The past couple days I’ve written about things from my childhood. I used to think I needed to write a book about my life simply because it was so unbelievable. I don’t particularly feel that way any more however. I guess I’ll always be processing the trauma, grief, anger and sadness that goes with being a survivor of incest and abuse. When I was born, my mother was 20 years old and had recently been left by her husband after she learned he was still married to someone else. Scary shit for someone only 20 years old. Mom moved back home with my grandparents and after I was born, we lived there off and on for my first 5 years of life. Between my biological father (mom’s first husband) and the man I called Dad until his death last month, my mom was married a total of 4 times. When we came home from the hospital, I was 3 days old I think. I cried alot and by my mother’s own statements, she admits to beginning to beat me when I was 4 days old because I wouldn’t stop crying. I gather she was ill with some kind of infection that made it impossible for her to have more children and that’s how it began. When I was 6 months old my grandfather began sodomizing me with metal coat hangers and he progressed to actual rape by the time I was two years old. My mother was married once when I was a year old and again when I was 2 or 3. She finally hooked up with my dad and married him when I was 5. I guess the second husband my mom had wasn’t too bad to me but the third one tied me up in the closet every time my mom would leave the house and one day she came home and found me there. We left that day and I can honestly say it was the first and the last time my mom saved me. My new daddy was a hitter…a verbal abuser…yelling and nasty comments all the time. He threw my mom around and told her she was worthless all the time. He told me one day that when he and mom got hooked up and married, he’d ended up seeing a psychiatrist because there were “difficulties” with me. He said the doctor told him it was too late to ‘fix’ me. If he’d gotten me before I was 3 there may have been hope. Since I was 5, though, my personality was formed and he might as well figure out how to live with it. Over the ensuing years, my dad’s repertoire of inappropriate sexual innuendos and verbal nastiness were punctuated with some pretty good beatings at times. He had 3 children before he hooked up with my mom and they were always better than I was and more special than I was. It didn’t matter how mean and horrible they were to me…nothing ever happened to them. I learned later that their mother was a raging alcoholic so I’m sure their home life wasn’t too good either. I have to stop now. Peace.


2 responses to this post.

  1. Imagine a psychiatrist saying those things..NOT! Your dad was clearly a wounded soul himself, full of anger and remorse over his own failings. Someone with a full bucket would not or could not, even begin to talk to you or your mom like that. Someday hopefully, you will be able to work through all of the crap and forgive him for being the awful person that he was. He was the product of his own dysfunction. That would be an incredible gift to be able to give to yourself. The little girl and the woman. Until that day, know you are simply perfect as you are.

    You are wonderful!


  2. what a task to approach…maybe you’ve been working through it for a while now, but even verbalization of past abuse is close to imossible for me. your candor and will are amazing. please don’t sell youself short. you are a wonderful writer with many important stories to share. your soul is beautiful.


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