Here's the thing, stuff gets stuck in
my head. You know when a song is on repeat in your brain, playing
over and over again until something else replaces it, or you finally
get home and play the annoying song just to free your mind. We've all
had that, I'm sure, but for me it's also events—memories—past
crap, that gets stuck with the repeat button on. When I recall a
memory it sticks around for an undisclosed amount of time.
If I'm lucky it's only for a day or
two. Other times, like now, it lasts for months. It flutters around
my head, dancing here and there among my daily life. Settling for a
moment is out of the question, because if I don't keep my mind busy
the memory lands. It settles itself in the forefront of my mind, and
the awful effects of trauma come flooding back.
Am I avoiding? Sure, you would too. I
know I need to deal with these problems—memories—past whatever,
but I'm tired of crying. I'm sick of feeling hurt and betrayed—of
remembering all the messed up shit that happened to me. I'm now
teetering on the edge of acceptance—real acceptance.
Up till this point I took what happened
to me with a grain of salt. Sure I felt upset. . . hurt. . . all
those things, but it was only skin deep. I minimized my trauma so I
could survive it, but now. . . now I'm starting to see it for what it
really is. I'm slowly coming to terms with the enormity of it, and
boy is it giant of mixed emotions. I'm not there yet, I can't take it
all in. Instead I'm standing at the edge of the cliff, waiting to
take that last step into air. Until then random memories will keep
buzzing around in my head, I'm hoping by sharing this one with
everyone it will give me a little peace—a moment of rest—in my
insane life.
Here we go!
We have all had our parents yell at us,
and you can judge the level of anger based on how they say your name.
For those of us with nicknames a full first name isn't too bad. A
light growling and we are on our way. Whatever we did to get yelled
at, we'll probably do again. First full name and middle name. Uh-oh,
whatever happened things are about to get ugly. If your mother/father
then pronounce your full name; first, middle, and last in the heat of
anger without confusing you for your siblings. . . RUN!!!
Shit just got real. There's about to be
some major consequences for whatever you did.
I've been to all three stage in my
life, on many different occasions. Hell, it felt like I could never
do anything right growing up. However; the spring of my fourth grade
year (because I only remember things by school year and seasons), I
witnessed a new level of anger from my mother. . . Silence.
Calm, calculated silence.
After school in early spring I stopped
to play at my friend's house. They lived two blocks down from us, and
I had to pass their house to get to and from school. It was a
perfectly normal thing for me to stay there after school. More like
hide there. Anywhere was better than home. The year of fourth grade
was a hellish one for me, more so than any other. It's so bad that my
mind won't fully let me remember everything that happened that year.
It's strange. I can see pictures of me at that time and not remember
the moment it was taken. There I am, smiling but I can't recall
anything about that time.
I remember school, my teacher, that it
was the year I fell in love with The Phantom of the Opera, and how
excited I was get to the fifth grade the following year. I remember
being bullied at school for the first time in my life because I was
now 70 plus pounds heavier from staying with my Nana over the summer,
but recalling things from my home life. . . blank. . .for the most
part.
Then there are those times, which are
too awful, not to recall. Like that day. As I innocently played video
games with my friends my mother showed up, which was odd. If I was to
head home she always called, not randomly show up. She knew where I
was. It wasn't like I disappeared on her, though I often wanted to.
Something about my friend's house was beneath her. Maybe it was the
poor state of the house, not dirty just needing some repairs, or the
fact they were lower class than us. I didn't care, I never did. I
though my friend and her family were wonderful, loving people. I
enjoyed every minute of being with them. It didn't matter if her
mother was a single mom with three kids, I believed her to be the
greatest person in the world. She loved her kids, took very good care
of them, and was a stable figure in my life. A truly amazing woman.
Dani (my mother) shows up, demands I
come with her and when I saw her face. . . Oh man! I knew something
was wrong, and the way she looked at me. . . Stone faced, dark eyes,
and a hidden glare that chilled me right to the bone. Yep, I was in
trouble. . . BIG trouble. Problem was I didn't remember doing
anything. Dani didn't say anything either as we got into the car, and
right away I noticed my baby brother and sister weren't with her.
Since she was a stay-at-home mom that was odd. Another thing to add
to the frightening moment. When she pulled the car into traffic I
stupidly asked, “what's wrong, mom?”
To which I got a steely calm reply,
“nothing. Just sit there.”
Fuck, I messed up. Whatever it was I
didn't think I would survive this level of furry. I was dreading
seeing our house two blocks up. I knew the second we were behind
closed doors things were going to get. . .ugly. For all the abuse I
suffered at her hands, my mother hitting me was something that didn't
happen very often. My stepfather had no problem with beating my ass
red, but Dani only put her struck me a handful of times. Probably
because she knew I feared her temper more than anything else. On this
day I knew my ass was going to end up red, and only my ass if I was
lucky. If I knew what was in store for me. . . I would have jumped
out of that car and ran! Compared to what was about to transpire, the
Circus was a very appealing opportunity.
