Child Sexual Abuse

This post contains information of a graphic nature.

Please do not continue reading unless you understand that sensitive content about child sexual abuse is contained below. That said, please support this brave woman as she shares her story.

Over 90% of child sex abuse victims know their abusers.

This is her story.

A dark shadow lurks over a little girl, watching her in her silent slumber, devious thoughts rise in his mind, she opens her eyes at first to be frightened, she focuses in on the face upon the shadow and relaxes for it is a familiar one, he slides in closer now to be laying with her. Her body now becoming tense, she tries to move but is not able due to the excessive force brought upon her body, she is pulled back quickly to be tightly embraced and a sweaty palm takes over her mouth giving her no room to shout her objections. Eyes filled with tears and body trembling with fear he rips down the wall between his manliness and her innocence. He presses his body on top of hers and tears into the pride lands, severe jolts of pain go throughout her body and her eyes give way to the streaming tears. Her body lay lifeless and numb as he releases his manliness inside of her, he looks at her with the devils eyes then moves to freshen up. He returns to find her helpless in a puddle of blood he picks her up washes and clothes her, then cleans the bedding leaving not a trace, headed for the door he turns back and curses, "this will be our little secret" *R.Goldstein*

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This is my first memory as a child. I was seven when a family friend did this. I never told anyone anything.

I used to write a lot to help me cope with my childhood. I wrote this poem when I was eleven so it's not put together very well, but these are my words and my life as I was experiencing them. What I had felt was so very real and so painful, and I wasn't able to tell anyone. My mom was a heroin addict and that is the beginning of my story.

Thank you for your attention.

One in five girls is a victim of child sexual abuse, leaving scars that will last a lifetime.

This is her story.

One winter when I was ten, under the guise of a group father-daughter weekend camp out, my Dad took me to a secluded cabin in the woods. It was beautiful there. Snow, pine trees and a frozen lake were right there outside the windows of the cabin. But inside there was nothing but hell.

By this time my Father had been abusing me for about seven years so I knew what was in store, even though I wished I could be such a good girl he wouldn't assault me this time. In the past though, it was single encounters; one rape, one act of sodomy or one forced act of oral sex committed in the middle of the night in my bed or in the tent on a camping trip. Then I would have sweet peace until the next time. 

This time it was an entire weekend.

Repeated violations for hours and hours. And I didn't have my primary coping tool with me. At home I had drawn crayon pictures above my bed so when my Father came into my room I would fly up into them and escape.

Here, there were no crayon pictures, no means of escape as I didn't yet have the tools to dissociate without the help of those pictures. I was fully present for all he did, something I hadn't been for years. That is, I think, the primary reason why this weekend was so damaging, and why the memories of it visit me so often.

I don't remember sleeping. The pain and fear were too significant. But I do remember lying on a sleeping bag in the dark night staring at the fire in the fireplace while my Father slept next to me. I recall begging the fire to envelop me and take me away. But it did not.

That weekend was the most frightening time in all the years my Father assaulted me. And it was also the most confusing. I wanted him to love me so badly. I craved the love of a Father who would accept and care for me.

He said all the right words. He told me he loved me. He told me I was his special little girl and that I was such a good, good girl. That made me very happy. But at the same time he hurt me, excruciatingly so.

My mind couldn't make sense of it except to determine I was a bad girl who wasn't appreciative of her Father's affections. It was a weekend of profoundly felt pain—both physical and emotional. The emotional was the worst because I felt like a failure. I came home an even more broken little girl than I left, hard to imagine given what I had endured the seven years before, but incredibly true.

Why am I sharing this memory? For two reasons. The first reason I share my story, in the details that I did, is to educate all of those people who tell sexual assault survivors to “Just get over it.” I would be rich if I had a nickel for every time someone told me that. “It happened so long ago, why can't you just put it behind you?” Read my story, people who think I am faulty in my processing of the sexual assault.

Put yourself in my shoes—just for that one weekend, knowing it was only one weekend in eight years of assault for me. I challenge you.

Imagine the rape, the sodomy, the forced oral sex as if you were a ten year old little girl who wanted nothing more than to please her father and earn his love. Feel the pain, the confusion, the shame, the helplessness and the hopelessness. Focus on it for 24 hours, the amount of time I had to endure it.

Now, just get over it—in a finger snap, just like that.

Second, I want those who have suffered sexual assault to know they are not alone. One of the most horrible aftereffects of being sexually assaulted is that as victims we feel so isolated and alone. Some of that is because of the shame of what happened, some of it is because we look around and no one else seems to be suffering like we are.

But read my story and know YOU ARE NOT ALONE in what you've suffered.

I have been there—to the depths of hell riding on the back of the devil himself. On the dark nights when all you can do is relive the memories, know you are not alone. On the days when flashbacks and emotional pain seem to invade every aspect of your life, know you are not alone. Others have endured what you have and we are there in the darkness with you.

Our energy is there with you.

Our love and our strength are there with you.

Several times during the day you pass another one of us who have endured what you did. My worldly eyes may not see you but my spirit sees you. And as we pass I send out love, strength and acceptance. “You are known”, my spirit tells yours. “You are loved. You are worthy. You are not alone.”

Nine out of ten victims of child sexual abuse know their abusers. Many times, the abuser is a member of their family.

This is her story.

Today my mother told me my dad told her that it may be true that I wasn't lying about my grandfather.

My mother is, as they say, an unreliable narrator. She said it like this, "Well, your dad said to me once, 'I'm only going to tell you this one time. The girls may have been telling the truth about what happened to them.'"

The sharp hope that welled within me surprised me. I have a memory of my father, very drunk, asking me to accompany him as he took the baby sitter home. I was little. I had been asleep, I think. We dropped her off then my dad looks at me and begs, "Is it true?"

