A Doctor Raped Me At My Mom's Request. . .

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~

Struggling

I woke up this morning, and sluggishly rolled out of bed. Showered, took my hand full of medication, and downed some water. I'm dressed and ready to start my day, and that's a big deal because I don't want to be around people right now. I don't even want to exist at the moment.

Outside everything is gray, clouds cover what would be a clear blue sky. The world is damp and muted, it fits my mood perfectly and makes it even harder to walk out that door this morning. The other day I came within inches of harming myself, it would have destroyed my year long streak of being kind to myself. I didn't, if anyone is worried. Instead I powered through the awful emotional trauma that had crawled it's way back to the forefront of my mind. I suffered the pain I should have felt when I was ten, and relived, in part, one of the most awful years of my life.

That's the thing about being a kid and living in awful situations. You don't have the skills to handle them at that age, the only thing you have to fall back on is instinct. Raw animal reaction, and that reaction is to survive by whatever means possible. Subconsciously you would do anything to take away the unbearable trauma, pain, abuse. . . Even if it means burying those emotions—reactions—deep within yourself, leaving them to feaster into unhealthy habits.

It happened to me. I live with these, 'cooping' skills that are destructive in nature. At thirty-three I'm learning how to live all over again, and right when I think I have a handle on things—when I believe there are no more awful things to recall—I get slammed by memories. My mind thinks, “Hey, you're feeling better. Here take this!”

The bastard.

I'm not ready to talk about what I remembered, but when I am—when I'm ready—to fully face that year of my life that I only recall in pieces. Then. . . then I'll post it here. Until such time know that this is what my depression looks like. . . This is how I became the strong person everyone tells me I am.

I suffer. . . I live beyond horrors most would surrender to, and honestly—in truth—I don't know how I do it.

I would like to tell you that I have some greater cause or reason for hanging on. Something like, I don't want my abusers to win, or I want revenge. But it's none of those. For some reason—some mysterious reason—I won't let the darkness drag me under. Maybe I'm just that stubborn. I wouldn't put it past myself, but know that when you grow up with abuse, trauma, awful events. You don't live them once and then they pass by never to be heard from again.

They return, over and over again. . . In your happiest most productive moments—when you head believes you can survive the flood—they return, and challenge your strength and resolve once again.

Today I'm battling, and that will be my life forever. A battle between past and present, of now and then. My abusers will always be with me, but I'm determined to make them nothing more than harmless phantoms.

#Abuse #Fighter #Warrior #Struggling #Memories

~Jax~

Lunch Shaming

Lately there has been a lot of talk about kids being shamed for not having lunch money. Okay, not lately. This kind of talk tends to come in waves along with bullying in school. These are big topics, ones I feel our lawmakers should be talking about instead of what stupid thing Trump is tweeting.

I know people read the articles going around social media, the news, and net and for those that have children it hits them deep. Then there are those of us who don't have children, but feel a little binge of sadness in our hearts for these kids. Well, I'm about to make you feel more than the passing, “Oh, that's a awful. Poor kid.”

While I don't have children, and don't plan to have any, stories about children being singled out or shamed in school hits me deep. Throughout my life I've been to over ten different schools. . . Yes, you heard that right.

TEN different schools.

It wasn't abnormal for us to move every one to two years, which always meant a new school, new friends, and a new system of rules to learn. It wasn't fun, by any means, and while I tried to stay positive the consent changes wore on me. Enough about that though, what I want to focus on is the lunch shaming tactics that most schools use to punish the kids for their parents lack responsibility.

I've been to every kind of school you can imagine, private school, public, religious, and each one has their own ways of doing things. When I was younger my schools didn't serve lunch, we always brought our own. However, in my Catholic school we did have snack-time. Which was AWESOME!

Why, you ask?

Because we were living in a Philadelphia at the time, and if you had a quarter you could buy a fresh soft pretzel for snack. They were delivered every morning to the school. Soooooooo, good!

Now, I wasn't one of the kids that didn't have my quarter or didn't have my lunch, but there were a few kids that never seemed to have anything to eat. School policy was to feed the starving (Catholic school and all), so the staff would come together and make sack lunches for students who parents couldn't afford to send them with lunch. We helped each other out, and even other students would share parts of their lunch with those that had none.

