by Band Back Together | Mar 20, 2014 | Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Child Sexual Abuse, Fear, Rape/Sexual Assault |
It’s been twelve years.
Twelve tortuous and painfully long years. Yet, you’re still haunting me; taunting me behind the cover of darkness each and every fucking day. Wasn’t stealing my childhood and innocence enough? Why do you have to try and ruin EVERYTHING?!
News flash. I’m not putting up with your shit anymore. You will not take another ounce of my happiness for your sick and twisted pleasure.
When I close my eyes, I expect you to be gone.
I’m done. You disgust me, you sick fuck!
When I was 11, I was first sexually assaulted by the guy who was dating my older cousin. My cousin had to work the next morning, so went to bed early. Sick Fuck Number 1 decided we (he and I) should play a game of truth or dare. I thought it sounded harmless. I was dead wrong. At first, I was excited because I idolized my cousin and wanted her boyfriend to think I was “cool,” so that I could hang out with the older kids. The dares started out normally, but then he started getting a little too daring. He would dare me to flash him, kiss him, touch myself, etc. I told him no, this wasn’t fun anymore, he was with my cousin who was sleeping right down the hall. No, no, no. I tried to get away, but he would threaten me, and then hold me there while he touched me. When that wasn’t enough, he made me watch him pleasure himself, and then do it for him.
My cousin and I had always been so close, always. When I told her, she didn’t believe me. She thought I was lying, and that I threw myself at him. I was 11, I hadn’t even had my first kiss yet…
I never mentioned the incident again for 4 years
Two weeks later. I was at my dad’s lake house for the summer, same as every summer. We had neighbors up there that had kids that my 6 year old brother (6yo) and I played with regularly. We primarily hung out with the two younger kids, a 7 year old girl and 10 year ldo boy. They had an older brother who was 15, but he wanted nothing to do with the younger kids.
We often had sleep-overs and watched movies. Normal kid stuff. The parents would always be either right outside, or a few houses down at someone’s campfire. Everything was business as usual that day. We got all our blankets together and spread out in their living room for movie night. The other 3 were fast asleep, and I was just on the verge when Sick Fuck Number 2 came in for the night. I thought nothing of it and managed to fall asleep. Not long after, I woke up to Sick Fuck Number 2 on top of me with one hand up my shirt, the other traveling south, and trying to kiss me. I tried to get him off of me, but he was a football player and much heavier than I am. His little sister, who was barely two feet from me started waking up, so he bolted to his room. I was awake, terrified, for the rest of the night.
This continued for two more years. It got worse, he would get angrier, his threats more violent. I kept my mouth shut like he told me to. The only reason those sleepovers continued was because my little brother adored our neighbors, and I refused to let him go there on his own. I didn’t want to be the reason my brother wasn’t allowed to have fun.
My parents and Sick Fuck Number 2’s parents were really good friends. Still are. Years later, when it all came out in the open, you know what my parents said? “He was just being a normal teenage boy.”
It all went downhill after that first summer. I used my body to get guys to like me. I had sex with so many guys through high school because, in my eyes, that’s all I was good for. Sex has always been something dirty and ugly to me.
Now I’m 23, married with a 2 year old son, and trying to overcome my negative feelings towards sex. My husband deserves better than that, better than me always feeling dirty after something that should be beautiful. It’s tearing us apart. The sick fucks are still winning after all these years. I’m done!
by Band Back Together | Mar 18, 2014 | Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Psychological Manipulation, Puberty in Girls, Teen Body Image, Teen Self Injury, Teen Substance Abuse, Therapy |
Before I take you for a ride down memory lane, I think it would be wise to take a moment to explain my family tree. (Cue “The Brady Bunch” theme song.)
My dad and his first wife had a son, my older half-brother.
My mother was his second wife. Together, they had four daughters. I am the youngest.
My dad and his third wife have a son, my younger half-brother.
My mother married for a second time. My step-father has five children, three boys and two girls. They are all older than I am.
I’m going to try to make this as painless as possible and not too confusing, so bear with me!
My parents can’t stand each other, I don’t think they ever could. Why they stayed married as long as they did, beats the hell out of me. They lived together, at least physically, until I was six months old. That was when my mother moved her four girls into the home of the man who would later become my stepfather. I’m surprised the three bedroom, one bathroom house didn’t explode from all of the hostility and tension caused by the eleven people living there. Being so young, I was automatically excluded from the fights between my sisters and my stepfather’s kids.
