THE DOUBT & FEARS THAT MAKE US QUESTION LEAVING AN INCESTUOUS SITUATION? #incest #child sexual abuse

It's been a long time since my last post. Illness has plagued me for the last few months. Even writing my book has been difficult. But at last, I am on the final chapters, and as I wrote the following this morning, I recalled how difficult it was those first few weeks after finally extricating myself from my father's control and sexual abuse. When you're contemplating breaking away, you find a million reasons to go and double that to stay put. Your need for freedom, to be yourself, to have a normal life (if normal is ever possible again) propels you to do something. But your fear of the abuser, of being alone, of where to go and what to do next, holds you back time and again. 

All decisions come with similar quandaries, but some are much easier to make than walking from the only life you've known into an unknown, unsure future. You forever wonder if you are doing the right thing. When you have been made to feel blame, guilt for all the bad things in your life, it's hard to think that what you are doing isn't just another bad thing. Depending on the abuser's reaction to your decision, he/she can make you feel guilty and horrible all over again, reminding you of how selfish you are by breaking away and thinking only of yourself, when that is what he/she has been doing all along!

It may take years, not days or even months, to know if the decision to get out of your old life was the right one, but then again, ask yourself, what is right about staying in a life where you are the constant victim of sexual, mental and physical abuse? 

So, on that note, I now share with you my latest, unedited section of my as yet, un-named book, a true story of incest. Your feedback is most welcomed. Thanks for taking the time to read the following which describes my immediate reactions to making the decision to walk away from incest:

"The next 4  - 6 weeks were traumatic. For the first time in my life I was on my own, though not alone. It all felt so strange. I felt empowered but insecure, experienced but naive, liberated but lost.

This was 1971 and living together, even if engaged, wasn't what nice girls did. John had been raised in a very Catholic family: he still attended Sunday Mass and for me to move in with him, though tempting, was somehow sinful. And besides, the two of us could never fit in the tiny single bed in his basement apartment!

So I rented a pokey room in a rooming house with a single set of rickety drawers and the lumpiest bed ever. The other tenants, by my father's standards, were the low-life's of this world: waitresses, factory floor-sweepers, divorcees ... folks who lived from paycheck to paycheck when they could get a job or keep one long enough to buy the next bottle of plonk or pack of cigarettes. It was eye-opening for me to mix with people like this, so different from my family's circle of friends or even my fellow staff-mates. 

It was simultaneously scary and exciting for me to live temporarily with this group, scary because I kept envisioning one of the drunken men coming into my room to try and have their way with me, but exciting because of finally having the freedom to come and go as I pleased. That was such a new experience and with every day, I liked it more and more: no longer having to ask a man for  permission to go here or go there, to do this or do that! I could wear what clothes I wanted, experiment with makeup and leave it on, choose what to do with my time when I wasn't teaching or with John planning the wedding ... the freedom was exhilarating! The teenager I was never allowed to be resurfaced. I was almost as giddy as the Grade 9 and 10's I was teaching, even feeling like one of them at times, understanding instead of disapproving their silliness and youthful exuberance. For the first time since that day my father decided to educate me about men, I felt almost normal.

And yet, as I tossed about on that lumpy mattress at night, I battled guilt: I felt guilty about the chaos I had caused my parents; I felt guilty about leaving mom alone to clean up the debris of the storm I had rained down on their lives; and I felt guilty about the misgivings I was having about marrying a man I truly barely knew! 

John and I had had anything but a normal courtship. We'd never really dated. Our times together had been stolen moments in his car or the school janitor's closet, a quick grabbed lunch at a local hot food place, a movie with mom tagging along, a short but lovely trip to Niagara Falls on icy roads that nearly landed us in a ditch, or furtive cuddles on an old mattress in our basement while mom kept nervous watch at the window upstairs. What did I know about this man I was about to marry? I'd never met his family. He talked non-stop about returning to his beloved Australia, a thought that terrified me. His greatest passions were cars,  aircraft and photography, all of which meant little to me, and he had no interest in live theatre, musicals, writing poetry or the pursuits I enjoyed. How could we possibly build a life together when we didn't really have that much in common?

