The most disgusting nightmare yet

 

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This one is going to get ugly.  I am triggering hard.  Last night’s nightmares have shaken me.  They started the night before.  Me running from him.  Last night the theme and feeling of the dream changed.  I need to vomit and then try to get this out.  I’m also making an apmnt to see my therapist.

If you have read my story you know that there are two men I have regular nightmares around.  My older brother who molested, hit, mentally & emotionally tortured and raped me and my Xman whom I did drugs with and would have surely lost my life to when the PTSD had control.  They look very similar physically and they have the same narcissistic sociopathic tendencies.  Last night, it was both of them.

It is one of the most insane and disturbing dreams I have had post therapy.  Are we really ever truly “post” therapy.  I don’t think so.  I think I will always be going back when I need help with PTSD.  Why be miserable?  I digress….

Back to the dream.  I was an adult.  I flashed between two scenes like a TV shows does to keep you up on both stories.  Sometimes I was at my Parents home in Oregon (the one they had when I was young) and other times I was renting a house with other Burners.  In both instances, I was not safe.  The feeling of needing to escape is my reoccurring nightmare theme.  It’s dark.  I know “the bad man” is coming and I need to escape.  Sometimes I start frantically packing things because I know I am never coming back.  Other times I begin to run and open secret doors that lead to more rooms and more secret doors.  Sometimes I make it outside but am then somehow too afraid to run into the dark.  I often take a car and then suddenly I am in the back seat and no one is driving or there are no brakes.  It’s sheer emotional terror.

This time when my brother appeared naked, erect and wanting to fuck me, I was wanting to do it as well.  I knew we had to hide.  We were moving around the basement silently trying to find a place where no one would see us.  I was intensely aroused and close to orgasm.  I would flash over to the other dream and it would be my Xman.  He would also be erect and wanting to have sex.  I was also trying to hide him and to fuck him.  Back and forth ~ back and forth.  Me as a grown adult.  Knowing it was wrong and yet so filled with lust and that all I wanted to do was have sex.  At one point in the dream, I am laying in a bed in my Mothers home.  I am waking up from the dream I just described.  I reached for a vibrator and was going to attempt to masturbate because I was so aroused.  I still knew it was disgusting but was so sexually aroused I did it anyway.

I awoke this morning in full trigger mode.  The room was spinning.  I had to fight to come fully awake.  I was screaming for help in my own head.  I felt someone sit down on the bed next to me and I was frozen stiff.  I could not get my eye’s all the way open and my vision was completely blurred when I did.  I felt myself start to panic.  My heart was pounding.  I had to first convince myself I was alone and safe.  I felt (feel) terrified, disgusted and relieved (that it was a dream and not real).  I stood up quick and had to balance myself.  I had a desire to be out of the bedroom and into the light.  As soon as I opened the curtain that separates our bedroom from the living room I began to come down.  I started talking to myself out loud and reached inside for my PTSD battle tools.  “It was a dream.  I am safe.  It was just a dream of a PTSD ridden mind.  It does not mean that’s what you want.  It does not have to have meaning at all.  It was just a dream.  It’s just the PTSD.  It’s just the PTSD.  It’s just the…..”

So yeah, there’s a new fucking shitty ass trigger in there.  Wow.  I mean I know I have been replacing the abuser.  I know that Xman looked eerily like my brother.  I know why I was with him and why I let him abuse me.  I know why I abused him back.  I understand and have released shame for the choices I made when the PTSD controlled me.  But fucking shit I did not need that fucking dream.  I am so deeply grossed out.  I went straight to the toilet.  Handled that.  Reached for my weed and went outside.  I knew standing there on our deck knowing that the most important thing for me to do right now would be to come in here and tell you here on this blog ~ my truth.

I have a lump in my throat.  I have images of my brothers erect cock coming at me.  I have images of myself wanting it…..  WTF  AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT???  I don’t want to think about that.  I don’t want to see it.  I am so deeply and horribly disgusted by that dream.