My mother conveniently decided to quit her motherly duties around the time I was conceived. Granted, she was never in the running for Mother of the Year or anything before that, but she was decent, I guess. I was pretty much raised by my oldest sister, who was only 9 or 10 years old at the time. Mother was always gone, even when she was home. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if my sister wasn’t there to care for me.
When I hit puberty at 11, my oldest sister no longer lived at home. No one was there to tell me what was happening to me or my body. I was already in a bad place in life because I also had just been sexually abused for the first time. This lead to many embarrassing situations at school, ruined clothes, being made fun of, etc.
I started cutting when I was 11 and kept all my cutting tools in an old CD case under my mattress. One day when I was 12, I went to grab them and they were gone. The blood-stained knives were washed and put back in the drawer, razors back in the box cutter, and scissors on the counter. Mother never said a word, never asked why I was wearing long sleeves through summer, or why I had a plethora of sharp, bloody instruments under my bed. Nothing.
Two years later, when the school nurse discovered my cuts and called my home, my mother suddenly put on her “distraught mother” hat. She swore to the school staff she would do anything and everything to help me. When we got home, she told me how I made her look bad because she does not want to be known as the mom with a fucked up daughter. At the school’s insistence, I started therapy. I don’t know how many therapists I went through because she would pull me out as soon as they said the words “depression” or “medication” or “she should really be tested for bipolar.”
During this time, I went to my dad’s house on the weekends. I hated it. I loved my brother, we have always been wicked close because we’re closest in age, but I hated my dad and stepmother. I hated them because my mother taught me to. My mother is the best manipulator I know, and constantly fed us and anyone else who would listen lies about how evil my father was.
When I got into high school, my mother introduced me to alcohol. She’d make me margaritas at family cookouts, look the other way when I grabbed a bottle from the shelf in the kitchen. Soon I was drinking at school, bringing vodka in a water bottle so no one would know. I started smoking in my room, stealing packs from her cartons of cigarettes and she never said a word. At that point, I thought, “Fuck yeah! My mom is awesome! She doesn’t have any rules.” My friends loved her, and she was always trying to be the “cool mom.” It was fun for a while, until she would go behind my back to invite my guy friends over. I can’t confirm or deny anything that happened when I wasn’t there, and I don’t want to know.
By 16, I was leaving the house every night to walk three miles to my drug dealer boyfriend’s house, drunk as fuck and taking railroad tracks as a shortcut. She knew, but never said a word. One summer day when I was drunk, I got into a fight with my stepdad and was arrested. I spent the night in jail, went to court, where I was charged with simple assault and sent to placement for six weeks. At the end of my time, I was told I wouldn’t be going home. I was going to be sent to a long term placement until I was 18.
After a lengthy battle, the judge finally decided to allow me to go live with my father. My mother’s selfish need to keep me from my father prompted her to fight tooth and nail to keep me in placement for those next two years.
I was in for a rude awakening at my dad’s. New school, new rules, new lifestyle to adjust to, with no friends or anything from my old life. It was not easy for them to deal with me. I would get into loud, screaming, in-your-face fights with my dad and stepmom. I wouldn’t trade it for the world because when I became an adult, I sat down with my dad and learned the truth.
The lies my mother told me about my father weren’t true. I was told the reason I never had winter jackets or new clothes or went to the doctor when I was sick was because my dad never paid his child support, He paid it, but mother used that money for herself.
My arrest was orchestrated by my dad. When he found out what I was doing, he fought Mother until she finally agreed to have my stepdad instigate a fight so the police could charge me. He convinced the court that my mother was unfit, and that living with him would be the best thing for me. He could give me a normal life with structure and discipline.
He saved my life, and I’ve spent most of my life hating him for no reason other than being a pawn in my mother’s sick game.
I’m 23, married with a beautiful 2 year old son. I wouldn’t have this life if my father hadn’t fought for me. It kills my father that two of my sister’s hate him because they’re still under my mother’s thumb.
I haven’t spoken to my mother in five years, and never plan to. My family tree may be split, but at least I know who my true family is now. My stepmom has become the mother I never had, and we are all really close.
by Band Back Together | Feb 4, 2014 | Adoption, Adult Adoptees, Adult Children of Narcissistic Parents, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorders, Cancer and Neoplasia, Child Sexual Abuse, Coping With Anxiety Disorders, Emotional Abuse, Fear, Generalized Anxiety Disorder Resources, Incest, Loss, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Parent Loss, Sadness, Therapy, Trauma |
The scars of a narcissistic mother last a lifetime.
