by Band Back Together | May 22, 2014 | Child Sexual Abuse, Rape/Sexual Assault |
I need some supportive thoughts guys.
I am scared, scratch that, terrified of the coming summer months. Summer means warm weather, and warm weather means my family heads north to the our camp. The camp where I was sexually assaulted for three years by the same person, our next door neighbor’s son. It happened when I was 11, and even though I am an adult now, it still gives me nightmares and horrible flashbacks this time of year.
What’s worse? I have to see him. My parents are still good friends with his, and act as though nothing ever happened. They tell me I should be over it by now, but I can’t. I just can’t get over something that in one moment changed my life forever. I can’t act as though he didn’t have a heavy hand in ruining my childhood years. I can’t look at him, be around him, or anything!
I wish my family was more understanding. I love them dearly. We have all been through a lot, but this is one thing we don’t agree on.
I want my family to see my son. I want to be able to have fun up at my camp without constantly looking over my shoulder to see if he is watching me again.
Has anyone else had to face their attacker again or a family who just doesn’t understand?
by Band Back Together | May 21, 2014 | Bullying, Romantic Relationships, Self-Esteem, Stalking |
We all have letters we’d like to send, but know that we can’t. A letter to someone we no longer have a relationship with, a letter to a family member or friend who has died, a letter to reclaim our power or our voice from an abuser.
Letters where actual contact is just not possible.
Do you have a letter you can’t send?
Why not send it to The Band?
My sister called you “The Blond to End All Blonds.” There was a good reason for this. After you had been in my life, I had no interest in any other blonds until I met my husband.
I kept you on a pedestal. You were my ideal. No one could compare to you.
8th grade was a really hard year for me. I don’t know why that group of girls targeted me, but the bullying was rough. They made fun of my hair, my clothes, made me feel worthless. My mom and my sister were very supportive during that time, like they always were, but it wasn’t enough to keep my spirits up.
Then came the basketball game where I met you. I only sat next to you that night so I could have a chance to talk to the other saxophone player sitting on the other side of you. Justin was really popular with the girls, and I could never find a moment when he wasn’t talking to some girl. I don’t know why I was so brave that day. I wasn’t normally like that. I figured I could strike up a conversation with the cute blond sax player while waiting for a chance to talk to Justin.
You seemed startled, but pleased when I sat down and started talking to you. I still remember what you were wearing that day: blue jeans and an olive green sweatshirt with a bird on it, a parrot, I think. The longer we talked, the more Justin disappeared from my mind.
From then on, the weekends were what got me through the difficult weeks. My sister was always happy to let me hang out with her and her friends. I was at all of the high school football games, basketball games, and concerts – anywhere the band members would be. I would have gone with her anyway, but you were an extra incentive.
It was very flattering to have an Older Man pay attention to me. You were only two years older than me, but because you were in high school, and I was in junior high, that was a really big deal. You were always so sweet and so kind to me.
I’d never seen anyone look good in those horrible marching band uniforms, but you did. I will never forget the night of that one football game. I stood there holding a heavy quilt because it was supposed to be very cold that night. As I listened to the band teacher gruffly instructing everyone what he expected of them, I looked over at you. You grinned at me.
My heart stopped.
That was the most beautiful smile I had ever seen, and it was just for me!
You never came right out and said that you liked me back, but your actions did. I felt like the only thing keeping you from pursuing more of a relationship was the fact that I was only in junior high.
I was sitting behind you at a football game one afternoon, talking to one of my sister’s friends about the party we were all going to that night. I made a point of mentioning whose house we would be going to, for your benefit.
Little did you know you were actually going to show up!
A car pulled up in front of the house that night. I heard one of the seniors say that it looked like your sister’s car. When I got outside to see what was going on, I saw a pack of boys standing around the car. They all looked too afraid to come closer with all those big senior boys in the house. I yelled for you by name. The other boys laughed and said you weren’t there, but when some of the bigger guys came outside, and everyone jumped back in the car, I saw you.
I got up the nerve to call you the next day. Our conversation was a little weird and awkward, but you were sweet. You admitted to being with the boys in the car the night before, but wouldn’t say anything else about it.
Was I wrong to believe you were there for me?
But then came the horrible news that you were moving. I was heartbroken. After you left, I used my school connections to find out what school you had transferred to in Texas. I wrote you a letter, and mailed it, care of your new school. In it, I jokingly threatened to write to you constantly until you answered me. I regretted it as soon as it was in the mail. It sounded creepy. I was sure you would think I was insane when you read it. I never wrote again, but I missed you all the time, and always wondered what might have happened if you hadn’t moved away.
A couple of years passed, and I took a trip to Washington to visit a friend. On the way, I had a long layover in Utah. My sister was going to school there, and we took the time between my flights to go shopping. We drove to the mall and pulled into the parking garage.
As we looked for a parking place, I noticed a familiar face. I asked my sister if she thought that looked like your sister. My heart stopped again when I realized the guy walking behind her looked just like YOU. I begged for my sister to stop the car, but she was afraid she would lose me if we didn’t stay together. She rolled the window, yelled your name, and YOU TURNED AROUND!