There was a small hint of relief when
we reached the block before home, and Dani turned down another
street. I was confused but extremely re-leaved we were not heading
home. I was safe, for now. You can imagine my confusion when we
pulled up to a doctor's office a few streets away I had never been
to. Yeah, sure I got sick as a kid but not enough to see a doctor.
Plus we had just moved to the town the summer before, not long enough
to need a visit. My anxiety eased a little thinking my mother had
scheduled me an appointment I forgot about, and maybe her awful mood
was due to my stepfather. Dani being pissed off and grumpy over
asshole CJ was a common thing back then. It's still fairly common,
but when they lived together it was a daily, sometimes hourly, thing.
I happily went along with her, Dani
still silent as we checked in. We didn't wait long, which I found
odd. We were rushed back to a small office where they took my weight
and other standard things. Other than what was about to happen to me
the other thing I remembered was waiting in that room—Dani and I
were alone waiting for the nurse to return to take use to another
room.
“Wow, a 100lbs. You're really getting
up there. Congratulations.” Dani said with extreme sarcasm and a
twisted sneer.
Up till the summer before I was your
averaged sized child. Healthy weight, lean, active. Then Dani sent me
away to my Nana's (the one she ripped me away from) for the summer.
Most of the summer. She didn't want me around for house hunting and
the move to a new town. Ya know, so I don't get in the way or
anything. That was fine by me, I loved my Nana. Problem was her
neighborhood became an elderly community, and all my old friends were
gone. I stayed and played inside while my Nana feed me junk food. I
ate Burger King everyday! Mainly because I wanted the new Lion King
toys. Yeah, that's how long ago it was. Lion King had just come out
and I loved it. Needless to say I grew a lot that summer
(physically). When I returned home none of my cloths fit and I had
digestive problems, along with pain in my knees from carrying extra
weight. None of which Dani cared about. She would tell me to stop
being dramatic when I complained about my stomach or knees. I wish
someone had tough me about nutrition, or would have explained what
was happening to my body at the time. I went from a healthy average
little girl, to a big fat blob of a person. Even my stepfather made
fun of me for my weight.
Like I said, that year of my life was
hell. Now, back to the story.
To recap, mom is pissed. We're at a
doctor's I've never been before, and I'm now over 100lbs in my fourth
grade year. That would make me about age 10 or 11, and over 100lbs to
which my mother rudely commented on. From there things went. . . I
can't say south because what they did to me—what my mother and
doctor put me through—dear god. I still feel violated till this
day.
Dani, I get doing this too me. She was
out to teach me a lesson. A messed up lesson, but a lesson I needed
to learn in her mind. The doctor though. . . How. . . I mean. . . Why
would you do this to a child, and the nurses. . . Why did no one
speak up? Why did no one stop what was about to happen? Those
questions haunt me. What transpired in that office makes it hard for
me to face the world and believe there are kind, brave people out
there in the world. Sometime I only see the ugly, and who can blame
me?
We were lead to another office like
room, and I was stripped out of my clothes and put into a paper gown.
No one explained what was happening. I was forced up onto a table and
my legs placed into these big strange looking metal things
(stirrups). To say I was scared wouldn't be accurate. I was
terrified! No one was saying anything, no one was easing my fear. It
was simply me, terrified little ten year old me laying there. Being
forced around like an object.
The old man of a doctor spread my legs
and told me to breath, but I still had no idea what was going on.
There was only four people in the room; me, Dani, the doctor, and a
nurse, but felt crowded. All of them looking at my naked crotch,
spread and on display for them. Lord it was uncomfortable, but I
would take that over the pain I felt next. Without warning the doctor
placed something into my vaginal opening and spread me. A small
clicking sound could be heard over the silence in the room, and with
each click my vagina stretched more, and more, and more. I was being
ripped apart, and the pressure I felt inside me was confusing and
painful. . . oh so painful. When I started to move my legs from the
stirrups in protest the nurse forced them back into place while my
mom stood over the doctor. A scowl on her face with her arm folded as
she watched.
The agony lasted for what seemed
forever, and I thought for sure I was going to split in two. Damn did
it hurt. I can still feel it now as I sit here typing this through
tears. Yes, I'm crying for the little girl that was me, being
violated by a doctor and my own mother. After an eternity the doctor
stopped whatever he was doing, the nurse released my legs, and Dani
and doctor went off to talk. The nurse stayed back to help me redress
since I could barely stand up. Everything between my legs hurt, and I
was fighting back the tears. I knew crying would only piss Dani off
more, she hated it when I cried. I didn't want to give her any more
fuel to use against me. Silent, confused, and in misery I dressed. In
anguish I sat in the car cursing every bump in the road the jolted
me, my vagina on fire from whatever that man had done.
