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.

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27 Comments | December 14, 2011 | Filed Under sexual abuse, survivor story