Telling my Mother about my abuse was the worst and best thing I ever did. I still carry that lesson with me to this day- as an adult and a parent. I have pride that at five years old, I had the courage to find my voice one more time. I will never forget my Mother making me feel safe when I was so vulnerable.
The ripple effects of the abuse accusation were almost as bad as the abuse itself.
My mother was broken and immediately took me to the doctor to get examined. I heard her tell the Doctor “her father molested her.” I still remember the examination almost 30 years later.
My family- filled with Military men- openly voiced the hatred for my father and his family. They would say what they want to do to that “sick fuck” for “molesting” his daughter. It was “disgusting”.
My father threatened to take me, so my mother had to inform the school. I was with her when she told them I was “molested by her dad”. I remained fearful everyday that he would show up and take me away. I still have memories of sitting at the big tree in the soccer field. Alone. It faced the street, which meant I would see him drive up and have an escape plan. I did that every day.
My father and his family disowned me. I was a liar and created some “sick” lies against my father.
Every time I heard the words they used to describe what he did, I felt more shame. More self loathing. More hatred.
Every. Single. Time.
It felt like my family was saying I was “gross” “sick” and “weird”. I don’t blame my family. How could they know the impact? I certainly couldn’t vocalize the feelings I was having at that age. My entire family was grieving. They were grieving the piece of me that was stolen. My innocence.
At that point I started on an internal battle with myself. I loved my father. I wanted a father. Maybe what he did wasn’t so bad? Maybe, had I not said anything I would still have him. Maybe, if I was stronger. braver. smarter.
This is all my fault.
This battle continued for years. My mom tried to get me into therapy, but I didn’t like it, so she didn’t push it. The hatred continued.
4 years later my mom found a suicide note to my best friend, Jenn. She took me to a Psychologist, where I was immediately put on medication. My next memory was sitting on the floor of the shower rocking back and forth, but feeling no emotion. I remember my mom saying, “I don’t like this.”
As the years went by, each stage in my life was harder than the last.
I was labeled as the mean kid. I was angry. I refused to allow myself to place the anger on the perpetrator (my father) so I deflected my anger on everyone around me. My mom got the worst of it- everything was her fault.
Going through life as a child with no father is hard. For me, wanting the father that sexually abused me was very confusing and made me hate myself and start to make apologies for my father. After all, there was no way he was born this way. He was a victim. I refused to allow myself to believe people like that are just born that way. (I’ll go into more detail on that one in another post)
Going through puberty and developing breasts made me feel a shame and anger that I still can’t articulate. I was disgusted by my body.
Establishing relationships in life were hard. “I’m not a hugger” became my go to. In reality, touching still reminded me of the time I was forced to be touched when I didn’t want to be touched.
Losing my virginity was the hardest. That was when I realized that my perception of intimacy and sex was shaped by what happened. I didn’t understand why, he only touched me. Its not like he raped me. Why do I feel like a victim, being forced, every time I do any sexual act?
In reality, I learned many years later, that your brain has an amazing survival mechanism. Regressed memories would later surface that would turn my life and what I know of my abuse upside down.