When we got home Dani forced me to use
the bathroom which was. . . pain isn't even the right word. I could
look through a thesaurus to try and find one to accurately describe
what I felt, but there isn't one. I image what I felt was what young
rape victims feel, the damage was the same and in away that doctor
did rape me. By request of my mother, no less. I didn't manage to pee
much, too much pain. Afterwards Dani and CJ barraged into the
bathroom, both with eerily calm expressions. I was forced to sit on
the hard lid of the toilet seat, all but dying from the pain, while
the confrontation of the lifetime went down.
First they asked if I knew why I was
going through this. I answered honestly, “no.”
“Everything you do has consequences,”
Dani replied. Damn if I never forgot that statement.
“Okay.” Timid broken me responded,
still not understanding.
“Now it's time to tell the truth,”
my stepfather jumped in, but it didn't change the fact I had no idea
what they were talking about.
What had I done?
It took a long circle of questioning
until Dani finally filled me in on what happened—oh what I had done
so wrong to deserve that level of humiliation, pain. . . punishment.
By late winter in my new school my
teacher had noticed changes in my behavior. Other staff had noticed
to, while the town was a small red-neck area I have to give the
school credit. They really stepped up on the matter of my abuse. They
spotted it right off, and sent a counselor to talk with me. Once she
found bruises on my arms the visits increased. She would come and
talk to me alone in the art-room because that's where I felt most at
home. At first I told her nothing, then I started to open up about
what was happening at home. How angry my stepfather would get, how my
mom would yell at me when he wasn't there to yell at her. I told her
about the way they grabbed my arms and jerked me around the house, or
how I was expected to never be around when CJ was home. (He was often
annoyed with me for no reason).
After a month or two of talking I
confessed something to the school counselor. My mother would often
tell the story about her boyfriend kidnapping me when I was around
the age of three, and holding me for a few days. Ending on how she
stabbed him in the back when she found me safe at his mother's, and
how the police arrested him instead of her. I figured she liked to
tell the story because it made her out to be a hero, but really. . .
What mother lets a guy like that close to their daughter?
Anyways, I altered the story for the
school counselor, and told her I was raped during the time I was
captive. It was a lie. I wasn't raped when I was three. I didn't even
remember the abduction, but some kind of sexual abuse was going on.
The signs were there in my current behavior, so the counselor did the
right thing. Made the school aware and contacted my mother. Not my
stepfather, but my mom. That's what had pissed Dani off so much. The
fact I talked about the possibility of being raped as a child. The
idea that I fingered her a bad parent for letting someone take
advantage of me.
The doctor visit was to confirm if an
average adult male's penis could fit into me when I was three years
old. It was also to inflect pain so, “I would never lie or accuse
any man of sexual abuse again.” As Dani later explained it.
I sat there crying, gasping for air
while both Dani and CJ told me to stop. They lectured me on how I
could ruin a man's life by accusing them of such awful things. I was
told we never talk to people like counselors or anyone at school
about sexual things, or any family business. Because people take
things out of context. In short, the woman I called my mother and the
man she married spent over an hour victim shaming me. I ten year old
they just violated.
No, Randy, the man that kidnapped me,
didn't rape me at age three. He never didn't anything that I knew
about. Instead of asking the question on why I lied they further
abused me—violated me—shamed me. Till I would never speak a word
of anything or anything. The words sexual, abuse, rape would never
come out of my mouth. I trusted no one outside the family. Not even
to the therapist the school wanted them to take me to. I kept quiet,
but I was being sexually abused. Only the person was far closer to
home, in fact he was living in the same house.
There were people that picked up on it.
Not just in school, but that didn't matter. That summer we moved to a
new town, a new school, and I had learned my lesson. We don't talk
about things that happen in the family, we tell no one. Mother is
always right, and daddy can do no wrong.
I was raped by a doctor by my mother's
request. Yes, I see it as rape. Whatever he did could not be confused
as an exam. It was sick, and twisted. Then I was shamed for speaking
up about those who abused me, then raped again by my stepfather. I
mean, the damage to my vagina had been done. He could hide it now,
and no one would believe me. I was simply a little girl looking for
attention. A child who made up stories, and I suffered alone. I
survived by pushing these memories far beneath the surface, but now
they're returning because I need to face them.
When people find out I disowned my
mother they look sad for me, and say things like, “oh it won't last
forever. She's your mother. You guys will reconcile.”
Fuck no!
The woman who raised me—who did these
awful things to their terrified child—is not a mother. Dani is a
monster. A sick twisted thing that crawled out of the depths of hell
to torture, and the one thing that pisses me off more than all these
memories? The fact that people like her, that people praise her for
her work. How wonderful of a person she is. No, no. It isn't fair,
and I have to accept the fact that I'll never have justice. It kills
me inside knowing the people who hurt me the most will never face any
punishment. Instead I suffer. I live with the memories—the trauma.
But, damn, if I'm still not here.
Fighting everyday for something beyond these events. Life is worth
living, even if it sucks. Darkness and pain doesn't last forever.
#VictimShaming #Rape #SexualAbuse
#SpeakOut #StandUp
~Jax~
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