I have always had my reservations about Catholic school. There are things they teach I don't agree with, but in the bigger picture it is truly a beneficial schooling system. I wish I would have stayed at my school, because what was to come in later years was. . . a nightmare.

Shortly after I ended up in a rural public school system, and while it was public school it was still a small community and they took care of everyone. If you forgot your lunch money or you didn't have any you still got lunch, and the office would put a call into your parents. That's right, they settled the debt with your PARENTS! It was never left up to us. Besides, the lunch laddies were too nice to not feed a kid.

Seriously, they would give me an extra bowl of peas when that was the vegetable of the day because they knew I loved peas (and no one else seemed to eat them in school).

And this whole, “You don't have lunch money so go clean a table.” Was something that never happened. In fact every grade assigned two students every month to be lunch hands. We would head down to the lunch room early for the first lunch service, and our job was to clean the tables between lunches. We had our own special table to sit at, and we often got extra lunch for helping out! Being assigned for lunch duty was an honor in my school. Everyone wanted to do it, and it taught us responsibility.

But on my next move—my next new school—I experienced what happens in the bigger world when you don't have lunch money. You have to sit and watch your friends eat. Starving, you sit there watching them shovel food in their mouths because their parents can afford to send them with money. This is of course is after you waited in line with your friends, and then had the lunch lady tell you in the nastiest of ways, “No money, no food!” And snatch your tray out of your hand. No compassion, no remorse. Then you witness that whole tray of food dumped in a large trash can, and you are forced to walk away—all eyes on you because the woman made a scene of it—holding back tears as you slide into a seat. No lunch, no pride left because the entire school knows you wouldn't afford lunch. A simple thing, and you don't deserve it because. . . money.

As your friends arrive at the table with their lunches, trays full of tasty food that you are dying for by this time, you laugh off their questions as to why you're not eating. You say, with a bright painful smile, “I'm not hungry today.” When in truth your stomach is killing you, because you didn't have breakfast (there was never anything in my house to eat for breakfast).

Try making it through a full afternoon of classes when your stomach is cramping, your blood sugar is so low it gives you a massive headache. Have you ever been hungry enough that you feel sick all over? Like you want to throw up, but there's nothing in your stomach to throw up?

I have, that's how I spent my life in middle school, junior high, and high school. I wouldn't get anything to eat until 6pm, or later, at night. Even then it was often a small meal. That's how I lived for a long time, to the point my metabolism is shot to hell, and I have very unhealthy eating habits to this day.

It gets worse. (Like nearly everything else in my life).

Up till middle school I was eligible for free lunches, but when I hit the 8^th grade that changed. I no longer got free lunches, mom made too much money. Instead I got reduced lunches, which was twenty cents. . . Twenty cent lunches! Not bad, right?

Not according to my mom.

If I asked for the twenty cents she would yell at me, and demand to know why I don't get free lunches. Like I knew why? I wasn't the one that filled out the paperwork, I just did what I was told. So I often went to school without my twenty cents. . .

TWENTY CENTS PEOPLE!

(Later it became forty, but still!)

My mom would make me feel like shit over twenty cents.

Often I would dig through the car or couch for the change, I stopped asking my mom for anything. I would steel from the bottom of her pocket-book for the dollar it would cost to eat for the week. If I got caught it would be the usual shaming lecture. She would yell at me for not going to the school and demanding free lunches. She would lecture on about how poor we were, and how low in statues we were that I should get free lunches. Did she ever go to the school with these complaints?

No.

It was on me to do it, and at school the lunch laddies were nasty hags that were the keepers of the food gates. How was I suppose to stand up to them? Who was I suppose to tell/demand these free lunches from? I had no idea!

My view of my friends and kids around me changed. I no longer saw us as equals—as friends—they were all better than me. Richer, higher in statues. They were better than me because my mom said so, the school said so, and the system said so. This crushed whatever self-esteem I had left. I learned not to respect myself because I was beneath everyone.

