I need help. I know I do, but I don’t know where to start. It all began when I was a child as it usually does with these kinds of things.
I was sexually abused by several people. I don’t recall when it started exactly. I have a vivid memory of my father sticking his hand down the back of my pants on a rare weekend when he showed to pick my sister and I up for a visit (the allowed every other weekend was more every other month). I didn’t realize it was wrong at the time but knew I didn’t like it. After my step mother went to sleep he would come get me out of the twin bed Stella and I would sleep in and take me to the spare bedroom. This room housed my step mothers doll collection. As I’d look at the creepy dolls with their bouncy curls and porcelain skin, he’d lift up the bottom of my Ronald Mcdonald nightgown and touch me. This torture carried on for years. I think it stopped when my brother, who is 7 years younger than me, was a toddler, but can’t remember an exact date. I would stay awake, sick at my stomach in that bed, my sisters feet in my face as she slept with her head at the foot of the bed. I knew he’d come.
One night I heard his bedroom door quietly shut and he entered as expected, but instead of waking me up as I pretended to sleep he started to jostle her. I sprang up and said “she’s sleeping I’ll go.” As sick as it made me, I wasn’t going to let him do it to her as well.
A year ago there were only two people who knew about this, my father and I (though I have my suspicions that my step mother knows or suspected). I was finally able to say it out loud to a counselor July 21st, 2021 when I sought help for a DEFINITELY related other issue (we’ll talk about that tomorrow). While my time with that counselor was brief due to a new job and scheduling, she helped me so fucking much, you guys. At 44 years old I was able to sleep without needing a nightlight. When bad things happen to you as a child, you want to be able to see everything in the room always. You learn to be ready to fight when you’re old enough to defend yourself. My poor husband was smacked or punched on numerous occasions simply for leaning in to kiss me as he left for an early morning flight. Oh, don’t worry, he hates me too now. We’ll get to that story eventually.
The day after I met the counselor I told my best friend. I wasn’t ready to tell my husband because I wasn’t sure how he would react. We were basically living together while deeply resenting each other for being unhappy already. Why throw my childhood trauma onto the pile of our issues?
The person I haven’t told yet? My mom. How do you have that conversation? “Listen mom, some really bad shit happened. Don’t worry. I turned out okay, sorta.” Or do I even have to have it? I grew up never getting into trouble because I was scared of her wrath. I’m legit scared she may hurt him. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, but the man has 3 types of cancers( one being prostate which has rendered him impotent), karma is doing her thing. I don’t need my kind, beautiful mama in prison over this asshole. So I’m torn which is why I need help, one of many reasons why. Another? I still talk to and see him occasionally as if everything is normal and the abuse never happened. Did you audibly gasp there? This is what I was working through, deciding how to move forward when I started the new job and stopped seeing the counselor , right after she diagnosed me with PTSD.
I’m not a writer so if you follow this anticipating the great American novel, expect to be disappointed. I’ve been a pro at disappointing people I love though, so take comfort that you’re in good company.
This is for me to selfishly work through my shit while dragging you along. I am too much for Dr. Phil, Iyanla, Dr. Drew, or Oprah to help (well maybe not Oprah, she can fix anything) . For now I’m fine just talking to you about it and it’s really fucking hard to talk about some of it, so bare with me.
Shit show : chapter two coming soon.
