Being an incest survivor, I realized rapidly that not everyone would believe the things I say. I have been brutally and (at times) graphically honest about what those two monsters did to me (warning: THIS WILL BE ONE OF THOSE TIMES), not to mention the betrayal I felt when my parents turned their backs. After the abuse, my initial reaction was to cling to them, to ache for their love, to be wanted. But that didn't work...
This is what their denial and aloofness has done, this is who I am, and these are thoughts I live with daily - no matter whether or not they believe that.
Well, let me rephrase that, my mom "took care of me" after discovering the first (who was a foster brother) abuse; but when she learned of the second (my "real" brother) she allowed my dad to convince me to keep my damn 14-year old mouth shut.
Both of these monsters would come into my room at night, strip me naked, grope my boobs, finger me, and pry my legs apart to shove their cock into me.
It started when I was 13, and my body responded as it would to any sexual advances/encounters. I felt like I couldn't say a god damned thing because my body "liked" it. For a yea,r they would do as they wished with me, causing everlasting effects that, even when the bastards were thousands of miles away, would fuck with every relationship I have (including the one I have with my kids).
The day my mom found my foster brother in my room in nothing but his underwear, she immediately jumped into "mom" mode. She got me help, she had him removed from home, and she worked on protecting me. I was put through the horrific process of the investigations.
A detective who interviewed me said that I "knew what to say to get him in trouble." (Yes, that is a REAL fucking quote, straight out of the mouth of the damned detectives.)
Not long after, my dad found my blood brother in my room with me stripped NAKED and yelled at him. He followed that by asking me if I wanted to say something...going on to say we would lose everything - our house, our foster care license, the very life I had always known, if I did. Of course, at age 14 I didn't want that, so I let it go.
My mom stood there and allowed my dad to convince me not to say a thing about what my brother did to me. They didn't even offer to get me more counseling (I had stopped going after the ADA refused to believe what I'd said about my former foster brother).
I became the family secret. My dad didn't want anyone else to know, out of fear of looking like a bigger jackass then he already did. My grandparents to this day ask if I talk or hear from him! NO, I don't and NO, I don't want to.
My blood brother got married (for the second time) to a 17-year old, with whom he had been involved since she was 15. Someone who we at a point had considered a sister...thus the cycle continued. Shortly after they got married, she read something I wrote about it on Facebook; she, in more words, called me a liar, said that it was all made up, that I don't remember that period of time right.
It was my own living hell: of course I remember vividly what they did to me.
The worst part? It has come to the point where I have no real family left. I have a family that I forged myself; my husband and kids, our friends--the ones who I know truly care--and of course my husband's AMAZING family. For everything my family isn't, his family is that and 100x more.
At one point, not too long ago, I wanted to fight to make it work with my relatives. But now I don't give a shit. Those two monsters and my dad, could get shot and I would be the first one in line to piss on their fucking coffin. My mom and her boyfriend? Yeah, they can bite me, too. I want to tell them YOU WILL NO LONGER TRAMPLE ON ME!
I am strong, I am caring, I am loving; ask any one of the people I care deeply for, all of whom are there for me through thick and thin.
Malicious thoughts rush through my mind at all hours, though. I suffer from PTSD, flashbacks, anxiety, all of it. Just from a touch, a look, a smell, or sound, I can be transported back to those nights. I am wary of anyone being alone with my kids, for fear they will be molested.
I analyze every action (and reaction) my children have, "Could they be doing that because they are being sexually abused?" Some people question my parenting drive because while I want to be with my kids, I am scared to be with them. I worry about the way I change their diaper, the way I bathe them - is it abuse? Is it going to scar them for life?
It's all irrational, I know, but nothing in my head is rational. The few things that save me from myself are my husband, my kids (I live and breathe for those two munchkins), and the desire and drive to be a voice for the millions who are still silenced.