I truly began to question what I had done. Would I end up wrecking John's life too? And what of myself? I'd spent 23 years dominated by a control freak of a father. Now, I finally had a taste of what it was like to be on my own, answering to no-one but myself. Was I now so quickly about to give away that expensively acquired freedom to walk up the wedding aisle and once again have to answer to a male for the rest of my life? I tossed and turned on that lumpy mattress suddenly wishing I could just disappear to explore my freedom more fully, more deeply and most importantly, to find that teenager who was buried beneath the dirt in those nightmares that had plagued me through so many  years of abuse.

I WISH THESE FLASHBACKS & MEMORIES WOULD STOP! #Incest #child sexual abuse

When you run a private members group for incest survivors, if there's one thing you hear time and again, it's "I wish these flashbacks/memories would stop!"

Sadly, so many people, including the victim's own family, just don't understand and offer little sympathy or help to the victim who may be suffering terribly. They tell them, unfeelingly, to "just get over it and get on with your life!" Really? Just get over a father, brother, uncle or adult male who rammed his swollen penis into a little child of 5 or even younger? Just get over how awful you felt about something you didn't understand, something you didn't ask for and most definitely something you didn't deserve? You don't just get over it! And even if your conscious mind has blocked it out over the intervening years, your subconscious hasn't. It has the uncanny knack of remembering everything.

Ever lost or misplaced something and simply can't find it, can't remember where you put it? I do it all the time, and now, at the very ripe old age of 67, my ability to remember where I put things is getting worse and worse. So, after I've spent an hour searching, I stop looking and get busy doing something else. Without fail, maybe an hour or even a day later, suddenly it hits me where I put that lost item. I didn't remember, but my subconscious did!

And so it is with flashbacks to horrid, awful, traumatic events in our lives, regardless of what age we were when they happened. We can put them away, hide them from our conscious mind, and get on with other things. But every so often, the horror suddenly resurfaces and for a while, shakes up our minds, hearts and souls all over again. We relive the painful thrusts of that penis; we feel the bash to our heads or ears; we hear the angry voice telling us to be quiet or threatening to kill us if we tell. We sense again how dirty, soiled and tainted we felt. We feel the shame; we feel like everyone who looks at us knows what we allowed that abuser to do and we blame ourselves. We feel it was all our fault. We want to run; we want close our minds, shut out the images, block the voices, theirs and ours, then and now. And sometimes, as hard as we try, we cannot stop the flashback nor shorten it when it occurs. We have to wait till it passes so we can "just get on with" our lives again.

My heart aches for those in my private group at SPEAK OUT FROM UNDER INCEST on Facebook when I hear them begging for some advice to stop the flashbacks. Or when they ask if others in the group get them, or if we're well along in our healing, do we have them less often. There is little advice any of us can give other than the consolation of  "Yes, we all still have them and yes, they do become less frequent or less earth-shattering with time." But they never completely stop. Read my poem on the urn in the photo above: I don't know what prompted that outpouring recently ... most likely it was listening and feeling to my members' pain ... but suddenly, after all this time, there I was flashing back again in the wee hours of the morning, and my father, my abuser, has been dead for  13 years. You'd think I'd be over it all by now, especially at my age, wouldn't you.

"You know what daddy? It wasn't alright
And I still don't sleep very well at night". 

Please, if  you know or love a victim of abuse, any kind of abuse, don't tell them to "just get over it" and get on with their lives. People have committed suicide for far less reasons than some of them have.

WHY DO VICTIMS OF ABUSE STAY IN ABUSIVE SITUATIONS? #INCEST #CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE

E.L. Farris, writer of just released book, RIPPLE, recently wrote in a blog post that she thought it selfish of a writer not to share some of a book she was working on. I thought about that and thought "Sure, why not?" So tonight I share an excerpt from my upcoming book, "COMING OUT FROM UNDER" which addresses something we victims of incest know all about and will never understand, anymore than those who ask the question: "Why do victims of abuse stay in abusive situations?"

One of the things most often asked of women in an abusive situation is how and why did you put up with it for so long? If you hated it so much, if your life was so bad, why didn't you just get the hell out of there? 

The answer to that is there isn't any one reason. There are hundreds of little reasons, the biggest being fear: fear of the abuser, fear of being alone, fear of not having necessary survival skills, fear of non-acceptance by others, and fear that the hell you know may be better than the hell you'll find out there. You become resigned, accepting that this is your lot in life. You know that if you play by his rules and don't make waves, you get by ... that he'll even be nice to you. You convince yourself that it's not really so bad after all: there's a roof over your head, food to eat, T.V. for entertainment, and daydreams to escape into when the going gets rough. He's convinced you the world out there is a horrible place and you are so lucky to have him to protect you. So you get along by going along.