As soon as we could find a parking space, I was on the hunt for you, but I never found you. I cried through much of the flight to Washington, devastated that I might have just missed my chance to connect with you again.
You and I are friends on Facebook now. I’ve apologized about basically stalking you back then. I’ve thanked you for making me feel good about myself during that tough year. I enjoy seeing pictures of your family, your wife and pretty little girls. You look so happy, and I’m glad.
I’ve tried to ask you more than once if that really was you in Utah that day, but you won’t tell me. I wish you would. We all have unanswered questions that we wish someone could answer. You have the ability to ease my curiosity. It’s an important question to me because seeing you that day opened the doors in my heart to allow me to fall in love for the first time.
Thank you for being kind to me at a time when I really needed it.
by Band Back Together | May 20, 2014 | Child Sexual Abuse, Incest |
The first memory I have of being abused was before I could talk well enough for people to understand me. I was maybe 2. My father was home and acting playful. He was letting me climb on him and crouched down on the living room floor with me. I was happy, he was like a different daddy because normally, I was scared of him. He was always yelling and hitting people.
On this day he seemed happy and nice. He picked me up and I reached out to touch his mustache. I touched it lightly and he pressed my hand harder onto his mustache, then he took my fingers into his mouth. He bit them really hard. I screamed, but he didn’t let go right away. When he did let go of my fingers and put me down, there were purple tooth prints on my fingers. He was still happy, but I never wanted to play with him again.
When I was 3, he started coming into my room when my sister wasn’t home. We shared a room, so it didn’t happen a lot, but when it did, it was terrible. I never thought it was meant to be pleasant for me, he liked to hurt me.
The first night, he reached under my blanket and just felt my private area. He was talking quietly about how it was too small and would bleed if he put his finger in. He sat there for a while just touching me, then he left.
The next night, while we watched tv, he called me over to him on the couch. He said he thought I had a fever, and he was going to take my temperature. I think he already had the thermometer. He made me lay across his lap and told me to put my face down into my pillow. He pulled down my pants and put the thermometer into my rectum with his finger along side of it. He told me to hold still and relax, or it would break, that it was glass, so it would hurt a lot. I cried even though he told me to stop. My mom came back and saw what he was doing . She told him he was doing it wrong. He said he was afraid the thermometer would slide in and get stuck if he didn’t do it that way. So I had to lay there in front of everyone while he timed it. They said it would be a few minutes but, when the show was over he was still at it. When the show was over the other kids were sent to bed. He told me to be real still and he’d take it out. There was a bit of movement of his finger then he took it out slowly and sent me to bed.
The next time my sister was sleeping over, somewhere my dad brought me into my parents bed. He said I’d been crying because I was scared but I hadn’t been.
by Band Back Together | Apr 18, 2014 | Depression, Guilt, Loneliness, Panic Disorder |
I sound pathetic.
I never really confront my problems, to myself or anyone. I want to accept my life, but I cant.
My family is dysfunctional. I have accepted that. My mother has been isolated from 90% of her family, and my grandmother gave me a panic attack at my Nana’s funeral.
Family issues have clouded time for grief. I have only cried a handful of times over her death, but countless times over the problems in my family. There are too many to list, and yeah, every single one stings.
But there have been no family issues since Christmas time. I don’t blame that for how I feel now.
No.
I dont even blame my family for their problems.
Everything is my fault.
I feel like I’m literally the cause of everything.
I have things going well in my life. I have a nice boyfriend, lots of friends who support me, and whatever’s left of my family.
But I feel alone. Like there are people around me who are meant to listen, but I cant get the words out to them.
I guess it would be impossible for someone else to understand something I cant even get my head around.
They don’t understand. They never would, so I wear a smile and push them away when they come too close. All I will do is hurt them in the end, anyway.
In the end I’m just another girl no-one cares about. No-one will remember me when I’m gone. No one will know what eats me inside because it’s my fault. They’re my problems, and I should clean up my own mess.
I understand that I have a problem, but I dont know what it is or how to fix it. I want to talk to someone, but I’m alone in this.
It’s like I’m alone on an island, screaming for help, but no one can hear. If they could, I wouldn’t deserve their help because it’s my fault I’m on the island anyway.
And I cant swim.
by Band Back Together | Apr 17, 2014 | Adult Children of Mentally Ill Parents, Child Sexual Abuse, Date/Acquaintance Rape, Guilt, Rape/Sexual Assault, Self-Esteem, Shame |
It seems that in the last month, the mental block I once hid worries, pain, and hurt has fallen away. My life has been a roller coaster of emotions and difficulties.
When I was four, I was sexually molested by an older cousin; someone I trusted. The abuse corrupted my life and tore at me – I’d cry with guilt and shame. I believe it was at this time I set up my mental block.