Thankfully, my junior and senior year of high school I had a boyfriend that bought me lunch everyday. He was willing to pay the forty cents. While he wrecked me later in life, I want to thank him for what he did for me then.

Thank you Dustin!

Shaming a child for their parents lack of action has a big impact on the child. As you can see it destroyed me. I started to see labels on people in a world that already judges too harshly. Our systems are wrong, and bent on profit seeking instead of compassion.

No child should starve, and no child should be shamed for it. Animals take better care of their young than we often do. Speak up for the lunch practices in your community, stand behind your child and fight the system. It's the only way we can effect change in a flawed world.

#StopShaming #FeedTheChildren #FreeSchoolLunchs #LunchIsARight #LunchWarrior

~Jax

The Depths of Cruelty (Father Reconnect)

I wanted to talk about my father, a lot of things happened around the holidays and with everything settling I feel now is a good time. It's going to be a long post, but heartbreaking stories usually are. So hold on to your butts!

A little history, I didn't meet my father until I was eleven years old. It was an awkward and strange little meeting that last about an hour or so at a park. When you're eleven you don't know how to act in that type of situation, and the adults didn't help. Though, I need to give credit to my stepmom, Paula, she did amazing. Bright, inviting, and very open. She's a true delight.

After that first meeting my father was still not really in my life. Living a few states away can make it hard, but then I was told by my mom that he wanted nothing to do with me. He never called or sent me letters, or anything like that for about a year. Really, when you're that age it falls into the back of your mind. I mean, I had other things I was worrying about. Like junior high. I did, however, hear stories about my dad from my mom. She would often tell me how they met while she was working at Denny's as a waitress.

She was nineteen, he was thirty-two (or so she says). He came in with his buddies from work in suits, and Dani flirted with them like she did with everyone. Things happened, they ended up dating. Boom! She's pregnant with me. The standard young love story, but here is where things take a left turn.

According to Dani, my father's family hated her. Thought she was a loser because she came from a broken home (my grandparents were divorced for some time at this point, and my mom was emancipated at 16). While they should have been preparing for a baby Jeff, my dad, was busy taking advice from his judgmental family. He started getting distant and even asked my mom to get an abortion. (Yes, these are things my mom told me even before I was 11. In fact she told me this story at age six/seven when I asked about abortion protesters outside a hospital).

Refusing to have an abortion and bullied by my dad's family, my mom moved back to California and had me. In the way she puts it, “she gave up on the man she deeply loved because she would never do anything to harm an innocent child. Her words,” not mine.

How twisted. . . right?

I can not tell you how many times I wished Dani had got an abortion with me. Those were thoughts I had as far back as age 12. How awful is a child's life that they think about never being born?

Every chance she had, my mom would tell me how much Jeff's family hated her and hated me. I never understood why. . . I take that back. I knew why they hated me, it was the same reason they hated my mom. I came from a broken home, I was low class compared to them. Dani would tell me stories about how rich and well off they were. How my father never wanted for anything, and how they looked down on me and her. My father was a prince and I was a gutter rat, that's how my mother made it sound to me.

Dani often said nasty things about my dad. About how he wanted me dead before I was even born, and that after meeting me that day he denied I was his. I had to take a DNA test to prove I was his daughter. Which I found strange, considering Dani also liked to tell the story how Jeff named me.

I guess in his family everyone's first name starts with a “J” and my name had to start with one as well. BUT, he didn't want a standard “J” name. So he came up with, “Jacqulene” which is pronounced: Jack-Leen. It's different, I'll give him that and over the years I grew to hate the name. Because he gave it to me, and I would never be good enough for him. (Again, this all comes from my mother).

Plus, no one can say my first name right right.

(Don't get me started on my middle name.)

After the DNA test came back I was 99.9999% his, my father started sending me cards randomly throughout the years. Maybe something for Christmas, certainly something for my birthday (When I would get a card for my birthday she would kill my excitement with this comment, “of course he's sending you a birthday card. He knows just how old you are because he's counting down to 18 so he won't have to pay child-support anymore).