But every once in a while, the compliant victim you've become rebels: you have been been condemned to a life in prison for a crime you didn't commit. You were born free but you haven't been free to be yourself, to follow your heart, to act on your dreams for as long as you can remember. Somewhere deep inside, anger is a festering wound. Rage is building. You want to lash out at the abuser but your fear of him makes you lash out at yourself instead. You blame yourself, criticize yourself, hate yourself. Some victims resort to cutting, inflicting more pain on themselves, punishing themselves for someone else's sins. Others simply end it all by suicide. The rest, like me, keep hoping, believing that one day the abuser will come around, see what he has done, and truly does love you enough to finally set you free. That belief was what encouraged me to once again trust my Father when he said: 

"So, kitten, you're turning 21, becoming an adult. My little girl isn't a little girl any longer. So what do I give a 21-year-old for her birthday?"

His voice was kind, gentle, coaxing. My heart filled with hope. Could this be it? Was he finally going to set me free? I so wanted to believe that. I was about to blurt out "I want to be free to come and go as I please" but I hesitated. Years of my telling the truth had ended up in beatings or verbal whiplash. Would this be any different? He sensed my hesitation. He could smell my fear.

"Come on kitten" he encouraged. "Tell daddy what you want. You're a grown woman now. It's time for you to speak up for yourself, to make your own decisions ..."

Do you, dear fellow-victim, recognize yourself in that scene? Maybe your details weren't quite the same. Maybe you were a lot younger than I was when my father asked me those questions and gave me some hope that the misery that was my  life at that time was finally going to end and tomorrow would bring new beginnings. Or maybe you're still in that situation and don't see yourself ever getting out of it. Neither did I. You will have to read my book to find out how the above conversation ended, what my answers to my father were and if indeed, my answers bought me my freedom. 

But I'd like to leave you with this graphic I found and shared on Facebook today. It  literally screamed at me. It is what victims of abuse, any kind of abuse, long for and need the most. And until an abuser knows that, until the victim tells the abuser that this is what he/she wants, we will always be victims in an abusive situation, even when we are no longer in it! 

FREEDOM IS BEING YOU WITHOUT ANYONE'S PERMISSION!

THAT'S WHAT STEPFATHERS DO! #incest #child sexual abuse

I have to write this! And forgive me for ranting. But I'm damn angry this morning. I did my usual quick perusal of Facebook posts and came across another poor young woman pouring out her heart about the sexual abuse she and her sister suffered for years at the hands of her step-father. My blood boiled as I read her pain. But what really took me over the top was her mother's reaction when the two girls finally told mommy. Mommy's response?

"That's what stepfathers do."

'Scuse me? That's what stepfathers do? What kind of heartless response is that from a mother to her daughters? That's what stepfathers do.

So it's okay then for you mom to find a new partner, bring him into your home and let him molest your daughters? You give him permission for this because that's what stepfathers do? If he, like many other men, decided to cheat on you with another woman, would you also stand by and say "well that's what men do?" What kind of woman are you? Are you that insecure, that needy of a man like this in your life that you let him screw your daughters and pass it off as "that's what stepfathers do?" Argggh. Pardon me while I vomit!

I'm reading this too often! Patricia A. McKnight was molested for years by her stepfather. Lisa James suffered at the hands of her stepfather. Book after book, story after story ... that's what stepfathers do.

As an incest survivor of sexual abuse by my own biological father, I still cannot fathom why a father would do that to his own flesh and blood. But these stepfathers ... and the women who choose them to step into a father's shoes? I'm still trying to wrap my head around both of these perpetrators. Yes, I hold the mother to blame too. In all crime, accessories to the crime can be charged. Incest is a crime and these mothers are accessories to the crime. They know it's going on and let it happen because "that's what stepfathers do"!

My eldest daughter, a single mom to a 10-year-old, is looking around for a good man. She wants someone like her own dad, a man who would never touch either of his beautiful girls. A gentle man who has all the normal male urges but would vomit at the thought of touching his own daughters or some other woman's daughters were he put in a stepfather's role. Are there any other men like him around? As I read, I become more and more fearful of my daughter finding and falling in love with someone like these molesting stepfathers. What of my grand-daughter if mommy were to have the bad luck of hooking up with one of these perps? Of course, I know she and her daughter are so close that if someone were to touch the child and she told mommy, mommy would gouge his eyes out! Well maybe not quite but you know what I mean. She wouldn't blithely stand by and say "that's what stepfathers do!"