PTSD feeds on shame and fear.  It holds you down and tells you that you are disgusting and you should never ever tell anyone your ugly truth.  It kicks you and beats when you are down and it can reach up and bitch slap you when you are up too.  I did nothing to deserve my childhood.  I did nothing to deserve PTSD.  I have no shame over a dream that is the result of PTSD.  It doesn’t mean shit.  It was just a dream.  I wanted to share that with you.  I wanted to take away it’s power by showing it to you.  And I hope that if you have the same sick dreams you will know that it is just the PTSD and you are not disgusting.

I want to go for a walk in the rising sun with my dog.  I want to scream and cry and vomit.

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Should Be

I should be writing.

I have a lot to say these days.

I hope the voice in my head is happy now.  The one who keeps asking me why I am not writing.  I suppose everyone goes through these times.  Write, don’t write, write a lot and so on.

Wait….. am I behaving normally again?

The 20’s

When I took off into the world as an “adult” at least by age, I had no idea how to live.  I didn’t know how to manage anything.  I was barely educated.  I was scared all the time.  I hated being alone.  I spent most nights fighting irrational fear if I was alone.  I tried to live alone in a small apartment.  Rather than battle the nightly fear I let an alcoholic friend sleep in my apartment.  From that point on I knew I needed a roommate or else I would be afraid every night.

My 20’s was littered with married or single men who just wanted sex.  I was angry at them for years.  I would have once listed them as men who used me.  But let’s be honest.  I chased after and used them.  I used them to try to heal what was broken inside me.  I used them to feel safe at night.  I used them to feel loved for a brief few hours.  Not once in my 20’s did I date a nice guy.  That is hard to admit because my Xhusband who is was a good man in many ways is included in that time.

But I have to be honest, our relationship was born “wrong” and try as we may the branded scarlet S was never removed.  He was married.  He told me al the stories of how horrible and miserable his marriage was.  He told me how he loved me and wanted to be with me.  He was the first man to say those things and I was a young and very desperate for love woman.  I actually believed we would live happily ever after when I moved in with him the first time.  Two weeks later he told me had to work on his marriage.  I left and didn’t hear from him for I think a few years.  Then he had a friend who was private eye track me down and call me.  I ran straight back to him.  I was living alone in a tiny apartment and battling the fear every night.  I was gaining weight rapidly because I went to work and ate junk food.  That was my life.  Did I love him?  Yes I did, very much.  Was it the correct decision?  I have to say yes because in the end my path led me to where I am and the blessings I have because of it.

The craziness of a teenager

We arrived in Stockton, CA in 1984.  I was 15yrs old.  My StepFather had been transferred again.  I was to start a new life.  The conflicts began almost immediately.  California was like a new world to a weird NW girl.  We stayed at The Hilton hotel for a couple of weeks until we could find a house.  I was bored.  I don’t remember the excuse I used to get out or the time of day it was as I roamed the halls of the grand hotel just wasting time.  I saw a man and went from zero to a complete fantasy of him falling madly in love with me in my brain.  Looking back, I know now that he was the first “bad guy” I was attracted to.  I changed into my swim suit and headed for the pool hoping to see him.  I did.  He told me his room number and invited me to come up.  I don’t know what I was thinking would happen.  Honestly, it was before I knew what it meant when a man invites you to his hotel room.  I walked in thinking I would finally be having adult conversation and be a grown up.  Maybe he would marry me.  I hope my StepFather would like him…..

I was in his room for only a few mins when he came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel.  At first I thought he had his swim trunks on under it.  I asked if he was ready for the pool.  He said the pool was fun but he wanted to get to know me first.  I was still clueless.  I was thinking he was paying attention to me and this is must be what adults do.  He laid down on the bed and through the towel back.  I was 15yrs old alone in a hotel room with an adult (I’m guessing 30’s) male who had just exposed himself and was laying on a bed.  I moved like a flash towards the door.  He didn’t move.  I opened the door, yelled something about seeing women as a piece of meat and ran down the hall.  I ran and ran without looking back.  I told no one.  The next day I was in the kids play area playing with some younger kids who were also staying at the hotel.  I looked up to the floors above and saw him standing at a rail, pointing down to me and talking to another man.  I again took off running.  I stayed in our room unless my Mom or Stepfather was with me for the rest of our stay.  Every time we left the room I was terrified I would see him and he would tell my parents what a bad slutty little girl I had been.  I immediately blamed myself and feared I would be in trouble.  Again, it never occurred to me that he was in the wrong and could have gone to jail.