I didn't always believe her when she said things like that, and held out hope it wouldn't happen, but the cards stopped after I graduated high school. I was eighteen.

I grew to hate the man over the years. Well, that really isn't right. How can you really feel deep hate for someone you don't even know. The concept of a father was a shadowed thought in the depths of my mind. Besides I was a college student. I had important things going on.

Like three am coffee with the guys watching the drunk grandmas are Denny's. Real important stuff. LOL

Besides, I knew how for sure how my father felt about me.

Sometime before I turned eighteen I had sent my dad a letter, I wanted to spend a week in the summer with him. I wanted to be around my other brother, Kevin, and feel apart of his life. With the letter finished I gave it to my mom to send off, and in a few weeks I got a reply.

It was a letter that ripped my heart out. It said, in summary, that I was a dark mark on his life. That he never asked nor wanted me. I was not his daughter and to never contact him again.

Whatever hope I had been holding onto for having a father were killed that day. Thinking about what was in that letter still makes me cry to this day, it was. . . awful. My mom made me ribs for dinner that night to make me feel better. Looking back I should have suspected something then, but I didn't. What kid thinks their parents would do anything to intentionally hurt them. I mean, I was considering the strange fact she already had the ribs cooking that morning. Or that she bought them the day before, like she was per-paring for this sealed letter from my father with no return address label on it.

Age twenty, I wrote my father a new letter. A rather nasty one asking for $500 to fix my car so I could restart college. At this point in my life I had dropped out of college, paid off a $1,200 fee to my school, to go back to the college. All on a dishwasher's pay. Oh, and supported my mom and family.

I worked a lot!

But I didn't have enough money to get my car fixed on time, and I was desperate. I figured, that asshole had money and he owes me. This time I sent the letter myself, addressed it and everything because my mom couldn't be bothered to do it.

In a week I got a reply from Jeff with a money order for the money I asked for. I thought it was wonderful, and we started talking back and forth. Sadly, I didn't use the money to get my car fix. Dani talked me into using it for a bill she hadn't been paying. My car never did get fixed, and I ended up having to trade it in for a newer car and a car payment. Yay! (man did it feel good when I paid that car off. Did it all by myself too, but I still miss that car I traded in.)

In-spite of the car not getting fixed, me and my father started exchanging letters back and forth. . . emails. He even invited me to come out and spend Easter that year. He bought me a plane ticket, and I went to stay with them. It was. . . extremely awkward.

Here I was staying with a man, and a family that was—as Dani would say—insanely well off. He had a nice clean house, with nice stuff. A loving family, they all got along. They had stories, and history—memories that were wonderful, and I was the outsider. Even though I knew I was his daughter, and he invited me to be apart of the family I still felt I didn't belong. I wasn't good enough to be among them. They weren't my family, no matter how much I wanted them to be.

This awful string of feelings is something my mom put in me. She nourished these ideas of me not being good enough to my father—that I was beneath him—and wasn't part of his rich world. So while I was in the dark place at the time of my visit, and I wanted to reach out and embrace him as my father. I didn't. . . I couldn't. How could I tell him about all the neglect and abuse, about the sexual stuff without feeling like a whore?

Dirty thing that was so far beneath this perfect family.

At this point in my life I was programmed to be a good little abuse victim. Don't talk about what goes on in the house, and I believed my father to be a man that was simply doing the right thing by having me there. See, my brother, Kevin and I had been chatting a lot online at the time. Kevin always wanted a brother or sister, so he wanted me in his life and this is where my mother stepped in.

Dani explained the reason my father asked me to visit like this, “Kevin wants to know about you and for you to be apart of his life. Paula loves Kevin deeply because it's her only child, and Jeff loves Paula. So he's just trying to keep the rest of his family happy. Once they get board with you, it will stop.”

Ouch, love you too mom.

As my brother got older and moved on with his life we stopped talking. He got busy, and the only time I heard from my father was Christmas and my birthday. Not that I cared. For all I knew I didn't matter to him. So, fuck him.