And those mothers who do say that, and worse yet, as in the case of the girl who wrote that post this morning, how can they stay with the creep even after the children have been mercifully removed from the incestuous situation? Do they love the jerk that much or are they that dependent on him, that afraid to be alone, that they stay with him knowing what he did? I don't understand and I never will. I couldn't stand having a man like that in my house, let alone my bed. How do they stand having his hands on their bodies, his penis inside them, knowing that just a few hours earlier or last night they were doing the same to their daughter or daughters? Women, have you no pride? No self-respect? Are you that bloody desperate!

Sorry if I swear but yes, I''m mad. Damn mad! I'm mad at the men who do this and even madder at the women who let them when they know it's going on. And for those women who would care, and who are looking for a mate, bear this fact in mind:

"Incest is more common and more severe in step-parent families. In a comparison of 59 incestuous stepfathers, 70 incestuous biological fathers and 158 offenders against unrelated children .." while their psychological characteristics were similar, "their life histories and marital histories differed significantly. Stepfathers were significantly more likely to have prior convictions for sexual offences, to have been sexually abused themselves as a child, and to have juvenile records."

Stepfathers were also more likely to have histories of previous marital failures. This information comes from a clinical study recorded HERE. If you have the time and care, you might want to read the full study. It's eye-opening.

And I think it should be read by all single moms with children who are looking for a stepfather for those children. Maybe that guy on Plenty of Fish or some other dating site who looks great, sounds like Mr. Wonderful and can sweet-talk his way around all your concerns will one day sweet-talk or force that little girl or boy of yours into letting him sexually abuse him or her. Be wary. Be very wary.  If he's attracted to you and your little girl looks like a young you as she blossoms into womanhood, she could look real good to him ... 'cause "that's what (some!) stepfathers do!

THANK YOU FOR THE NIGHTMARES DADDY #incest #child sexual abuse

"To sleep, perchance to dream" wrote Shakespeare. Yes, that's what we all want to do: sleep peacefully, letting our subconscious sort out the experiences of the day so we can wake up refreshed and ready to take on a new day.

That's all good when all is good. Dreams are nice. But once you've become a victim of abuse, sexual or otherwise, sweet dreams and refreshing sleep elude us. For many of us dreams become nightmares. We toss, turn, fight demons and sometimes wake up screaming as we try to fight off the abuser or the uncomfortable feelings and thoughts we develop about ourselves ie.. the blame, the shame, the feelings of being dirty, soiled, unworthy, rotten ... an endless list of BAD.

As I write my book, COMING OUT FROM UNDER, beneath the memories I'm finding buried in my psyche, lie the nightmares, almost forgotten now, but not quite. These nightmares puzzle me. A dream expert could have some fun (?) with mine. I think I figured out their meaning long ago, and once I got away from my abuser, my father, these nightmares stopped. In my nightmares, I don't scream. I'm not terrified. But in one, I am filled with tension, worry. In the other, I am filled with revulsion and disgust but utterly confused. Without giving away the full details of these 2 nightmares which recurred for the entire 11 years I was being abused, and even for a short time after, let me try to precis my nightmares:

In the first, I am under a house which is built on brick supports, typical of Australian homes back in the 50's. (No basements there). It is dark but some weak light streaks through the spaces between those foundation pillars. I am digging in the dirt for something but I don't know what I expect to find. But what I feel is tension, great fear of finding something or someone that I have buried there. I cannot think what I've done wrong but I know it's something bad. And the bad is buried under that house. There's another shadowy figure down under the house with me. It is my father. He is digging too. He tells me that when I find it, I must not tell anyone, ever! Just cover it back up with the dirt. I am afraid that what I will find is a dead body. And I'm afraid that if I do, I will be charged with murder and spend the rest of my life in prison. But my father will walk free.

Care to interpret? I have.

In my other nightmare, always the same, I'm desperate to go to the toilet. I rush to the toilet, a small dark one like you find in those portable toilets, and relieve myself.  But when I reach for the paper, I can't find any that is clean. The toilet roll is soiled with excrement! I try to unroll it to find a clean piece and I get the excrement all over my hands. I cannot clean my hands or myself. I wake from this nightmare in panic. I can't stand this filth all over me ... and I can't wipe it off either!