A few weeks later we moved into a duplex in the nicer neighborhood of Stockton.  The distinction is important because what I was about to find out is that California gangs are far more real and serious than anything we had ever seen in Portland, OR.  My Mother took me to tour the school that our home had recently been reassigned to.  We drove south and I was walked through the halls of a high school that felt like I was being walked straight into hell.  We drove away and I told my Mother if she enrolled me in that school I would not go.  She told me it would never happen.  The city had just voted to start trying a “busing” program to try to integrate the students.  Basically they were busing kids from both side of the tracks to the side they did not live on.  I realize how it sounds now.  But at the time I was truly terrified.

My Mom found and enrolled me into a private Christian school.  The school required that we attend church.  This is when I heard things like “Jesus, Atheist and sinner” for the first time.  I showed up in my treasured black leather biker jacket with my Ozzy pins and my black eye liner thickly in place.  I was immediately advised of the dress code and many other rules.  The next five years were a nightmare.  Now I had it in my head that I was evil and going to hell for my sins.  Back and forth.  Up and down I went.  I would pray and pray and pray.  I went to 6AM prayer meetings, attended church three days a week, read the bible until I had it almost memorized and sang my heart out to the beautiful songs of worship I learned.  Then I would “rebel” as we called it in our youth group.  Rebelling was when we would go party and act like normal teens.  I became a master at hiding my rebellion and sins.  My friends and I would drink, smoke weed and party like teens do.  Then go to church or school and act like the perfect Christians.  We had it down to a science.  We had codes and always backed each other up when questioned by adults.  We had changes of clothes, condoms, cigarettes and more stashed in the trunks of our cars.  We knew exactly where we could change and still make it to our boyfriends and back on our lunch hour or after school.  By my Senior year I was dating a guy who played the same game but was a year ahead of me.  He went to a public high school but lived close to me.  I met him while working after school at Burger King.  He graduated and went to San Jose State on a full basketball scholarship.  He was a talk gorgeous dark black drink of delicious and the first “player” I gave my teenage heart to.  He was young and so was I.  He never hit me, never treated me like anything less than a queen when I was with him.  It was just that I had no idea what a player was and how much he played lol lol.  I have no anger for him.  He probably spared me a great deal by being my “boyfriend.”  I sat at home waiting for him and writing him letters a lot.  I drove to San Jose to see him twice and my parents never knew.  I thought I was in love.  I was just a seventeen year old very confused and desperate for love young lady.

I know that I was a difficult teen.  I had a lot of emotional problems due to the molestation and rape.  But I have to be honest and tell you that my StepFather also contributed greatly to my PTSD.  Had I not been molested and raped his constant teasing and putting my Mom and I down for being women may not have had such an effect on me.  But my reality is that I can still hear him telling me I am fat, ugly, stupid and that someday he will have to pay someone to marry me because no one will ever want me.  So while I remember trying to disappear and be quiet, my Mom remembers constant battles.  I agree that I was always in trouble. I just don’t agree that I deserved it.  The night before I graduated from high school my Mother told me I had to leave her home because I was ruining her marriage.  I was standing in the guest room ironing the silk gown / robe thing that goes over your clothes.  She just walked into the room and said “you have 30 days to be out of my home because you are destroying my marriage” and walked out.  I knew she was serious because when I was about ten years old and was in trouble for something she had told at me not to ever make her choose between me and her husband because she would choose him.  A sentence she has stood by and I would like to slap her for.  I looked at my son years later at ten years old and shook my head remembering that day unable to fathom laying some shit like that on him.