Fast-forward to this summer. I started therapy, and began facing a lot of hard things. I cut my mother out of my life, and wrote her a letter highlighting the reasons why. She responded as a child, not that it surprised me. I'm doubtful she even read the 20+ page letter I sent her. That's fine, the letter I wrote was more for me than her. I said everything I needed to. The truth and my feelings about it were out there, and that's really all that mattered at the time.

In September I came to realize putting all my hatred on Dani wasn't fair. While my father was never there, he still had some responsibility in the awful things that happened to me. He left me with the woman who neglected me, and who let her boyfriends have their way with me. He needed to know what I had to live through to get to this point in my life. Also, I wanted Jeff to know how much of a fighter his daughter was.

I sat down that day and wrote a gut wrenching letter. I assigned no blame, simply told my life story. Straightforward and to the point. I wanted him to know what happened to me when he wasn't around, and how I felt about it. Even if he never replied to me I knew this was a step in the right direction, I started to heal that day.

I said, “Hey, this messed up stuff happened to me. You and mom left me to this life, but I'm still here and I'm going to keep going.”

It was an amazing feeling, but to my surprise a reply letter showed up in my mail box the Friday before Halloween. Oh lord, I have never been so afraid of an envelope in my life. The second I pulled it from the mail box I dropped it. Honestly, it fell onto the ground like it bit me.

After laughing at myself for being stupid over a piece of paper, I came inside and put it on my desk. It was a thin letter, thinner than mine. Couldn't bring myself to open it. Usually I tore open letters right away because mail is fun, (so long as it's not bills). Not this time, it sat there and I thought about not opening it. That Friday was an extremely busy day for me, I didn't need to be upset for it. The thought came to me to wait until I got home later that night when my husband was around to open in. Staring at the thing I came to a decision.

Fuck it, I was opening it.

It's just a letter, and if anything it's probably like the response I got from my mom. That I was prepared for, being told I needed therapy—a mental hospital—and to be drugged. Yeah, I can handle all that none-sense.

I was wrong. . . There as no preparing for what my father's response was. . .

The contents changed everything, and I mean everything. My world went upside down, flipped inside out, and then plunged into the depths of the ocean. . .

Even now. . . I c-can't. . .

. . .I started this entry back at the end of last year. My intentions were to post it on January first, but I had to stop. Somethings are too hard to face, and you need to build up the courage. That's what I've spent my time doing, building up my courage to face this monster of truth. Sadly, it sent me into a depressive spiral which was exaggerated due to my birthday. That's over now, and it's time to move on to the second part of this post. My courage is shaky, but I'm ready.

The easiest way to tell you want the letter said would be to copy and post it, but it's not my letter to post. There are things in it I'm sure my father would like to keep between me and him, so I'll sum it up for you.

The remorse that poured off my father's words hit me the hardest, it bleed from the ink. I could image what he must have looked like reading my twenty page confession, witnessing first-hand what his daughter had suffered. The guilt of a father that was never there hitting deeper knowing he could have ended my anguish. He was honest with me, and that's all I asked of him. That's all I ever asked of anyone, including my mother.

Honesty, it's a simple frail thing. Straightforward. There's no illusions to hide behind, no half truths. That might seem rather black and white of me, but when you've lived through what I have and existence in a world filled with grays. Black and white is the best thing for healing. No excuses, or reasons. No, should of, could of, would ofs. Just cold hard facts mixed with raw emotions. That's all I ask, and he gave me that.

My dad explained his fears about his struggles at the time my mother was doing her thing with me. Told me how much he regretted not being there more, and letting his anger at Dani effect his relationship with me. Then I came across a paragraph, a sentence that destroyed and soothed me all in one.

Jeff, that man I never called by Dad—the first of many men that I thought had abandoned me—hurt me, and left me to a world that is. . . awful. He wanted me. He wanted custody of me, but at the time he worried over the type of life I would have with him if he was struggling. He also didn't want to take a child away from their mother, but if he only knew the type of mother Dani was.

I don't fault him for not trying to get custody, I understand the complexities of life and wanting a good future for your children. I get that, and while we can sit around and say “what if,” it changes nothing.

Instead, what I took away from that confession was, he wanted me. I was wanted. . . He wanted. . . me.

