing the couch because I could hear Mom moving, not but maybe 10 feet away. I didn't want either of them to see my shame. And when it was over things were fuzzy-it's like time sped up. I ran into the bathroom, leaving my things in the floor. I locked the door and scrubbed my face at the sink. I vomited over and over, then would return to scrubbing my face. It was red and raw and tear-streaked...in the mirror it was slightly blurry because I didn't have my glasses on, I had just left them there. I remember how I looked-terrified, hurt, and angry all at once. I remember thinking the reflection was a different person. The figure there with the distorted features, that couldn't be me. I grew numb, just standing there staring at myself. I had never paid any particular attention to my face before. Now I saw myself for what I was-ugly. I hated myself.
Then came the knocking at the door.
"Beth honey are you okay?"
Of all the low-down, dirty things I'd heard my Daddy say, I hated him for that single sentence more than anything. And it was hate, pure and simple. I'd always feared my father, always been smart enough to at least try to stay out of his way, but that night is when it turned to venomous, passionate hatred. I managed to choke out a single "yes," then sat in front of the door until he went back into the living room, hoping that if he tried to force his way in my weight would stop him from entering. Once I heard the springs of the couch squeaking under his weight, I closed my eyes and bolted for my parents' bedroom-it had a lock, and I could change into Mom's clothes. I never wore those maroon jeans again-or any colored jeans for that matter. They weren't fashionable anyway, but before that moment I had never cared about anything like that. I hid in Mom's room all night, sitting against the locked door and wrapped up in a blanket. I didn't sleep.
Once the sun came up, I showered and woke Mom up, taking special care not to wake Daddy. He was a very heavy sleeper and it was common practice not to rouse him. I just used even more caution that day. I told Mom I had a lot of homework to do and got her to take me home early.
I continued on my normal routine. I didn't speak a word of what happened for nearly a year. I had never been so happy that my siblings and I all shared one bedroom in that trailer. I eventually buried myself in homework and band and being at friends' houses so I didn't have to go to Mom's.
Dad didn't say anything either. I generally avoided even being around him, but also did my best to never make eye contact with him. I began getting gifts for making straights As (which I had done my entire life)-a $150 Pink Ice Barbie, a $75 Grecian Goddess Barbie, an $80 Glenda the Good Witch Barbie....that was uncommon for my parents, especially since he wasn't working and she worked at Taco Bell. Hell, our Christmas was provided by the Salvation Army that year. I recognized the gifts for what they were. I still have all of them-those three are still in my bedroom. I paid dearly for my silence, and I'm keeping the damned dolls to remind me NEVER to do that again. I don't care who likes it. I don't care who likes me. Damn them all, I am who I am and I don't regret it.
I was never the same again. Mamaw found my box of suicide notes shortly after I had come forward...but I hid the attempts well. I began to cut myself-I know now that I was doing it incorrectly, but I didn't yet have the internet or any other method of looking it up. I was so young-it was 7th grade, so I'd have been around 12 years old. I was 13 when I started counseling, I know that much, and it was over a year after the fact. At any rate, I was certainly too young to feel that way about myself. I hated myself-sincerely, truly hated myself. I still feel the effects of that hatred-I've worked really hard to get rid of it. I do self-affirmation exercises as instructed by prior therapists-you know, where you look at yourself in the mirror and tell yourself you're beautiful, intelligent, fun, etc.-but they don't work so well. Not when the self-loathing is so ingrained. I wanted to die. I couldn't keep the memory of his hands out of my brain. And it would happen at the most random times-a friend would put their arm around my shoulders, someone would bump into me, someone would talk about their father-and boom! flashback. I've never really liked the word flashback. It doesn't accurately describe what you're experiencing at that moment. I have relived that night countless times. RELIVED it. Physically felt it, mentally replaying the scene, and going through that emotional tunnel. I say tunnel because it was like I was trapped there-I could see the light but it was so far away, and it was such a small area with the walls closing in. I might not have mentioned this yet but I'm severely claustrophobic. I don't like tight spaces or being amid big crowds of people-I'm so afraid that they'll bump into me. Generally, I don't like being touched with the exception of my family and loved ones. Its hard for me to even think of that night without having a panic attack. It's like I'm stuck there all over again, pinned between him and the couch. I was never-EVER-alone in a room with my dad again, you can be sure of that.
I can't bring myself to go forward with this tonight, can't talk about the night I spilled my guts to a friend and how it all came about. This has emotionally drained me. In a way, I do feel a little better. I'm gonna go recuperate a little-I might write more tonight, maybe tomorrow. The hardest part is done.
And to my "father," wherever you may be right now-I survived, you bastard. You did not break me. I am stronger in spite of you, have made myself into a good, decent person. You will never know my children. You will never know the strong, beautiful woman I grew to be. You will die a miserable, lonely death to match your miserable, lonely life. F**k you, old man. F**k you.
my favorite Green Day song-dedicated to Daddy Dearest
You're just a f**k
I can't explain it 'cause I think you suck
I'm takin' pride
In tellin' you to f**k off and die
I don't really know what to say, or if there's anything to say. What you describe is horrifying. The act, the crushing loneliness, the denial of your experiences and the fear of ever sharing them again. I can't say I empathize, because I know I'll never understand.
ReplyDeleteThat said, I love you, care for you, and I'm so glad you're still here. I'm so glad you feel safe enough to open up. I'm so glad you have survived and are surviving. I feel like this ought to be obvious, but at the risk of affirming the blatant, it's important to me to tell you that I believe you, that what happened to you was unequivocally terrible and wrong, and that I have an unwavering faith in your goodness as a person.
Past that, as meaningless as it is to say it, I have a fierce desire to do more with the acknowledgement that there's not really much I can do. Except, perhaps, listen. And I'm certainly not going to stop doing that any time soon.
Thank you-a million times. You say you feel like your belief in me should be obvious, but to me, belief is never obvious. I don't take anything at face value-a paranoia rooted since childhood prevents me from doing so-and very few people have ever believed me about my story (I'll be getting to that soon too). So for you to tell me that you do believe me, that I'm being honest and that I'm a good human being-that means more than anything anyone could say. It may seem small to other people, but that's HUGE for me.
ReplyDeleteAnd you listening has helped me in ways you could never imagine. People at work and in my family have seen a change in me-I'm very proud of myself for finally breaking my silence.
You helped me start finding my way through this. You helped me find an outlet, you help me push myself and really feel it as I get all of this out of me. For your help, I cannot say thank you enough. Much love to you in return darling.