I tried to find a job and a friend who would let me move in with them.  Three days before my deadline my Father drove down from Oregon with a friend to retrieve me and my possessions.  My Mother did nothing to help me.  She didn’t help me pack, teach me how to pack anything or offer any guidance.  Every night I was quietly as possible putting my clothes and most prized possessions in boxes I got from grocery stores or garbage bags.  As my Father and his friend loaded my things into his truck I was excited.  I was leaving Cali and going back to Oregon to live with my Father.  I was 18 and had a high school diploma.  My Mother sat in the living room and watched TV.  She had to be hurting but she choose to express it in anger.  When we I told her we were done she looked at my Father and said “Well I guess I wont tell you all her problems, I’ll just let you discover for yourself.”  Later as we drove down the road I asked my Father what she meant by that.  He said he didn’t know and asked what I thought she meant.  I remember saying that I didn’t think I was that bad and that I didn’t think it was nice of her to say that.  I had been at my Fathers home for a week when he came to me and told me that the therapist he and my StepMom had been seeing had recommended one for me to see.  I agreed to go.

“Something really really really bad happened to me when I was little….”  This was the way I started the answer to the request from my new therapist to tell him my life story up to this point.  I then proceeding to tell him about what a horrible person I was and how I had been so bad to have sex in high school and so on.  I told him about the church and how now there were demons after me because I was a sinner.  I finished my story just before the hour was over.  “What was the really really really bad thing that happened when you were little?” he asked.  I told him I was raped but that I was sure I had already given that to God and it was not a problem anymore.  He suggested we start there to be sure and I agreed because he was the doctor and frankly I was on an upswing from having finally moved into my Dads home.

Two months later the therapy he started with me would trigger a flood gate of memories and I would experience my first flashbacks.  I began to unravel and became suicidal.  I look back and wonder if I really wanted to die or if I was trying to express the level of pain that was inside me.  Either way, my Father, StepMother and I made the decision that I needed more intense therapy and at the prompting of my therapist I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital.  I remained there for two months.  I have gone back and forth regarding the treatment I received.  If you watch the movie “Girl Interrupted” you will see almost exactly what it was like except it was the late 80’s rather than the 60’s.  That movie was spot on.  I had a completely enmeshed and inappropriate relationship with a fellow female patient.  Not sexual at all.  I wanted to protect her from being further abused.  She lied and manipulated me.  I was older.  I was blamed for everything.

When I left the hospital I think I might have been somewhat worse off mentally but I was alive and that was a good thing.  I just still didn’t fully believe it myself.  I was 18 and all I wanted was to be left alone.  I wanted a man, a job and to be loved.  I wanted the fantasy all American life.  I wanted to just be normal.

Weird Little Girl

Chapter 3 

Around age nine I began to realize how very differnt I was from my peers.  I wanted to fit in and have friends.  I longed for a close bond with someone, anyone really.  I had moved to California with my Mother and StepFather.  I missed my Dad terribly.  I once got up the courage to tell my parents that I wanted to live in Oregon with Dad.  My Mothers reaction was not what I had expected.  I was a child.  I not even considered that my Mother would become so upset.  She freaked out and cried in her room refusing to let me in.  I remember her calling Dad and having me talk to him in the phone.  He asked me why I wanted to live with him.  I remember saying something like “I don’t know, I just do.”  It didn’t happen.  I have never told my Mother but I have often wondered what would have happened if I had been allowed to live with my Father.

My StepFather was transferred back and forth between CA and OR a lot.  All I wanted was for the pain inside, the memories and the guilt I carried to stop.  I wanted to be loved.  I wanted to feel special rather then in the way.  I did a great deal of attention seeking behavior.  I cried in school at the slightest mishap or tease from a school mate.  I became obsessed with the fantasy of running away from the life I knew and finding a man to love me more then anything else on earth.  I started practice running away at age ten.  I used to pack my dolls up and go sit under a tree and pretend to be homeless.  I would talk to my dolls telling them not to worry because the bad man would not find us here.  I did this countless times as a form of escape from what I was surviving at home.

