Jo (@MinnesotaJoy)
I can’t remember how old I was when my mom met him. He had a dog named Nika. He wore a cowboy hat. He was handsome, with black hair and blue eyes. He didn’t smoke or drink anything but Pepsi. My mom loved him and I was his girl. I called him Daddy and we went fishing and drove around in his truck singing along to Charlie Daniels and Dolly Parton. I loved him.
My mom married him and had two more babies. She’d been married before and I have a little brother from that relationship that I rarely saw. There is a picture of my brother, and my stepdad and me with Nika that is from before they were married. I was perhaps five or six and my little brother a few years younger. I can’t remember that day but I remember that I loved the outfit I was wearing. The look in my eyes is too sad for someone who is only five or so. Perhaps it was going on even then.
I don’t remember how old I was when he started making me do stuff that made me uncomfortable. I remember the feeling of dread when my mom was going to leave the house.
I remember specific incidents and acts that I was made to perform. I remember pain, gagging…feeling sick. Feeling WRONG. Dreading being alone with him but at the same time feeling a strange sense of happiness that I could please him. He told me I was a good girl, a pretty girl. He told me what a good job I was doing. I still have trouble accepting praise some times because it reminds me of him.
There was a time when my mom came home and found him in his bed naked, a single long blonde hair on his body. I can’t remember much, but I do remember that he pushed me off of the bed when he heard the front door close. My mom said I denied that anything happened. I think she knew the truth even back then.
I remember going to the hospital at some point. A male doctor examined me and made me cry and hurt. What he was doing didn’t make sense to me. I was hurt ‘down there’ but not where he was checking. I cried and fought to get free. The doctor told my mom that I must have made things up because of a book she read to me about how babies were made. He figured I was jealous of her relationship with her new husband.
Time passed. I remember my mom getting ready to leave for her bowling league. I cried and begged her not to go and told her I was afraid. That’s the day when I learned I couldn’t ever count on her to keep me safe. She slapped my face and told me to stop lying and then left. I can still see the fancy rug on the floor in the entryway of our house and remember how I didn’t even get a chance to leave that room before he made me pay for telling. My mom came home with a friend later that night and had been drinking. She made me run laps around our block in the snow for lying and said I couldn’t stop running until I told the truth. I ran for what seemed like forever, lungs burning and coughing until I threw up. It took a long time before I finally gave in and told her the lie she wanted to hear.
I stayed overnight at a friend’s house once and he did too so that he could babysit. I remember him calling to my friend in the middle of the night. I stayed in the bed and pretended I was sleeping. When she came back she was crying. A short time later I remember my mom screaming at him and fighting because we had to move again.
We moved from Iowa to Florida. The abuse continued. My mom continued to drink and be in denial that anything was going on. One of her drinking buddies moved into a camper behind our trailer. He tried to do stuff to me but I would just pretend I was sleeping. One day he did it when I was awake and I told him I was going to tell my daddy. (I knew telling my mom wouldn’t work because she’d hit me or punish me again.) He cried and pulled out a gun and threatened to kill himself if I told and said it would be my fault if he died. I didn’t tell.
One day, my mom picked me up from school and said we were leaving. She’d packed a few things and we went to her aunt’s house. Then I went to stay at my grandparent’s house while my mom figured things out. I never saw my brothers again and my mom moved away.
I eventually got kicked out of my grandparents’ house because my grandmother (who was pretty much nuts) accused me of stealing. I went to live with a friend of my mom’s that she met in alcohol treatment. Eventually my mom moved me to Minnesota.
In Minnesota, I shared some nightmares I was having with my junior high guidance counselor. She was a mandatory reporter so my abuse was documented. I was videotaped telling what I could remember. The social worker who had my case cried when she heard my story. They called Florida and my abuser was arrested, but the charges were dropped because the statute of limitations had expired by then. I was twelve. My mom went on about how she just KNEW something had happened and acted like she was the victim in all of it, then crawled into a bottle. Eventually she decided to seek treatment again.
Because I was living in Minnesota and didn’t have any relatives nearby, I was placed in foster care. I graduated from high school, aged out of foster care and moved out on my own. Years of counseling made me understand that none of what happened was my fault. Years of bad relationships helped me learn that I deserved better than what happened to me. I faced my abuser and he admitted (after years of lying about it) what he’d done and he asked my forgiveness. I forgave him.