Sitting in my desk chair I broke, but in a good way. I crumbled under the relief of knowing someone out there—my blood family—a parent—wanted me. I was wanted. I was good enough for the first time in my life. For someone that has been told throughout their life that they're a burden, made to feel unwanted, that's. . . Well, earth shattering.

My dad goes on to say he would never turn me away, or not want to hear from me. He even said he was proud of what I've managed to do, and the hardship I've faced. It's awkward to hear those compliments but at the same time it's the first time one of my parents have praised me, and I knew they meant it.

I sat there for a few stunned moments, smiling like a fool. I'll admit, I giggled as happy tears rolled down my cheeks. It felt good—I felt whole for the first time ever, and then it hit me. . . the truth. . . the honest truth of the car-wreck that is my past.

How much can a mother hate her own child?

How far would they go to destroy any hope in innocence?

Apparently, Dani's cruelty had a new level I discovered in that letter. As I said before she often told me how my father abandoned us—that we—I—wasn't good enough for him. I was just a bastard poor child, with a fucked up mom. That was me. I never asked for that life, nor wanted it. I tried like hell to change it, but it never worked. All this time she made me think she was the only one that loved or wanted me. Over and over again I heard the stories about how she gave up college for me, my dad, her husband, boyfriends, even jobs. I was made to think I needed to be grateful for every crumb she threw my way because I had no one else who cared, but that wasn't true.

It wasn't fucking true at all. My father loved me, he wanted me. All this time.

This epiphany lead me into the worst panic-attack I have ever had. I couldn't breathe, think, all I felt was intense anger. In that moment I hated Dani, for once I didn't put the anger on myself. I was flooded by emotion, but for once I didn't want to hurt myself. My anger was firmly placed where it should be, I was actually pissed at the person that deserved it.

See, even after I cut Dani out of my life I still felt bad about doing it. I had the idea stuck in my head that I was being a bad daughter, because that's how brainwashed I am. I thought of myself as one of those ungrateful kids that blames all their problems on their parents (I still do at times). I've been trained to think I'm always wrong, but none of that mattered this time. My rage broke the programming.

She had lied to me. . . my whole life! I started to wonderful how much of her stories were true about my father, and other men, other people in our life. The awful things she used to say about them.

It took me an hour to settle down, and when I did the only thing I wanted to do was make the two hour drive to Dani's house and confront her. I wanted answers, I wanted to know what the hell my father was talking about. . . What bullshit had she pulled. . . Did he really order that DNA test when I was 11 or did she?

I wanted to know it all, but because I couldn't trust my judgment I stayed home, and got ready for my event that night. For the next 24 hours I numbed myself. I drifted back and forth on the edge of completely losing it. I knew I was going to crash, and hard when I did allow myself to feel once again, but before then there was one more question I needed answered.

While the truth was written out in a letter right in front of me, I still had a fingertip on the hope it wasn't true. That Dani wasn't the woman this information suggested she was. That those first seven years of my life we spent together, me and her against the world, actually meant something. That she loved me for real. I even overlooked that asinine reply she gave me by email when I asked her about what my dad said in his letter. (It was another three lined childish reply suggesting I needed therapy).

So I message my father, I asked him about the letter I sent him when I was a teenager. The one where I asked him to spend the summer. I didn't tell him that I gave it to my mom to send out for me (teenagers and sending letters, yeah we are not good at that). I asked him outright why he didn't want me to come that summer to stay with him?

He replied back that he never got a letter like that, and he never sent a response. I believed him, he's never given me any reason not to, and he wasn't gaining anything by lying to me. There is nothing I can give him that he doesn't already have, there is no reason to be dishonest. With is reply, I knew.

Cruel, brutal, cold-blooded, heartless, sadistic. . . There are so many words in our language, but none of them. . . Not a single one touch on what my mother did.

She took a child—fresh and new to the world—and crushed their spirit, brainwashed them, psychically hurt them, mental destroyed them. Let her boyfriends and husband kill their soul, and when I thought I was free—when I saw light at the end—hope within reach, she delivered another blow.