I think the meaning of that one is probably quite clear. Does anyone else have nightmares similar to those I had? What were yours like? When did they stop? Or do they still surface even now, years after the abuse has stopped.

There is one dream I do remember having very often but this was a good dream. Sadly it never came true, well not quite the way it did in my dream. I am in a schoolyard or some crowded situation. There are people of all ages and sizes. They are coming after me but I don't know why. Suddenly, I stiffen on the spot, my legs together, almost glued, rigid. My arms hang tensely by my sides. I take a deep breath, stiffen my legs and arms again, and Houston ... we have lift-off! Just as the people reach for me, I soar high into the air and float above them. They are shouting but I am laughing. I'm flying. They can't get to me. I'm so happy as I zip over rooftops and see the people getting smaller and smaller the higher I go. It's such a wonderful dream. I laugh with happiness and freedom. I'm finally away from everything and everyone who causes me pain. The only nightmare in this dream is waking up to find it wasn't real, that I was only dreaming.

Bob Hope used to close his show for years with the classic "Thanks for the Memories". Those of us who have been, and are, victims of any kind of abuse, but especially child sexual abuse and incest would more likely sing "Thanks for the nightmares"

Can you relate? Your thoughts? Your nightmares? Want to share your story in private? Ask to join our Facebook group at SPEAK OUT FROM UNDER. We listen.

NIKKI'S STORY: #INCEST #CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE

 Although this blog is based on my personal story of incest, through my private group at Facebook, SPEAK OUT FROM UNDER, I am having the privilege of meeting some incredibly brave men and women who have been the victims of incest or child sexual abuse. All of us in different stages of recovery, of coming out from under. Some have made marvellous progress and are now ready and willing to share their stories outside our closed group. One of these is Nikki. Like the bee in our graphic, Nikki too was broken in her life's flight to becoming a confident, happy adult by her step-father. As in the case of too many others who have been sexually abused, Nikki's mother who should have been supportive failed her. She spiralled downward for many years, in and out of abusive relationships until, as Nikki writes in her last sentence, when she finally took control of her world, her world changed. I want to say "enjoy" Nikki's story but apart from enjoying her victory over that world, her story is not really enjoyable. I also need to warn you: Nikki doesn't waste words nor spare any sensitivities. What you will read below is raw, unedited, in your face truth. This is Nikki's story, in her own words, just as she shared it with me. Thank you Nikki for granting me permission to share how YOU came out from under!

I wanted to share. You can post it or parts of it or whatever you wish. Just know it is me - raw. Born Dec 16, 1969 into a pseudo forced southern marriage of sorts. Just a few short years after I was brought into this world, my bio-dad abandoned me, my sister and my mother. That story, however, is one for another time. 

Not long after, my mother remarried but I don’t know exactly how long after. She had two young daughters to raise: me and my half-sister who was but 6 years older, Tedde. My earliest memory of the possible abuse was about 5. We were transient. Not wealthy but certainly not poor, by my standards. A picture my mother still has of me in red polyester cowboy pants and a denim pearl button and bandana material western shirt, cowboy boots…I cannot remember if I had a hat on….still brings a feeling of disgust and shame but I don’t quite know why, although I can extrapolate from the feelings why. We moved several more times. 

Images of him crawling into bed with me when my mother was out with her girlfriends or of him taking me to bed moments after I arrived from school still sit in my brain. Images of that bathroom with the two locked doors and the cold tile floor. Images of take your daughter to work day at the oil rigs (it was just him and me) a rifle and a giant owl he had killed or that somehow was dead. Images of living in Kileen Texas and the window where he reminded me why I shouldn’t tell anyone….he had a gun, I remember the gun. Images that aren’t shared with others. They bring about too many opportunities for fights or arguments or tears. I think it was the after school times that were the most difficult, not that any of it was particularly easy. I would drag my feet walking the green mile. No matter what house we lived in, the after school walk from either the school to home or the bus to home turned me into a zombie. 

I knew if I didn’t get home by a certain time, the punishment by him would be harsh. If I smacked my food, I would get hit in the head with fork prongs. And of course, the belt was a regular staple. Folded in half, it always produced such an intense snap that I would stand at attention. Yea, the punishment on top of the other was certainly not worth being tardy.

