Someone believed me!

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.

My Childhood. My Trauma. Trigger Warning.

From conception, my life was interesting and full of suspense. My Mom was unmarried and 20 years old when she learned that I was in route. My father was unemployed and hated by my Grandparents… and my entire family. My Mom hid her pregnancy for 6 months. A few short months later, in late October, 10lb me was born in Los Angeles, California.

I don’t have many childhood memories. I have a few happy ones, but most are connected to trauma.

Until, I was 5, my mother and father had a toxic relationship. They married. They fought. My father sexually and physically abused my mother. My mother was raped and became pregnant with baby #2. Baby #2 was lost. They finally divorced when I was 5.

At 5, I started visitations with my father and his parents at their home in San Bernardino, California. My Mom would drop me off on Friday and pick me up on Sunday.

Mother’s Day weekend, in 1989, my mom dropped me off for my father’s visitation. This was the weekend, my father would sexual abuse me.

Similar to scenes in a movie, I only remember scenes but with smells, tastes, feelings and sounds.

My Father and his parents were smokers. They smoked heavily. They smoked indoors. My Grandfather spent most of his time alone. Drinking. While my Grandmother would watch television and chain smoke. One of my only memories of my Grandmother was her telling me to be quiet and that she hated me. (I was apparently playing with my doll horse too loudly on the mantle)

I still struggle with negative feelings about myself when I smell cigarette smoke.

Friday night, my dad sat me down on his lap to play Nintendo. I was playing Mario bothers. I was Mario. My dad put his hands down my pants for the first time. He rubbed me until he penetrated me with his fingers. He asked me if I liked it. I said nothing. I still remember the confusion and anxiety of that moment in my life. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel right. I don’t like it. I want it to stop. If I say stop, will my dad be upset? If I say nothing, will he keep doing it? If I say I like it, will he stop? It felt like it went on forever. Still…

I said nothing.

The next memory I have is bedtime. I remember wearing a two piece flowery pajama set and my Grandmother turning off the light in the teal room I was sleeping in. Within a few minutes I saw the silhouette of my father standing in the door. He laid next to me and rubbed my back. For years, this would be the only memory I had of abuse. The additional memories would come in adulthood once my trauma was reactivated.

The next memory, is in the kitchen. My Grandfather is cutting ham. I am barely tall enough to look over the countertop. I told my Grandpa, that my dad touched me and what he did. He told me, “that is what a dad does when they give their children a bath. Now, get out of the kitchen”

But. My Dad never bathed me. My Grandma always did.

Telling my Grandma proved just as discouraging. She told me I was an “imaginative child”.

My Mom was there to pick me up on Sunday. I still remember questioning whether or not to tell my Mom. Would she believe me? Was I wrong for speaking against my Dad? Is this my fault?

Did I want this? I didn’t say no or tell him to stop.

What would this do to my family? What would he do to me?







I told my Mom as soon as we got on the Freeway. It was Mother’s Day.

Finally. Someone believed me.

So. I guess I have a Blog now?

Hey YOU! Thanks for stopping by!

So who am I and why do I feel so self indulgent to create a blog AND think people will actually read said blog? Well, firstly, I am a mother, partner and friend. I have a pretty dark and sarcastic sense of humor and use that to get through the tough stuff. My life has not been without challenges, surprises and blessings. I have the unique and unfortunate position to also hold the titles of survivor of childhood sexual abuse as well as a mother to a victim of childhood sexual abuse.

I navigated through the process of my daughter’s journey blindly. I stumbled the entire way. I had mental and emotional breakdowns, resigned from my dream job and probably provided my friends and family with enough drama to write an HBO mini-series. You see, my daughter’s trauma reactivated my own trauma and I had zero resources for all of the fucked up shit that was being put on my plate. (Yes, I said fucked up shit. Also, yes, there will be all the cuss words in this blog.) Every single aspect of my life was now penetrated and taken control over by this trauma and I felt hopeless.

I want to share my story.

My experiences.

My defeats.

My successes.

My goal with this blog, is simple. Share my story and hopefully help people.

  • If one victim finds the courage to speak up and report their abuse
  • If one victim finds therapy in reading my journey
  • If one victim finds similarities in my story and seeks therapy to finally find the healing they deserve
  • If one Parent or loved one of a victim finds an advocate and support in me, through this blog
  • If one human reads this and finds perspective and forgiveness in that one friend who always acts a fool and they just don’t get it

…. then… #nailedit

I hope you find something out of this blog and hope you become a regular in these parts!

There are worse words than cusswords, there are words that hurt.