I met a wonderful man and got married. He is the stepfather of two of my kids and we have two children together. He loves me and isn’t afraid of my past. He is supportive and funny and I’m happy. I have a close relationship with my daughters and we have talked about my childhood. I have done everything I can to let them know that what happened to me was not ok, and that they could talk to me about anything. I refuse to let my daughters believe the lies that I did.
I am ever vigilant to the moods and expressions of my children, always alert in case they ever start acting differently. I am always watching to make sure they stay safe. No one will EVER tell my children that if they tell that their mom won’t love them anymore and will leave them. My children trust in my love enough so that they’d never believe it.
My name is Jo and I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I am not a victim.
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Jo writes at Minnesota Joy and tweets as @MinnesotaJoy. She asks that you please keep all comments here on Violence UnSilenced, rather than over on her blog.
Thank you for visiting Violence UnSilenced, a speak-out platform for survivors of domestic abuse, sexual assault, and sexual abuse. If you are a survivor and it is safe to do so, we encourage you to share your story here. If you are not a survivor but you want to support those who are, please click around this site and find out more about what you can do.
Joyful and Independent (On the Other Side Now)
Both of my boys (in their 20s now) put an old orange tent into the back of my truck when we were all visiting my Mom. I have a picture in my mind with colors. The bright color of the truck, the orange of the tent, and eye contact with both boys as they popped the tent into the back of the truck, saying, “Mom needs this.” They both know what happened in that orange tent. I told each of them –when the right moment came.
In high school, when I was just 17, I met a boy at a party. He was kind to me, or more kind to me than I had experienced in my family. It looked like kindness and caring to me. What did I know about kindness and caring? My world was so small, in my family of origin, we didn’t go anywhere, we didn’t do anything together, except have tense meals, and try to stay out of anger’s way. My father was a rage-a-holic, and my mom didn’t protect me or try to stop it. She was in her own private hell too.
This boy, took me to many remote places to see beautiful places out in nature. He was 22 but looked so young, I couldn’t tell, and didn’t know for awhile that he was much older than me. I trusted him, and enjoyed his attention and caring behavior. Trusting the untrustworthy was what I knew. My family members weren’t trustworthy. How would I know who to trust? Or anything about trust for that matter? He became my boyfriend, and later set me up on birth-control pills. It was, I thought, to help me with my incredibly difficult periods, and it did help. I had endometriosis (but didn’t know until my late 40s). Thought everyone had cycles like mine. No, I didn’t “smell a rat” with the b-c pills…
One day, he took me to a remote place, a field behind a fence, up off of a skyline road near where I lived. He parked with my door right next to a sheer drop-off. Knowing I was terrified of heights, he knew I would get out, and dissociate (learned that well in childhood from a very early age). He took an orange bag with him, climbed through a fence into a field and said, “Well, come on.” I was well trained in doing what I was told. (Beatings as a child, and a lot of hearing my brothers being beaten in other rooms. Also one brother, I shared a room with when he was so small. He was 2, I was 12, when we began sharing a room. He would suck his thumb at night. Dad would come in and violently beat him for sucking his thumb. I was nonexistent while the beatings occurred. I would console him afterwards and get him back to sleep. In the morning, everyone would behave as if nothing had happened. It was life as usual. This was a mindf***ing, brainwashing experience.) So I followed.
In the field, this boyfriend set up the orange tent. I was 17, so inexperienced. So “sheltered” would be the wrong word, it implies kindness and caring in the family that you are born into. This was not my experience.
In the field, on the other side of the fence, he found a suitable location, set up the orange tent and said, “Well, go inside.” I was already gone, dissociated, far away. But my body was there. I followed his directions. In this orange tent, he raped me. He took my virginity from me. Stolen, not given. It was a calculated, manipulative plan. I didn’t choose this. I wasn’t even asked. I was mentally gone. Getting out of the tent, there were cows all around. They were huge, it was even more terrifying. We were in the middle of nowhere. Not another soul around. I had to re-experience the sheer drop-off to get back in the car. Then he took me home. There were many tests before this outing to confirm that I was disconnected enough and had no support, so that I “wouldn’t tell.” He was safe. I didn’t tell. It slipped from my memory, repressed, until I was 53.
I married this rapist when I was 19. He looked “good” in comparison to my family, and I was unaware of the rape. I was with this rapist for 16 years. He is on wife #3 now, having drained and thrown away two women, he’s got another volunteer. I became a single parent when the boys were 4 and 7. Their father moved in with his current girlfriend, a “family friend.” I knew her. It became clear then, that he’d had serial affairs all along during the marriage. By his accusations, he was telling me what he was doing, accusing me of what he was doing, projecting his behaviors onto me. I couldn’t see before, but then the light bulb turned on. (And what a gift it was for him to leave.)