We moved back to Oregon just before I started 5th grade I think.  I was the new girl again.  I was fat and weird.  I tried to take up playing the flute and be in the band.  But I was so caught up in desperately trying to be cool that made a complete ass of myself.

I had sex with the wrong guy in middle school and the next day I was the school slut.  By the end of the day I had “given head” to five differnt guys and was possibly pregnant according to the rumor mill.  It seems the entire school knew my name and that I was a slut.  About a month later the first adult crossed the line.

I was in seventh grade.  I had large breasts and a big ass already.  I was at that awkward place of aware of body and the way I was looked at but clueless how to handle it.  Mr.M taught shop class.  He was the teacher that all the cool boys liked.  I decided to take shop class in an attempt to be the cool girl who all the guys would then like.  It was a great plan.  I was doing something with a vice grip.  A piece of metal snapped and hit me directly above the eye brow.  Mr.M soaked a paper towel in water and applied pressure.  I was sitting on a shop stool.  He had one hand on the front of my head and another on the back.  I was saying I’m OK and I suddenly realized he was leaning towards me.  His crotch was moving closer and closer to me and within seconds I realized he was taking advantage of the situation. I tried to squirm away and he tightened his grip.  I jerked away hard and he looked shocked.  “Go sit down if you need to then” he said with firm control and attitude that implied I was a dumb little girl.  The guys all laughed loudly.  I told my Mom.  The next day I was taken into the Prinicpals office and made to confront Mr.M in front of my Mom and the Principal.  He was a master manipulator and turned on the charm.  I put my head down and would not speak except to say that I was not lying.  He said I was hurt and misunderstood that he was trying to help me and that he would never do such a thing.  I was transferred to home economics class and he did not return to the school the next year.

The Summer before my Freshman year is when I really began to act out.  I ran away from home and stayed with friends.  I was so confussed and fucked up.  I had it in my head that I just needed a man  to love me.  I heard a friend’s boyfriend tell her that he loved her.  I thought if I could get him to love me I would be OK.  I almost got my first ass whooping over that.  I started having sex with guys my age and adults in their 20’s.  I thought I was so grown up and eventually one would love me and save me.  It didn’t happen.  At age 13 my boyfriend was 23yrs and a  old raging alcoholic who would fuck me in a tent or RV in his parents yard.  They lived behind the house I was staying in with a friend.  He would go get drunk and then tap on my window.  I would sneak out the back door, hop the fence and go right into wherever he told me.  We would have sex and I would sneak back to my friends house.  I got pregnant and had an abortion.  

As Summer ended my Mom contacted me and told me my StepFather was being transferred to CA again and if I wanted to start over I could move with them and go back to school.  I decided to go.  I was looking forward to being a normal teenager in Cali. 

The picture is me in Missiouri at about age eight or nine.  I remember this day and the picture being snapped by my StepFather.  It was before I began to hate myself and feel so dirty all the time. 

My rape story

Serious trigger warning if the title wasn’t enough.

As I said in the last post I don’t know if I can find the time when the molestation soley between my brother and I started.  I have many memories now in many different houses.  I have weird memories of being told to let his friends touch me but to never tell them that he did.  I never fought him.  I never said no.  Not until the day came years after he had stopped touching me and “no” had no power.