When I was eight, my mother was diagnosed with a terminally debilitating physical illness and delusional paranoia. She’d just given birth to my sister and was so ill that I became the mother to my sister; I cleaned up cuts and cooked dinner. My mother didn’t like this. When her mental illness reared its head, she’d abuse me physically and emotionally while my father was at work. Eventually, he had to stop working to look after her.
As a teenager, I was severely overweight; I was paid no attention by boys other than disparaging remarks about my appearance. My best friend was the total opposite – pretty and bubbly, however she controlled and dictated my early years. She controlled a variety of sexual experiences that I wasn’t comfortable with, but was too afraid of being called frigid or that our friendship would end.
I’ve been with my current boyfriend for five years and he is my other half – he’s brilliant with my sister, kind and patient with my mother, and dependable. During our relationship, I’ve lost weight and look like a different girl. Still, my self-esteem is so low that I’ll avoid a deserved argument, afraid that someone will pick my appearance apart – fearful that I’ll be fat and fifteen again, crying in my bathroom.
Last year, my life took a turn for the worse.
I was being intimidated by my roommate’s boyfriend and felt so unhappy, lower than I’d ever been. My boyfriend and I were fighting and I was sure he was going to dump me. I’d found out that my father may have fathered a child with one of my mother’s closest friends and the child is very, very ill so the woman regularly comes to my house begging my mother for handouts and sympathy. My world had crumbled, so that when a friend – someone I considered to be like a brother – offered to take me out for a drink, I accepted.
At the bar, this friend of both myself and my boyfriend told me he’d broken up with his girlfriend and wanted to drown his sorrows. I got drunker and drunker so when he said he should go back to his place and get on Chatroulette (something we’d always done while drunk) that sounded fun.
When we got there, he realized he’d forgotten his laptop and mentioned we should probably go to sleep – I was too drunk to walk home, I should stay over. I had no issues with this – he was my “brother” after all – so I drunkenly pulled off my jeans getting ready for bed. On the verge of sleep and too drunk to know my own name, all of a sudden I was fifteen again, feeling pressured to allowing something to happen. I lay there not realizing that what was happening wasn’t right before shouting “stop!” He may have stopped, I think he probably did, but I was already unconscious.
I woke up later to him touching me, my pants pulled to one side. I lay for a second and the only thing I remember before I had the urge to vomit, was disappointment. Disappointment that he’d done this, for instigating this while I was drunk. Disappointment gave way to numbness. I stumbled to the bathroom and vomited. I looked at my face in the mirror – I wasn’t connecting thoughts together, I felt I was a completely different person – lost and bewildered. I stumbled back the bed, still too drunk to walk home. Besides, I reasoned, he probably didn’t mean to do it. I lay as far away from him as I could, my thighs clenched like a vice and my back to him.
He wouldn’t dare do it again.
I fell into unconscious or a heavy, deep sleep again and woke up to him doing it again. I was afraid he’d say something mean about the way I look or emotionally blackmail me into silence. So I just lay there, my head turned to the wall, my eyes glassy, my face pale as I vomited until I bled and my friend molested me. I was a child again, not understanding what was happening, merely knowing that it was outside my comfort zone and that I wasn’t enjoying what was happening.
I gathered the urge to say stop in a way that I knew would draw his attention. I don’t know why, but I knew that something was holding me back from telling him that what he was doing was wrong; a hunch that he would turn nasty. I told him to stop. He replied, “come on, no one will find out,” to which I replied “no!” once again.
My memory is fuzzy with pain, drunkenness, violation, numbness. I don’t think that he stopped, despite keeping my back to him, despite saying no, despite showing my discomfort. My brain told me that it might be over sooner if I pretended to play along, but I couldn’t keep up the act beyond a few seconds. I lay there, shivering, clutching my stomach while he rubbed his penis along my back.
Eventually I woke up feeling well enough to get away from him. Numbly, I informed him that as far as I was concerned that nothing happened; that I wanted to forget the whole thing. In my mind it was true, during those horrible few hours I never kissed him, touched him, or was in any way sexually excited.
Six months later my numbness is fading – now I’m having panic attacks and crying every day. What happened as a betrayal I see as a betrayal of my boyfriend. The guy who molested me was his friend. He assures me that he forgives me but that he wants to know who assaulted me.
I can’t tell him.
I want to. So badly.
I want him to know that the person he smiles when he mentions was my attacker. I want to come clean to him – tell him everything. The logical side of my brain tells me that if I do, my life might be over. I’d lose a lot of friends, my abuser could say that what happened was a fling – anything but the truth. My family and his would be at logger heads; not a good idea in our small community.
I hate him, but I miss the friend he was. I’m writing this because I’m sick of feeling depressed, full of guilt and shame. I’m sick of looking at my male friends and wondering would they hurt me like that? would they touch me while I threw up?
I worry I’m victimising myself when I wasn’t actually a victim; my memories of that day change like crazy – I can’t be certain what actually happened. One minute I see I was sexually assaulted while the next an evil voice at the back of my head cuts me down.
How do I even begin to move on from this?
My life feels like a black hole that’s physically and emotionally destroying me.