The story that follows is about my “Letting Go” ceremony with a friend on Valentine’s Day. A little over two years ago.
A “Letting Go” ceremony on Valentine’s Day. It felt appropriate to do this on Valentine’s Day. I feel much lighter! Stronger! I set an orange tent on fire today and watched it go up in flames. I was blessed with the company of a close friend who shared the experience. May have a bonfire each year around Valentine’s Day. It would be a nice ritual.
We tied notes with, “This is part of a ‘Letting Go’ Ceremony. By finding this, you are a part of the letting go ceremony too!” to a dozen rainbow-colored helium balloons. I set up the tent on top of a big pile of branches. We set two large rocks inside the tent so it couldn’t blow away in flames. With my weed torch on high, I lit the pile of branches.
A hole melted open in the side of the tent, became a giant hole melted in the top, and the entire tent burst into flame. Later, just the sewn parts around the edges were all that was left and still flaming, still attached to the frame with flames coming up through it all. We let the balloons go up, up, and away. I torched any remnants of orange. They burned, bubbled, sizzled, curdled, and finally gave it up to be nonexistent. My friend also burned something of importance to her in the bonfire. Her story is so much beyond what I have experienced. I have compassion for her, and in the process have learned to have some compassion for me.
To finish, we soaked the entire pile until it quit smoking and steaming. My friend raked and turned areas of the pile over to find hot spots, together we put those out too. We went inside and shared a nice early afternoon celebratory meal. Our clothes smelled of fire. A nice bonfire or camping fire smell. Sweet to the senses, not harsh, a definite presence. I feel so much lighter. Better, different, more in-body. More soul-full. Changed.
With my cousin, I placed the lioness were the rape occurred, and let more balloons go. My sons know where the sculpture is and why it is there. I am no longer holding the family secrets. They know. The latest gift is that my older brother admitted he remembers molesting me when I was in junior high school. He can hold the feelings now, I don’t want them. I have so much energy now. I feel better than I’ve felt in years. I’m moving forward in leaps and bounds. Smiling a lot. This is new! Others are noticing a change in me, my energy. It is all good.
Wishing you light, love, compassion, connection, inner strength, and joy.
Having grown beyond fear and terror into being happy, energy-filled, and assertive!
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Mariella
I’ve tried to write this story several times before. I’ve never really managed to finish it. I somehow felt that there were plenty of women who lived through much worse. Women who were abused as children, women who have lived with abusive spouses for years, women who were raped by strangers. I survived. I grew up, I have a successful life. There is nothing physically wrong with me.
Lately though, I’ve come to realize that none of that erases what happened to me. I seem happy, I seem normal, I’m not. I seek out relationships with men who are also damaged. I’m unable to trust others. Sex has no value to me.
I was 15 when I met him and fell in love.
My mother and I had never had a good relationship and there was no one I could talk to about the questions I had about sex and love. She didn’t want me to date, but she never told me why. It was after I became an adult that she told me she had been abused as a child.
That year I’d met my first high school boyfriend. I’d never felt that way before about anyone. When he dumped me I spent three weeks crying. My best friend, who was 17 at the time, invited me to the beach with her and her family so I could get some fresh air and have some fun.
That is the single event in my life I regret the most. If I hadn’t gone, I’d be different.
She had a group of friends who were older than us and already in college. The day after we got to the beach, they took us out dancing. That’s where I met him. He was friends with some of the guys we were with. He took advantage of me in every way I can possibly imagine for the next year. He lied to me about everything. He told me he was 21. He wasn’t; he was 26. He told me he was still in school. He wasn’t, he’d dropped out and worked as a trucker with his father. He told me he lived with his mother and his little brother. He actually lived with his mother and his son. I fell in love with him because I was young and naïve. I thought he was exciting; I wanted to live life too quickly.
The second time I went to his house he raped me.
I didn’t give it that name. I didn’t know. I didn’t know why he was so rough with me when, if he’d asked, I would’ve said yes.
I felt I was doing something wrong when I was unable to feel anything except pain. He only came when he saw I was bleeding.
He began to take over my life slowly. I wasn’t allowed anywhere without him. I couldn’t see my friends or wear makeup or high heels. If I ever went out and he found out where I was he went to get me and tried to drag me out to his car. Twice he was kicked out of places we were at.
