I normally only sing when I’m sad.
I guess it only goes to show more about my life when you say I’m good at it.
not going to do anything, not going to do anything, not going to do anything, not going to do anything, not going to do anything, not going to do anything, not going to do anything.
Sometimes, I look down my newsfeed and see hurtful things like, “I fucking hate you. I hope you die” what’s there to hate that’s worth ruining your skin over?
Recently, somebody in my city had started a Postsecret on tumblr for people to post their secrets in, and I realized how many people had problems at home and how good it felt to reach out to others in the community that had similar situations. This has inspired me to share my experience of being abused to others out there who might be going through similar situations. I’m not here to complain or grab attention, just merely let others out there know that they are not alone.
Jan 26, 2011
I’m drowning. No, suffocating. There is no way to describe this feeling of mine. How are you supposed to live when you don’t feel safe in your own home but you can’t get away from it?
I’ve been molested by my father on multiple accounts. It began in my freshman year of highschool when I was fourteen years old, far younger than a girl should be when she has her first sexual encounter. I was accustomed to having my father scratch my back…it wasn’t something strange in my household, and oftentimes he would massage my back too, when I was too sore from dance class to move. These occurences began on the couch and then moved in to the bedroom. This type of thing went on for many years without any incident.
The terror began. I woke up to the feel of someone pulling the lower opening of my underwear, the opening that wrapped around my thighs, up. Then, when I would stir, the person would let go, and my underwear would snap back onto my butt. I kept up this farce of sleeping, and it happened multiple times. I didn’t know what to do. Was there a rapist in my room? Was I going to die? What had my life amounted to? Finally, I decided that if I were to die, it would be better to do it quickly rather than wait to be raped. I mimicked the motions of waking, and the person quickly placed his hands on my back and started massaging me. I knew that touch. My own father was in my room inappropriately looking at me. I remembered that for a long time, these episodes would occur maybe once a week. I didn’t know what to do. Should I turn in my father to the police? No, I had no evidence, and I couldn’t do that to my brother, who needed my father’s help so much in his troubled freshman year of college. Should I confide in my mother? No, I couldn’t burden her with these things. At the time, I was seriously depressed from entering my freshman year of highschool, and I wondered to myself silently, the biggest secret of all, whether or not I could just escape by committing suicide. The prospect was so tempting, the end of all stress, anger, confusion, and of this new terror. The only thing that got me through this was Justin. Thank God, if there is one, for Justin. I could very well be dead today, were it not for his friendship.
Justin and I met at a summer camp, the summer before I began highschool. He was my counselor and I his camper, but even with a whopping age difference of 3 years (I thought it was 4 because he was four years ahead of me in school) we managed to ignite a friendship. We talked nonstop, really. It was sort of an unhealthy relationship, and I regret, as I always do with my obsessions, that I neglected many of my close friends because I placed all trust in him and believed that he was the only friend that I would ever need. I’m not so naïve now. Somewhere along the way of our six month friendship, we fell apart, mostly because of me. How is a fourteen year old girl, whose only experience with romantic relationships was a strong crush the summer before resulting in her first other-gender hug, supposed to react to a confession of love? I freaked out and stopped talking to him, not knowing how to confront the situation. It would also be a lie to say that I didn’t foolishly toss him aside for . For a whole six months, I blocked on AOL instant messenger after finding out that he had defriended me on facebook. I was completely intent on making sure that he’d think I was dead, hoping that that would make the painful ending a dull thud rather than a sharp twang. Three months into our delicate ballet, I ran into him in Plano unexpectedly. I’d always assumed that he’d stayed at college over the weekends. A few angry messages were sent, and then we began talking again, slowly. It took two years to repair everything, but I believe that we’re in a stronger place than before.
I told my mom once, while we were in her car, where the majority of our most intense conversations occur, about what was going on. It took her weeks to catch on that I was not particularly happy. She finally insisted that I was not as normal as I had claimed to be, and I bursted into tears and told her about what my father was doing. She couldn’t bring herself to believe me. In her eyes, her husband was a sweet, innocent person without an ounce of ill intent in his persona. I knew him to be someone darker, whom I feared as a child, a man who would sometimes look at provocative photos, a man with problems, but in his heart, a good-natured person. After she had explained to me a few days later that what I thought of my father couldn’t be what he was, I knew that she had done a thorough job of convincing herself that what I had said was purely a figment of my overactive imagination. But my mom addressed my discomforts and requested that he stay out of my bedroom, which he did for a year, until I gradually let him back in after he had steadily regained my trust
Almost ironically, with the return of Justin and mine friendship, the terrors have begun again after lying dormant for almost two years. Recently, in the past two weeks or so, I have woken up every day to my father touching my butt. Sometimes he wedges his hand under my underwear, and just lets it rest there, cupping my bottom. The moment I know he’s there, I’m wide awake; molestation makes for the most effective alarm clock. I’ll move my position, and his hands will retract, but when I settle down, they always crawl and climb back in. Sometimes, it seems almost as though rather than squeezing my buttocks, his hands are squeezing my stomach, because I always feel that I’m going to be sick when I think of what my own father is doing to me. Sometimes I wonder to myself if it was for this reason that none of the bedrooms in the house have locks except for his own room. A new thought crosses my mind now-did my own brother experience the same thing? Is that why he struggles so hard throughout life? There are so many things to find out…But I know that I have to get out of here. I hope that when I leave for college, I never come back.
I’d heard once that people who were abused as children were more likely to become child sexual abusers later on in life. I know I say this jokingly a lot, but this time, I’m serious. If I ever find myself abusing a child, ESPECIALLY a relative of mine, I hope I have the courage to shoot myself. If I were to cause this kind of damage to some other poor child, then the world would truly be better off without me. This is no way to live.
I have a year to go until college. Just one more year to survive, but it’s difficult when a mother is as protective as mine. I hate being at home. It makes me feel stuffy, tired, scared. My mother hates me not at home, just trying to avoid whatever terrors await me here. Sometimes, my mother asks me jokingly, “do you promise you’ll love all of us forever?” I always tell her yes, but it’s a goddamn lie. How can you love someone who inflicts this emtional trauma upon you?