I remember it burned really bad. Kind of like a UTI and how it burns when you pee. I would bleed a little and it would be mixed in with the bleach smelling product that he would call “the mess”. Today, it still smells like bleach. I was scared when blood would get on my panties because I knew my mom would blame me. I said “I wiped too hard” if she asked. I got yelled nonetheless, but it seemed to pacify her curiosity about the blood on my panties. I remember them….they had tiny pale pink flowers, yellow flowers, blue flowers. 

Sometimes he would ask me to treat it like a lollipop. I gagged. He would make me swallow “the mess” and lick it all up like a lollipop. Afterwards, he would hand me a dollar or two and send me to the convenience store to buy myself a treat. I always got some frozen ice cream treat on a stick that mom never ever let me have. OR I would get $2 worth of candy. My favorite was the tiny little chocolate balls (green, orange, yellow, red, and brown) that came in the plastic clear straw like package. I could buy TONS of them with $2! Sometimes I saved it and bought bigger treats. However, it was the walk to and from the store that I cherished. It was so far from the house and I would walk really slow. It hurt to walk. I was always sore, burning sore. 

It is all a blur. When they married, he was a police officer for the Mineral Wells TX. He wore a dark brown shirt with light gray pants and dark brown stripes on the side. My daddy was a highway patrolman but I don’t remember him much. My stepfather locked me in a jail cell one time. I cried I was so scared. He teased me and laughed. The other officers, I think they giggled but I don’t remember. He lost his job there at some point. Then it was drilling rigs. He also worked at an auto body shop in Killeen TX. In what order, I don’t remember. When he was laid off from his job, he took me more often. 

Never more than once a day. Sometimes only once a week. Sometimes it was 4-5 days a week. From sometime around 4 or 5 years old until the fight… which was just before I went into 6th grade. One time my mom went to the Bahamas with my cousins and my aunt. They were gone 7 days. I remember that time when I go through family photo albums and see the picture of me in my green terry cloth jump suit shorts taking family photos at the family reunion. I don’t think the terry jumper had anything to do with the Bahamas…I just remember the abuse.

It is the picture of the thin pale green PJs with the clown-like edging (they were my favorite jammies) and the snoopy cake my mom had made, me and my little brothers (she and this man had two boys …Justin and Kenneth) posing for the picture behind the cake but in front of the washer and dryer (our laundry was always clean and neatly folded and put away….I hate putting clothes away to this day) – that reminds me of the day I told my mom. 

Which was before the Bahama trip. It was her “girls night out” with her work girls. I begged her not to go. She asked why. I couldn’t say. I was scared. My stomach hurt like when someone you love and are very close to dies (like your young child or your best friend or your closest sister) in combination with walking out on stage in front of a million people to sing a song, only you aren’t sure you can sing. Yea – that was the feeling in my gut. She sensed my fear and kept pressing and I started to cry. I said “he does things”. WHO? WHO DOES THINGS? I told her in a whisper “Larry” and from there, she dragged me to him. He was perched on the faux leather recliner with his white tube socks…he always wore white tube socks. They were always brilliant white. She made me tell him what I said. Except I had to use the F*** word. Tears and quivering, I managed to say “He F****s me” I was then sent to my room. An action today I treat as punishment against me but then it was safe. The fight followed….I was safe because she didn’t leave and he didn’t come into my room. 

They separated for a few months and I didn’t see him. She took me to the gynecologist in Weatherford TX just a few days after it all happened. I remember the male dr doing a vaginal exam and then telling me to sit outside while he and my mom talked. It burned. Like penis, the Dr. fingers hurt. I wore my gymnastic uniform – leotard and sweat pants. It was burgundy with hot pink stripes on the legs. I had a meet that night. I was an outcast. Not very good at gymnastics because I was so big and clunky. My parents never came to meets. I was in 4th grade. Mrs. Koch was my teacher. We made butter in a jar in her class. She was nice. I sat outside the office while they spoke and then she came out and we left. Nothing else…..ever. Except my mother said we don’t need to talk about this. And my grandmother, she said we don’t need to talk about this and bring shame on the family. So we didn’t. We really haven’t. 

