Monday, May 21, 2007

What does a child feel who is sexually abused?
Often scared and muted.

Usually the molesting pedophile has the child completely under control
before going further than cuddling and touch play.

The first pedophile to molest me was my uncle. He was 20 when he died.
He drowned.
I was a baby. Maybe less than 2 yrs old, or around 2. However I have experienced flashbacks of him doing things to me when he changed my diaper.

And then his grandfather. The tongue man. The sicko who first french kissed me: my great-grandfather when I was 4.

I couldn't cut out his tongue.
I was too small and helpless, and so I tried to avoid him.
I know I avoided him as best as a small child could.
I hid in grandma's flowers.
She had the most beautiful flower garden, and I loved it there.
It was private, with hiding places. Big huge flowering bushes you could crawl underneath.

I have a memory of the time my Grandmother refused to allow him to take me alone.
She came with us. Its just little flashes but I remember feeling happy about it, and glad I didn't have to sit in the front seat.

My childhood memories are few and far between. Under hypnosis I have remembered some things, which were better off forgotten.
I have long expansions of time as nothingness, blackness, and lost.

I woke up when I was 11.
I remember coming alive, seeing the sun for the first time.
Looking out the window, I sucked in my first breath of air.
I was dead before.

I had the memory even that day.. but it felt like it happened to someone else. It was more like a movie. Unreal and far far away.

Sure... I suppose slicing my arm up when I was 10, in the woods, and wanting to die was a cry for help. It fell on deaf ears. No human came to my rescue.
I learned I had no human worth, at age 10.

All people wanted to do was hurt me, they touched me, they raped me, they used me.
All people wanted to do was inflict their anger on me, and rip me to pieces.

I was a burden, a piece of property, a little body to be used, beaten...silenced.

My Father ... I have one memory of my Dad in which he is combing my hair.
One memory of that tenderness, and feeling like he liked me.
I don't remember why he combed my hair, I think it is because my Mom beat my head with the hair brush .... it hurt so bad when she combed my hair.
I cried and pulled in my neck.
I have dents in my head from that brush and dents in my heart from the hurt.

But I cannot say that he brushed my hair out of love or wanting to.
Some one forced him.
The only other way I knew my Dad's touch was in violence.
He beat me at least once a week.

And if he wasn't beating me he was telling me how stupid and worthless I was.
I have witnesses.
3 to be exact. My real siblings.
They witnessed my dad physically abusing me, throwing me into walls, choking me, hitting me with the belt buckle because he was so angry he just hit me.... not caring about with which end.
They witnessed my dad telling me how stupid and worthless I am.
They witnessed it all.
And they didn't come to my rescue.

They chimed in with the verbal abuse of me.

No one could stop this man. He hated my guts.

Look me in the eye
tell me why
look me in the face
tell me why
look at my bruises
tell me why
they never heal.