This is the brave story of an adult child of a narcissistic mother’s story.
My dear father fell ill the end of February 2013. He’d been in and out of the hospital for three months with various ailments and a discovery of an aggressive cancer. We lost my dear father on May 29th 2013.
My father cared for my 80-year old mother. He waited on her hand and foot; he’d been doing this my whole life. It was now my turn to care for my mother.
I thought I was doing what was right; I thought I was being a good daughter. I visited with her every day. Let her cry on my shoulder, took care of her needs, medication, doctor appointments, fed her, cleaned her home, took care of her pets. My brother occasionally would show up, with some type of take-out food, but scoot out quickly.
After a few weeks, I started to get the wrath of my mother. I couldn’t do anything right
…I was too slow. I forgot to do something. Then, it turned into criticism of my body and how I raise my children; she was sorry she ever adopted me. I left her home crying every day; going home to my own family filled with anxiety and stress. I felt every bit 12-years old, all over again.
I am just recently learning about Narcissism.
I was 2- 1/2 when I was adopted. My brother is 8 years older than me and my parent’s biological son. I could never remember much of my childhood before the age of 11 or 12, but do remember a few haunting memories that I tried to pass off as a nightmare. One of the reoccurring memories happened when I was 6 – my then 14-year old was brother tickling me. It progressed to him pulling up my nightie and trying to penetrate me with his penis.
I can’t remember much past that.
He was always inappropriate, showing me his penis and laughing, making a sick game of it. I can’t remember the length of time this went on. Sometimes he would be nice, then he would be plain cruel to me.
I stopped talking in 2nd grade. I was so terribly shy, so shy that I would cry if someone looked at me the wrong way. I started remembering everything when I was a preteen but I was too ashamed to tell anyone as my brother continued his cruelty. He didn’t call me by my name. He called me Moose – as in a “fat moose.” My mother allowed this. She allowed him to be cruel to me and never said anything. In fact, it was my fault he was being mean.
He left for college when I was 12. Then came the wrath of my mother. She would make me weigh myself in front of her. She was very thin, an ex-model; she was an alcoholic and a very mean drunk. My father would water down her vodka in hopes she would be less volatile. She would scream at me for various reasons, none of them made sense. I just felt unloved. In fact, she made me go to a therapist at 13 because she said I had a “detachment disorder” and “could not love anyone.” Something about “not being held when I was back in my home country.”
My father tried the best he could to assure me I was pretty, smart and lovable. I always felt that from him, but he never stood up to my mother and quietly observed the maniacal behavior. I could write so much more of what happened through my childhood. (ed note: please share with us)
I am now 44 years old, married 18 years with 2 teenagers. I know I have the ability to love. I know I was mistreated because I could never treat my own kids that way. I am now in therapy to reconcile my feelings of guilt and quell my anxieties that still exist. I have never felt good enough or have been able to express myself for fear I might upset someone.
I am learning that my brother was the “golden child” and I was the scapegoat. It is all starting to make sense to me now. My therapist also believes my parents or at least my mother had knowledge of my brother’s sexual abuse towards me. Ughhh, I can’t even imagine this could be true. I have no contact with either my mother or brother as of Thanksgiving. My children tell me I seem less stressed. My husband also has noticed a huge change. I believe I am healing. I believe my father’s passing brought me to a place where I could see all the indignities I had suffered at the hands of someone I called Mom.
by Band Back Together | Jan 28, 2014 | Anxiety, Date/Acquaintance Rape, Depression, Fear, Healing From A Rape or Sexual Asault, How To Help With Low Self-Esteem, Loneliness, Rape/Sexual Assault, Sadness, Self-Esteem, Sexual Coercion |
I think I’m depressed. That’s the thing that worries me the most. I had this kind of shitty thing happen to me about a year ago, and I fear it has changed me. I used to be really happy, and could see beauty basically everywhere. I was outgoing, loved hanging out with my friends, and generally just doing stuff. But now I have absolutely no motivation to do anything. I sit at home watching tv, or playing games; anything to keep me from having to go outside and face life.