My entire life was a lie. . . One of the biggest heartbreaks of my past is not true, and now I'm left to wonder how often she told me lies. How many times was she dishonest? I know she can lie like the best of them, I've seen her do it to others, but to me. . . her daughter?

I would have gone to hell for my mother. I gave her my undying loyalty and bought her anything she wished. I turned my back on my own sexual abuse just so she could continue to have a relationship with those men. I let her use me as a verbal punching bag when she was said, and I watched countless Christmas mornings as my brother and sister opened gifts knowing there was nothing for me because my mom didn't have the money. Still I smiled and made it a good time for everyone.

I cooked, cleaned, washed clothes. . . I—I was a slave to her, and I was rewarded like this.

So here I am entering into 2018 a shattered woman. The fabric of my life left in ruins. Yes, my relationship with my father is going down a wonderful path, but on the flip side I have to deal with this. . . This betrayal that I can't fully grasp without wanting to hurt myself to release the emotion agony.

What do I do now?

Where do I go from here?

How many lies are there?

My mind goes to dark places when I think about it, one of the darkest thoughts is—

Did my mother's boyfriend randomly sexually assault me, or did she give me to him?

I don't know, but one this is for sure. I'll never trust her again.

#FatherlyBond #MotherBetrayal #Lies

~Jax~

A Birthday Wish

The last two weeks I've been in a deep depression. I've slept 13+ hours a day, I've had dark dark thoughts, and the idea of harming myself has come to mind a few times. These depths are something I haven't seen in well over a year's time, and never have they lasted this long. At least not in the last five years. To say 2018 started out rough, would be a big understatement. Especially when I had such high hopes for this year.

No, I'm not giving up. . . Far from it. A few awful days don't ruin a whole year.

Those that are close to me have been asking the same questions they always ask when this mood sets in—why?

What's wrong?

My therapist asks the same thing, or rather she asks why I think I'm having a hard time. Analyzing your feelings and reasons for depression is. . . upsetting. . . overwhelming, and it forces you to face a lot of things you've been running from. However, these things need to be felt. The wound needs to drain the infection before they can heal, and while I spent most of my life running from the depression—the emotions: Pain, fear, shame, betrayal. For me to continue to heal, I can't run anymore. I need to feel these things, and it sucks ass!

But I'm stronger for it.

So why have I fallen into the worst depression in five+ years?

My only conclusion is that with therapy a lot of crap comes up. Memories I never wanted are coming back to me. They've been manageable the last few months, but with my birthday looming it's simply too much.

I've become flooded. Which is never a good thing for someone like me. Or anyone really. Emotional flooding is. . . Well. . . Imagine the most intense emotion you've ever had, whatever it is. Happiness, joy, grief, ect. Now let it consume you until you can't breathe—until your heart stops and you become disoriented. Up is down, down is up. Good is evil, and nothing makes any damn sense. The world stops, the world speeds forward. All you want is for it to stop—to escape the awful sensation.

That's the whole I've been in, when not sleeping.

Tomorrow is my birthday, which has been a wonderful day since I married my husband. He always makes it special, but this year the only thing on my mind is the past. Those phantom thoughts of all the birthdays I put behind me are clawing to get out. They want to be remembered—they want me to grieve all those moments where others tried to break me.

That's the heart of my depression. . . my past. . . my anger that I hold in until it comes out in sorrow and pain.

There is one birthday—one memory that is playing on repeat this January 12^th.

~My 15, it was a small event. Me, my mom, and her boyfriend, Dan. I liked Dan. He restored my faith in father figures. At this point in my life I left like the father was overrated in a family, all a child needed was their mother. This is because my mother, Dani, made me believe my father wanted nothing to do with me. ( I have since learned otherwise. Her cruelty knows no limits.)

We had a wonderful coffee chocolate cake Dani made, super rich. The kind you need a full thing a milk with. We laughed and had a good time, no gifts. I often didn't get gifts because Dani never had money to spend on gifts until after tax season. Even then the gifts were. . . “family gifts”. Nothing just for me. Not that I cared that much. I liked spending the time with Dani and Dan. I loved Dan like he was my father, and I hoped him and my mom would get married. She was less focused on me when he was around (meaning she didn't yell and neglect me when he was around).