At the age of 41 I realized she probably told the Dr. I was having sex but did not tell him that my step dad was having sex with me. I had already forgiven her by this point in my life so I cried for my child and the safety lost….but moved on.
My mother went back to this man, her husband. She then left for the Bahamas. As I said above, he had me every night while she was gone. I tried to hide outside sometimes because I knew he would take me if I were alone in the house with him. He would call my name….I wouldn’t come. He would always get me eventually. Sneak into my bed after the boys had gone to sleep. My bed was at the very back of the house and was completely closed off. I would lay there and try to pretend I was asleep. He would touch me. The odd thing is that I orgasmed, although I had no idea what it was or why I was doing it. I cannot remember what he did to himself or if he did anything. I played dead. He would leave. There were other times I remember orgasming. That is where I think I had the most shame on myself as I realized what had happened. That and the ice cream. 

When my mom returned from her vacation, he didn’t touch me again. Mom and he fought like crazy and he spent a lot of time at the bars and not coming home. One fight, he threw all our dishes at my room door and then came and shook me. I had the flu. My mom hit him and told him to not ever touch me again. It wasn’t very long thereafter they separated for good and divorced. We moved to Dallas.

I ran away in 9th grade and again in 11th grade – for good. I smoked pot. I smoked cigarettes (no one in my family smoked). I stole wine coolers from the local grocery store and I drank. I was temporarily homeless and slept at a lake after a party one night. I swam across the marina and a man, in his 40s? took me for a ride on his boat. I was sure he wanted something. He did not. He told me I should not be out there alone. He was nice. I remember that ride. 
I was promiscuous in my teens and early twenties, not flirty but I truly believed it was how others showed kindness and love to me. Needless to say, I was taken advantage of a lot. 

I was taken advantage of at a party in 9th grade (was so drunk, I had no idea what was going on) and a guy I knew pulled my pants down and had me. A bunch of “popular” type girls walked in and from them on, those girls barked at me through high school. I joined the military. I married young to a physically and emotionally abusive man. Although I had a temper and was able to defend myself, he was very abusive. We had a child. Our marriage lasted 3 years after he had a restraining order put against him by the US Airforce for beating me. 

I married another man…a cop. He was controlling and emotionally abusive. God would make us work – keep us safe. We had 2 children. When the youngest turned 2, he physically struck me after I refused to conform to his control. I reported him to Family Advocacy, called my mother and left him. I went back – he begged me and I thought it was best for the boys. It was ugly. I left again…for good. I was pretty broken: emotionally, spiritually and financially.

I dated another man – a drunk. He was very educated. I got pregnant. We married because it was the Christian thing to do and God would somehow make it right. He was a drunk and poured all the money into alcohol. Not abusive, just removed and drunk. He showed no love, only a strong desire for sex. I always caught him with porn, teen girl bondage porn, found cheating dating sites he had registered on, found emails from women he had been talking to, sometimes he wouldn’t come home and he said it was a late meeting or board meeting. We had 2 children, the second of which (my only daughter) I gave up to a couple who really wanted a child because my husband was such a drunk, porn addict and financially inept that I was scared he would fail us and we would fail her. 

I got involved in martial arts. The owner of the program, Hill Country Karate, told me how great I was and what a great instructor I was. I excelled through the program at a rapid pace. When I received my brown belt, I was given black belt candidacy. It was at this point that the owner of Hill Country Karate decided to use me as he sexual doll. He had used my vulnerabilities (loss of my child and drunk husband) as a tool and combined that with carefully crafting the tasks he had me do in the org so I was enmeshed. He told me I was his slave. I was marked. I wore a leash. I was involved in a sex ring of sorts. My husband knew. He was too drunk to help.

I finally grew a set and took back control of my world. Finished my Master’s Degree. Started writing to help me recover. Got my black belt and self-defense instructor cert. Started doing a few training sessions on teen dating violence. Joined my local anti DV org. Volunteered for the local abuse shelter as best I could. Got a job. Ratted Nick Smith out. Left my husband. 

In the interim, I have found my inner strength. I have found great counseling, although intermittent, it has been effective. I have had to forgive many for their indiscretions against me, but not forget. I have yet to forgive my last husband or Nick Smith. My partner, who is most loving has a similar past and understands my broken soul. He walks beside me now and we hold the other up when it is needed. I am tired of being abandoned and alone. It was when I took control over my world that my world changed.

 
That is my story.

