Victims of Incest. A Life of Secrets and Abuse that Never Ends
Will writing this Help me or Hurt?
First of all, I am going to say this. Mainly to cover my ass, because the perpetrator, my long time "groomer" whatever that means, is still alive. I could go to court if he accused me of liable or slander, I would do it, and I feel certain I'd win, but I don't want to ever see him again. I don't want to ever have to try to convince anyone of the fear I lived in for the first 17 years of my life, and the questioning myself for the next thirty and then the utter sorrow and disbelief as everyone in my immediate and distant family believed one smear campaign after another that he set up for me like dominos. I realized the utter hate my family actually had for me. What had happened? They'd all known he was insane, and full of lies and hate when I was a kid, why did they suddenly believe him now? I have no photo to put up. There is nothing to represent being this alone. He kept sending false reports to CPS, at least from one state away, and they took my daughter. I believed she was better without me, she seemed much happier, and we took her every two weeks to eat anywhere she wanted to, and I brought her a present as often as I could. And I told her throughout the visit how beautiful, and smart and funny she was, because she is. But suddenly she didn't want to see me anymore. All I could think is that "They've gotten to her too"
My abuser separated me from the rest of my family
I might as well say it, because I don't know how not to say it, my abuser was my dad. I was his only "natural-born" child in the family. He certainly was narsicistic, from an early age, I grew quite bored of hearing the same stories of his successes and exploits over and over. I would learn when I was older, that he would use these same stories to diminish any success I achieved. If I got an A on a test, he would just delve into a story I'd heard a thousand times about how he got into a prestigious East Coast University to Study Theology. (Yes, he was actually an ordained minister for a short time.) We couldn't have any pets because of his "life threatening asthma." I loved to play with any pet that wandered up, and I would always do a little test (It was even scientific) and run inside with the dog or cat and rub it on both sides of my father's pillow. He never even sneezed. When I found out that my older brother and sister had a different father that I did, it crushed my heart with envy. I would often look at the huge overblown photo of the three of us and be embarrassed. How could I not have seen? They were both as small as they should have been, with big blue eyes and blonde hair, combed perfectly into place, every feature on their faces was so delicate, as if God had used a tool from a box for creating fairies. And I, five years younger than my sister and two and a half years younger than my brother, sat in front. I looked huge compared to the two of them. Already as big and tall as my brother. Out of line from what the photographer had wished. My thick brown hair had static electricity and was sticking out everywhere, I just didn't belong in the picture. They were delicate Irish, I was working stock German. And I believed all the ways I could hurt myself that my dad used to scare me from doing anything. "If you sled, you can go under a car and get your head cut off." "If you walk barefoot you'll get worms and die." When we went to my wonderful aunt's house for the summer, my carefree Aunt Helen, my mother's sister, for whom I was named, my cousins chided me for warning them about the dangers in all fun things they did for the first two weeks, until I forgot to be afraid. They called me after my dad, "Little Elmo." It was the worst curse they could have hurled at me. But I wasn't the only one being abused. And he made a special effort to spoil me so that they would hate me, but I was too young to know what was happening. They didn't know that lying in bed with my dad, I was their most loyal supporter, speaking back boldly to his ridiculous accusations that for once I knew were not the truth. "Your brother and sister are alcoholics." He would accuse. "But they've never drunk alcohol," I would refute, and they are only ten years old and eight years old!"
"Yes, but their father was an alcoholic, so they are alcoholics." I would try to get out of the bed, but he would make a "game" of letting me almost get away and then grabbing the tail of his T shirt (he always insisted I wear one of his T shirts, and I can track the times that I can remember by if they swallowed me up or if I felt too bare and uncovered) So he played this cat and mouse game until I was out of breath and laughing. It went from anger to frustration to just giving in.