That autumn (months after my birthday), on a Sunday, Dan sexually assaulted me while my mother slept with her head in his lap. He touched and groped my breasts pretending to be interested in my Japanese symbol necklace I got from a 25cent machine at the grocery store. He told me to keep playing the video game I was playing, and that everything would be alright. “It's all good,” I hate that phrase till this day. Within minutes he was moving to my pants and to my panties. I felt his fingers brush the waist of my underwear, and I hated that I felt excited—turned on. I wanted him to stop. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. In my mind if I sat still—if I closed my eyes and ignored it, it wouldn't happen.

It would be okay, but it wasn't.

My mother woke up, Dan stopped his assault and they both left the house. I didn't say anything, like all the other times in the past when I was sexually assaulted. But this wasn't like all those other times, the trust I placed in Dan. . . It was like a father trying to rape me, and I called my best friend for comfort.

So why does this memory come up on my birthday if it happened months after?

When I told my mother what Dan did, at first she thought I was lying. That I just wanted to ruin her happiness with her boyfriend. Then, she started to believe me and asked if he raped me—if he took my virginity.

I told her no, and this is exactly what she said. I can never forget her words.

“Thank god, I could never forgive him if he did that to you. If he took that from you.”

Let that sink in for a second.

This is where I feel shame about calling myself a sexual assault victim, because I wasn't raped. In my mind, and Dani's, it's not that bad because I wasn't raped.

From there things went mental. We were at the police station, men were surrounding me, demanding to know what happened. All that awful stuff. It was. . . There are no words for how awful it was. . . how awful it was handled. There was no compassion.

Later that night, after my mom and I returned home, the detective called and informed us Dan had been charged, but was released. He confessed to assaulting me, but at first he lied. Said he thought I wanted it, and I was 18.

It was in that moment—that second when he told that—lie betrayal cute me to the bone. I thought back to my birthday that year, how he sat there and smiled at me. I had to reevaluate every hug—every look, smile, well wish. I had to rethink everything and face the fact a man I trusted completely had lied. . . betrayed someone who admired him. My hatred for males, mainly fathers, reached a whole new level.

A few months later my mom was seeing him again, I guess she couldn't forgive him if he raped me but touching was fine. She forgave him awful fast, and restarted her relationship with him. Or rather her affair. See, this whole time Dan had a long time girlfriend.

What a wonderful birthday memory to have—a great series of thoughts. This is my world. . . My hell.

Here's the thing. I never asked to be born—I never wanted to be in this world, and Dani throwing me to her lovers (this wasn't the first time one of her boyfriends abused me). I never deserved that, and I don't deserve these memories.

The only thing I want for my birthday this year—the one thing I want to do more than anything—is to drive to Dani's house. Charge in, and rip her a new one. I want to yell, scream, and blast her for all the shit she made me live through—all the times she put herself before the welfare of her children. I want to ask her how she could let a man that sexually assaulted her daughter—a man that would have went farther had she not woken up—back into a room three doors down from his victim!

I want her to feel a fraction of the pain, betrayal. . . soul deep agony I live with every day.

I want my mom to know she's a piece of shit, but most importantly I want everyone around her to know how much of a piece of shit she is.

Because despite all this truth—this reality of past events, she thinks I'm the fucked up one. That my mind is twisted, and I don't remember things correctly. I will admit for most of my teenage life I thought just that. I honestly believed my memories were messed up, but there is one thing you can never distort or alter.

How you feel.

The emotions that boil forth when I remember these periods in time are the only honest handhold I have. They are real, true, and un-waivering. They speak the truth when my lips can't.

So while I want to see sorrow and pain in my mother's eyes as I tell her all these things, I will never get it. To this day Dani will tell you I'm overreacting. That she did nothing wrong, and was the greatest mom ever. All I want is some acknowledgment she fucked up, but she will never give me that. Because that's the woman she is.

#BirthdayWish #MothersDenial #SexualAssault #FeelingTheTruth  

~Jax