KEEPING INCEST A SECRET EATS AT YOU & TEARS YOU APART

“I believe when you are attacked, either as a child or as an adult, that you are put in a position of choice. You can either allow it to consume you and watch it destroy you or you can fight against it. Only you can make yourself develop the courage to overcome it and talk about it openly. When you carry it as a secret it will eat at you and continue to tear you apart.” 

(Patricia A. McKnight, My Justice, 2011)

With these words, Patricia, one of the bravest women I know, brings the last few pages of her real life story of abuse and incest to a close. I have never met Patricia in person. We are friends on Facebook now, but my first encounter with her came when I was researching incest on YouTube and found her video that I shared in this earlier blog post here. As she gave a few details of the sexual abuse she suffered at the hands of her step-father for 12 years, I was shocked, but compelled to read her book, My Justice, available as an eBook at LULU.COM, or as a soft cover at Amazon and other online sites. 

As someone who is now writing her own story of incest, I had to know how she wrote her story and how much detail she provided. As a fellow survivor, I had to know about the reactions of her family, friends and others had to her terrible disclosures and most importantly, what have been the long-term effects of the dreadful abuse she suffered, not just at the hands of her father but several other abusers who took over where her step-father left off. 

My Justice wasn't an easy read, for me, not so much for the violence Patricia suffered (which was often-times horrific) but for what it said about her own mother's denial, ignorance, and lack of love and support for this poor child with the brilliant blue eyes. Throughout her 40 + years of abuse, Patricia tried time and again to win and hold onto her mother's love. She desperately wanted a good relationship with her mother, some acknowledgement that "Trecia" was indeed a good person to whom bad things had happened at the hands of her own husband. And her mother never, to this day, gave her that vital pleasure. This mother, for me, is as loathsome as the step-father. In the criminal justice system, people are charged, tried and convicted for aiding and abetting a crime. I can think of Patricia's mom in no other terms: she aided and abetted this ugly, abusive step-father who took her virginity by ramming a rifle up his step-daughter's vagina! Patricia's mother stood beside this monster till his death, but she never once stood up for or protected her daughter. For me, this is the saddest part of My Justice. 

The last few pages also drove home another ugly fact about incest when the family doesn't know the details, or when it does, turns a blind eye toward the truth. The accuser becomes the accused: the abuser is believed over the abused. What's wrong with this picture! In my Facebook group, SPEAK OUT FROM UNDER, it's heartbreaking to learn from other victims that this is the reaction in their families too. We rail against the honour killings in other cultures, but by insisting incest and child sexual abuse be covered up, hushed up, not talked about, how different are we? These children die too ... just more slowly. It may not be a physical death, but unless they can open up and someone believes them, they die mentally and spiritually. Death by the long term incarceration of silence as opposed to hanging. Which is worse?

And then there's the effects on the children of an abused parent. It's heart-breaking to read how Patricia's past has negatively affected her relationships with her daughters. Her past made Patricia ill-equipped to handle the ups and downs of motherhood, though it's obvious she loved her children more than herself. Sadly, they don't see it that way. They saw her constant searching for a kind, non-abusive male companion as whoring.  At one point, her own children were now calling her what her abuser had called her: a dirty, ugly whore. 

How Patricia has survived all this mental, physical, spiritual and sexual abuse is something only she knows. It's something each of us who have gone through similar, easier or worse, knows. We all have different levels of strength and resolve. Some of us can take more, some less. Some of us can come out from under enough to talk about it privately, or as Patricia and I am now doing, publicly.  But it's never easy and even after it's done, it's still fraught with anxiety, worry and insecurity that we are doing the right thing by talking about it at all. But silence is deadly. 

I thank Patricia for showing me the way with her book. While I had decided to write my own book before I'd ever heard of her, MY JUSTICE has given me the courage to continue writing. My conversations with Patricia via Facebook and private emails have shown me the beautiful, caring person she is and has always been. She is a classic example of what it's like when bad things happen to good people but she has come out on top and is now devoting her life to helping others who are suffering as she did. I urge you to not just read Patricia's book, but to join her newest site at PATRICIA MCKIGHT'S JUSTICE and to follow her blog at SURVIVOR'S JUSTICE.

Don't let YOUR secret "eat at you and continue to tear you apart." As Patricia says in the final line of her book:

“If your world is not what you want, then I hope that you can find the strength to survive and move forward away from the pain.”

COME OUT FROM UNDER!