I was uncomfortable, scared.

When I told him yes, his anguish was unbearable for me. His tears. I only ever saw him cry that day. Not when his mother or his brother died. Not even when his father, the grandfather in question, died.

Instead my father was always drunk.

Through the years he would volley this, "You girls and your lies ruined my family, ruined my father's life." The message was always: it was my fault. I was a liar. I hurt everyone and ruined everything.

The hope that came with my mother's ridiculously casual announcement today isn't as freeing as it needs to be from the chains of all those other statements. I don't know that I trust her. I don't know if he ever really said it.

In my heart, I don't believe he believes it, believes me.

If he did believe me, why did nothing happen to my grandfather? Why did he get to move in with us, years after I accused him? Why was I forced to spend time with him, day after day, living in fear of his eyes, his hands?

If my father believed me, why didn't he protect me?

So, I guess he didn't believe me, right? If he did, and he didn't protect me, what is so wrong with me that I didn't deserve protection?

Years of healthy acceptance under my belt, and her one casual sentence today brings me to my knees.

In the course of the last four days, I have read every post on this site (thank you OCD). I was searching for resources regarding mental illness deriving from childhood sexual abuse and Google was kind enough to direct me here.

I've always thought that my issues were inconsequential. That I have had no worse experiences than any other soul on this earth. I've shared some of my experiences with a select few people, and the look on their faces has always puzzled me. This is my life, what is there to be shocked about?

Back on point. Spending these last four days reading about all of your joys, heartaches, pain and recovery has jostled a few memories of my own. Some things are always at the back of my mind, but others have been dredged from the depths.

Let's start with my diagnoses.

I've been diagnosed as Bipolar twice (but I contest it), Anxiety and OCD. The Bipolar was diagnosed during two full fledged breakdowns. The first was after a half-assed suicide attempt during a bad marriage at age 24 and the second during the first five minutes with the WORST PSYCHIATRIST EVER. Seriously. This guy grandly announced I was Bipolar after I mumbled it was a previous diagnosis.

But that's a story for another day.

I feel it's time to finally tell my story. I've avoided seeing this information in print for years. I've carried so much shame, self-blame and self-doubt that my soul is weary. While I'm not yet ready to delve deep into my experiences, this is a good place to start.

I was sexually abused by our 16 year old neighbor and his 15 year old sister somewhere between the ages of two and four.

My parents separated for work for six months and I witnessed my mother's breakdown when I was eight.

When I was fourteen, I had my first suicide attempt which was, thankfully, a rather pathetic one. When I was fifteen I had my first attempt at therapy but I did not say one word for the entire six sessions.

At seventeen I was raped for the first time at gunpoint by a "friend." The same year, one of my best friends committed suicide. I was the last person to speak with him. He told me that he was going to do it, but I did not take him seriously.

I made a second suicide attempt at age nineteen. Swallowed over 400 aspirin and ended up in the ICU for four days. There was some limited therapy to follow but I don't remember much about that. I told my parents at this point about the sexual abuse. It was the worst thing I have ever had to do in my life and 20 years later my mom still cries. It kills me.

When I was 24 I got married for the first time, and at 25 I had my first affair. I also tried to commit suicide for the third time. I was driving my car over 100 MPH on curvy back roads and attempting to run it into something. This landed me in a psychiatric ward for two weeks, with a Bipolar diagnosis. My marriage ended two years later.

At age 28 I was raped a second time by two men while I was drunk and in a foreign country.

When I was 29, I found out I was pregnant and had an abortion. The man that I assumed to be the father threatened to kill me if I even thought about having a baby while the man I am dating tells me that he will leave me if I have this baby. I was wrong. About it all.

I got married for a second time when I was 32, and it took all of three days for it to go to hell. Three years later I began having daily panic attacks, and within two months I am unable to leave the house. I developed paranoia and severe depression. I started seeing the WORST PSYCHIATRIST IN THE WORLD. Because of this man, I lost my job.

Shortly after losing my job, my husband told me that he really never loved me and that he just used me to get our house and the money I made. This does not assist with my recovery. He raped me. I moved back in with my parents.

After three more years, I was finally free of that man. I was broke as hell, and my credit was ruined but I was extremely happy.

Now at age 39, I have been out of work for two months with an injury. I am thankful that I have support, but the depression that started last April has blown up. I feel lost.

There is more, if I only could remember.

Thank you, all of you, for inspiring me to start this.

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Band Back Together has been nominated for Best Group or Community Weblog in the 2013 Bloggies! Visit their site to vote and check out the other categories!

Sexual abuse during childhood can have devastating effects that last through adulthood.

This is her story of strength.

People ask me (my mom asks me), "Why do you write about your life online, especially all of that stuff about sexual abuse in your childhood?" 

Sometimes that last part is said in a whisper, as if they aren't sure what will happen if they say it loudly.

I explain that writing was a big part of healing for me. 

I explain that the community of people online have supported me, and loved me, and prayed for me, and walked through dark times with me. And there are people in my real life who know my story and have done the same, but only because I have been open about it.

I explain that I share my story for all of the people who can't share theirs. 

Most of all, I share my story because I have no shame.

When I bring my words into the light, they have power.

Bad stuff happened.

There is no shame in writing about that online, or saying it out loud.

I am at a place in my life and healing where I am no longer afraid of a Google search. I do not worry what people will think if they find my name. 

I am not the only one who survived a childhood of abuse - there are far too many of us.

You might not be ready to put everything out there. You might be in the beginning stages of healing. That is fine. I want you to know that if you do decide to share your story and people whisper-ask "Why do you write all of that stuff about abuse?" you do not need to hold any shame.

You are a survivor.

You are strong.

Your words have power.

You have the right to share your story in whatever way feels right to you.