Some of the memories that disturb me the most are not of the times I lay there silently while he squeezed my already developing small breast, fingered my vagina and sometimes rubbed his penis between my buttocks.  But always obeying the original golden rule of “nothing in the hole.”  It’s the memories of shattering my childhood fun that haunt me the most.  It’s how I learned to never ever let my guard down.  Once after my parents had divorced  and my Father was dating we went to visit his girlfriends family.  It was a holiday gathering.  A house full of kids of all ages.  A game of hide and seek began.  I must have been about eight by this time.  I ran into a bedroom and scrambled under a bed.  It was an old house with wood floors that creaked when you walked.  The rooms were all tiny and had old fashioned decorations.  It was the 70’s and we were in the home of my Father’s girlfriends grandparents, I think.  Lots of old school decorations and the beds had metal spring frames that cut you if you were not careful.  I went way to the back corner under that old bed for a better chance of not being seen at a quick glance.  I was there only seconds when he slid in effortlessly and I was trapped.  I was in the game.  I was playing hide and seek.  I wasn’t thinking about what he did to me.  I was caught off guard.  Foot steps told us the kid who was “it” was in the hall.  Yep, he glanced quickly under the bed from the door and walked down the hall.  I turned to whisper that we were safe and realized the moment I saw his face that I was in trouble.  Over time I began to recognize that look.  The look on his face that said he “he was in the mood” as he called it.   We were face down on the floor.  I had a wall on my left and at my feet.  The floor was filthy.  His hand was on my ass.  He is cupping and squeezing my ass like I would never ever desire to have done at this age.  I began to trace the lines in the dust with my eye’s.  “I miss my sister” he whispered in a voice that should never be used for a sibling.   I think it must have been close to one of the last times I allowed it because it is the first memory I have of saying that I didn’t miss that and that I didn’t like it any more.  But I know for sure it was the first time that taught me to never ever let my guard down if he was present and sadly still haunts me every night when I try to go to sleep.  I wiggled forward as fast as I could fully expecting him to grab my ankle but just as I reached the front of the old bed the kid who was “it” came back around and yelled “I see you, I heard you moving” with great delight.  I took my chance and replied that I was out as I moved quickly for the kitchen where the women were cooking and laughing and talking.  

But between the first time and then were countless times.  I have flashes and pieces of memories from about six years old to 13 years old.  Being asleep in my room and he would come into my bed.  The physical abuse was always kept separate from the sexual abuse, until the day he …… We’ll wait he didn’t really use violence even when he raped me.  I never realized that untl now.  He just didn’t take no for an answer and kept telling me that I should just let him, I should help him, I owed him and so on until I was crying and finally agreed to let him rub his penis between my buttocks one last time when he swore to me it would be the last time he ever touched me.  I think I may have walked willing to the back of the small RV we were standing in.  The final lesson on never ever letting my guard down.  I had ran back for a grape soda.  They were in the fridge in the RV.  Again, he followed and I didn’t know it until he was inside and I was trapped.  I remember hearing him say something about if this was the last time and he entered me.  I was face down and my hips were against the bed.  I immediately said “no no not in my hole!”  I began to cry hard. He stroked a few times and told me not to worry because he was almost done.  I remember thinking I was a total whore now and no one will ever like me.  I worried what would happen if the kids at school found out.  I don’t remember pain and there was no blood.  He didn’t break my hymen.  I don’t think he got deep enough.  A saving grace of sorts.  He did have the thought of mind to not cum inside me.  Or maybe he just liked it better pulling out already at his age.  I was 13 and he was about 17.  As soon as he let go of me I curled forward into a ball and was still crying.  I don’t remember where he came probably because he either didn’t or I was curled into a ball with my face hidden.  What I do remember is the instant change in his demeanor when I would not stop crying.  He is standing over me yelling at me that I am such a little baby and I better grow up and learn to like It or no guys are ever going to like me and so on.  He is standing over his younger sister who he has molested for years and on occasion hit and just raped telling her that it was the worst dead lay ever and I better learn to fuck better.  Then he adds the words I have never forgot.  He made me look at him and I saw the monster I feared when he said “if you ever tell anyone I will kill you and I’ll kill Mom too” before he turned and walked out of the RV.

There’s more to the story but that is the short version.  There is the question of how we went unnoticed away from the adults for so long.  There is a memory of another boy at the party being there and leaving when he realized what was happening saying something like “I’m not into this.”  Honestly until I started typing I had no memory of getting from the front of the RV (where the door was) to the back where the bed was.   Today is the first time I realized he didn’t physically force me back there or take my swim suite bottoms off.  I think this is why I carried so much shame and guilt.  He had taken my virginty.  Maybe not my hymen but mentally and emotionally I went from innocent teen curiosity about sex to slutty used up whore in my own heart and mind that day.  It was my fault and I was bad.

The next few years were me showing the world how bad I was and no one could figure out why.

My first memories of sexual abuse.