It’s sad, because I just moved to this new town, for school. An education I should be really excited about, but I’m not. I should try and make some friends here. I have one good friend left. The rest I have neglected to the point where we don’t speak anymore. Several have tried numerous times to call me, but I just don’t pick up. Before I moved, I would make plans to meet them, but then make up some lame excuse and not show up. They must think I don’t like them anymore. I’m so sad. I don’t want to cause other people pain just because I’m not feeling well, but I just can’t get myself to contact them.
My self-esteem is so unbearably low, it’s a pain to even go shopping for groceries. I only do when I absolutely have to. Unless I’m having a really good day, I can only buy certain items, so I’m not embarrassed. I over-eat, drink alone and don’t exercise. And as my weight goes up, my self-esteem drops even more. I’m a bit of a mess.
While I was volunteering in Africa, I was raped by a guy I worked with. I’ve had some trouble with guys in the past, so I went to Africa because I wanted a change and to clear my head for a while. He was so sweet and funny, everybody loved him. We started flirting a bit, and then it evolved into something more. He acted like he was really falling for me, and to this day I still think he was. (Unless he was just an extremely good actor, and I have no idea how to read people.)
There was a party. It was a great evening, and there was a lot to drink. I really liked him, and was going to have sex with him. My friends left for bed, but I stayed behind with him, with his friends close by, thinking I was totally safe. Like an idiot.
As soon as my friends had turned their back, he started kissing me and trying to undress me. I laughed and told him to wait, but he continued. That’s when I got scared, and told him to stop. So he raped me.
He was so much stronger than me, there was no way I could fight back, so I just shut down. I was in complete shock. Never once did it occur to me to scream for help. I’m ashamed of that now, and the fact that I was really into him. At the time, all I could think was “What? Is this really happening?”
After he was finished, I was lying on the grass, half naked, with him and his friends looking down at me. I will never forget that image. It was the most humiliating experience of my life. He started pulling me up by the arm, saying we would go to his cabin. I said no, and got away from his grip, but then he grabbed me by the hair.
That is when it finally occurred to me to scream.
There was a bit of mayhem in camp after that, and I had to report the incident. If the people I worked for hadn’t made me, I probably wouldn’t have. For that I am grateful, I suppose. It became quite clear who believed me and who didn’t. The guy who found me that night did. The rest of them, not so much. I had been working closely with these people for months, and I truly believed they were my friends. But they still thought it was my fault. He was such a sweet, likable guy, and if anything happened, it must have been my fault.
He told people that we were already in a sexual relationship, and he didn’t know he was forcing me into anything. His friends backed him up, of course, but he still went to jail for a while …about 4 months, if I’m not mistaken.
I stayed over there for a while after that, confused, broken and alone, not wanting to go home and deal with reality here. Obviously it didn’t work out in the long run, and I left a few months after the incident. About two days before going home I saw him again in the city. I completely panicked and ended up hiding behind a car.
So now I am left with the painful memories that pop up every now and then, a general distrust in all people, and absolutely no motivation to do anything. I am ashamed, sad, constantly tired, and I feel so incredibly lonely. I went to talk to a therapist a few times, but she went on vacation for a few weeks, and I never tried to schedule a new appointment.
She did tell me however, that I can get some kind of compensation for this. I just need documentation stating that the rape happened, documents from the police, or basically anything. But the people I worked for refuse to help me. I know the documents are (or were) in their office, I saw them, I touched them, but now, all of a sudden, they don’t exist.
This was extremely painful to write, but it turned out really long! Thanks to anyone who bothered to read through it, and thank you to whomever started this incredible Band. It is very nice to be able to vent like this. I normally have serious problems talking about my own emotions and problems.
Lots of love to everyone here!
by Band Back Together | Dec 5, 2013 | Anxiety, Gang Rape, Guilt, Healing From A Rape or Sexual Asault, Rape/Sexual Assault, Self Loathing, Uncategorized |
I want to feel better. I am hoping that writing about it will help.
I was raped by three fraternity brothers in college. Most of the frat guys are nice guys, and we are friends, but I didn’t know the men that did this. I was drunk, but not as drunk as my sorority sisters. While helping a sister I got dragged into a room, was tied up and abused for 2 hours. I thought it was my fault and that I was a slut. I have never spoken about it until now.
It happened during this time of year.
I should be over it by now. I just feel so guilty. I am sorry I let it happen. I should have fought harder or told someone sooner. Hopefully by saying something now I will feel better.
I received a friend request from one of them. Today, I heard one of them married a sorority sister recently. It’s put me in a bad place. I really hope I wasn’t at fault, but it feels like it.