I didn’t leave him. I feel like an idiot about it now.
Eventually things escalated. He hit me. He burned a cigarette out on my leg.
I finally left when he got a 13-year-old girl pregnant and stole pills from my dad’s office to try and give her an abortion. She almost died.
My parents found out about him and grounded me for about a year. It was the best thing they could have ever done for me.
He tried contacting me some time later. I never let him near me again.
The last time I heard from him I’d begun working for a female rights group anonymously and was finally able to put a name on what he did to me; abuse. I threatened him and told him that if he ever came near me again it’d be the last thing he ever did.
It wasn’t my only abusive relationship, but I was able to get myself away from the others before it was too late.
My sister-in-law is about to give birth to a baby girl. I’m writing this for me and for her. So that she’ll make better choices, so that she’ll know that she can count on me when she needs someone to protect her from herself.
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Erratic
I have gone back and forth about sharing this. I feel like my story is private and mine, mine alone. But, I also feel that I need to share it.
I don’t remember most of my childhood. I don’t know why. People tell me stories of being a kid, a teenager, and I don’t remember any of them. Most of my memories are repeating stories other people told me. But, there are certain things I can’t forget. Certain things I won’t ever forget.
My parents divorced when I was seven and my dad wasn’t really around. Not because he didn’t want to be, he just wasn’t. He worked a lot, he was three states away. He just wasn’t there. My mom remarried a man with three children. I was the oldest, with his son being 9 months younger than me.
I remember him walking in on me while I showered, with a hard on. Rubbing himself while I showered. I remember having to lock every single door and being terrified to change my clothes, not to mention shower. I remember him walking in on me peeing and the same thing happening. His little sister, about 6 years younger than me, would crawl into my bed when we had company because they would share a room and he would masturbate in bed with her. She would cry and cry and cry. Eventually, my mom and stepdad got him his own room simply so that he wouldn’t masturbate while his sisters were in the room.
His father was no better. He would argue with my mom and throw things at her, at first. We went through so many sets of dishes. Then it turned into hitting. I remember one night where he pushed her down the stairs because my friends came over on Superbowl Sunday and were interrupting the game. After they left, he was furious. I ran to the basement stairs, thinking she was dead. She was fine. Bruised and sore, but fine. I tried to call the police and she ripped the phone out of my hand. I was told to mind my own business.
They divorced when I was 15. I had my driver’s permit and had to drive in the middle of the night to steal our stuff back from the house we all shared. I even recruited my friends. We would sneak in and take everything we could. While he was at work, late at night, whenever we could guarantee that he wouldn’t be home. Sometimes, he was just passed out somewhere while we took everything.
Around this time, I met a guy online. Not someone I was interested in dating, just a friend. He had gone through similar things and we started talking and hanging out. One night, he brought his friend, Brandon. We immediately hit it off. We started talking and one night, we all got together when my friend’s parents were out of town. We were hanging out at his apartment complex pool and I remember walking into the sauna. The next thing I know, I woke up completely naked. Brandon was sitting next to me, equally naked. I have no idea what happened. I was a virgin.
My friend later told me she walked in and he was fingering me, but I was dressed. The next day, I was sore. I could barely walk. I was bleeding. I asked this same friend if they saw anything and she told me to suck it up. I was drunk and did something stupid. We all do it.
I don’t know if this is everything. I only remember certain parts of my childhood. But, I hate being touched. I don’t like being hugged and intimacy makes me really uncomfortable. Mostly with strangers. Close friends I am a lot better with.
I feel like a stranger around my closest friends. Nobody knows this. At least not all of this. There are more days where I don’t want to get out of bed than I am comfortable with.
I feel like an asshole because people have been through so much worse. I feel like my story is meant for an advice column in a magazine, not this website. Then I remember that I am completely changed because of these experiences. I remember that other people feel the way that I do. I remember that the point is UNSILENCED. Not shame. And some bizarre sense of humility.
Everyone deserves happiness. And for someone to love them. And for someone to love. I have all of that now. Despite my craziness. Despite all of it. I am somehow happy.
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Erratic blogs at http://erratictheblog.blogspot.com/.
Thank you for visiting Violence UnSilenced, a speak-out platform for survivors of domestic abuse, sexual assault, and sexual abuse. If you are a survivor and it is safe to do so, we encourage you to share your story here. If you are not a survivor but you want to support those who are, please click around this site and find out more about what you can do.