I spent years telling therapists and whoever would listen that my childhood was horrid and that I had no positive memories of my childhood.  I was sincere and being truthful, to the best of my knowledge at the time.  I must have sounded so bat shit crazy.  I was in a sense.  I have visited madness and had tea with the Mad Hatter on more then one occasion.  What I know today is that when a child is abused and exposed to sex, fear and manipulation at such a young age there are certain parts of development that are stunted and/or blocked.  My perception of my childhood being all evil, all bad and no good times came from my living in constant fear.

Let me try to explain.  I now remember some really good times in my childhood.  But I could not see those things when I first began my journey to heal because even in the greatest of times, I was terrified.  No matter what was going on in reality, I always knew that at any moment one of the abusers in my life could lash out at me.  I always knew that this happy time was temporary and hell was just around the corner waiting for me.  I always knew that the bad was coming again and again and again.  As I grew up I created a memory of fear, anxiety and being abused constantly.  In my child’s mind, I was.

But there were good days.  There were adventures and even times I felt safe and slept well without waking to check the house or sneak food.  When I slept at my Dads house or my Nana’s house I knew I was safe.  I had toys and tv’s with game systems, a pool for a few years when I was young and more.  We went to baseball games, we went to fairs and amusement parks.  We visited friends and family.  Yet all this was blocked until just last year.

How do I begin to share?  Where do I begin?   I’m not sure if I can put the childhood memories of being molested in chronological order.  It started with what I now see as normal kids curiosity with our parents friends kids who were our age.  I have trouble placing my age.  It was before my parents were divorced so I am less then six or close to it.  My older brother is nine or ten.  I remember going to BBQ’s at their house.  I loved going there because they had a huge airplane built from wood with a slide going down one side and tree swing.  One visit everything changed.  We had the usual day.  Uncle L made chicken on the grill.  Aunt S was drunk and loud as always.  The adults would eventually end up sitting around a table playing cards, drinking and smoking.  Looking back, yeah there were drugs involved.  But I don’t recall seeing them until much later.  So the adults are playing cards and the sun is down so the kids are sent to the basement where they have a play room.  Not much to play with but there were sleeping bags and pillows.  My first flash is D being trapped inside a sleeping bag by my brother and V.  I remember her screaming that she couldn’t breathe and to let her out.  The boys are laughing and holding down the open end of the sleeping bag so she can get out.  I began to cry and yell for my Dad.  My brother grabbed my arm and pulled me to his face “shut up brat” he said.  I backed away but still cried and began to beg them to let her go.  My brother turned and said to me in a calm comforting and sweet voice “it’s ok we are just playing” and he tried to coax me over to him.  I was still crying.  And this is where it all started.  The moment my life went from normal childhood to hell beyond what my mind could have fathomed.  “If we let her go you have to let V touch you.”  The words came out his mouth like it was nothing.  He was ten years old for fucks sake.  How was I to know the door I was allowing to be opened.  I said yes.  I wanted D free and I remember thinking it was only V so it wasn’t “bad.”  I was six years old.  Do you know a six year old who understands sexual molestation?

The rest of that night I have only flashes of images.  Somehow this trade the two boys made became a regular occurrence.  We would play all day and then end up in the basement letting the boys “touch” but never put anything “in the hole.”  Again, child logic.  I don’t know how many times it happened.  Enough that when I asked V about it in our early 20’s his response was “how can you say he molested and raped you after all those times in my basement?”  I responded with “when D asked you to stop did you and did you ever force her long after we were old enough to know better?”  He said no and I responded with “that’s the fucking difference then.”  I never saw or spoke to D or V again.  The last time I saw D she was lost in alcoholism at 22 and crashing on a mattress in the same room in the basement.  It horrified me.  I don’t know if I can remember when my brother crossed the line and the molestation started at home.  It was shortly there after.

I need a break.  I’m going to walk my dogs in the sun.  I’ll keep going and the story will be under this category.

Featured image:Stolen Childhood by Rhynn (Laurence Rhynn Viollet)hystericalminds.com