Let me warn you: This story gets worse before it gets better. And lest you be all weepy eyed and feeling sorry for me, thinking "ah - a broken dove" - please stop it. I do not want your pity, I am not broken. That which doesn't kill you doesn't necessarily make you stronger but it doesn't condemn you to a life of misery either.
Before I continue, though, I will answer the question: how did you come out alive? Well, I had God and his angels on my side, thats how.
You athiests may skip to the next chapter. You may be excused.
When I was seven years old, wandering the streets alone, I came upon a church. There were children playing in the playground outside. I wandered in and up the stairs, into the sanctuary where there was - to my childs eye - a rather impressive godling on a gross, suspended in midair. The light from the stained glass was such that you could see Christs shadows cast three dimenisonally across the nave - I was entranced. In my mind, God began to speak to me.
God told me, rather clearly - that he could not protect me from my fate, from my life... but he would be there, each moment, he would suffer with me. I was not alone, and if I could trust him I would get through my childhood. My suffering would not last forever, and all things have thier blessings if we allow it.
Please understand I had no religious education, no religious training. This was a true conversion experience. Now, whether it came out of a desperate and lonely childs fervent imagination, or God actually spoke to me is immatereal. I went home and insisted on being baptized, and from that point I had one person in my life who cared. I have felt the hand of God on me all of my life. If God is simply my imagination, so be it... but for this I am grateful, for it made what follows bearable.
In the beginning was the word... and at this point the word was not Gods, but my step fathers. I am certain that the sexual abuse that I suffered had been going on for some time, but it did not exist for me until he used the words. All memories begin here. I had no door to my room, and there were frequent night time visits. I would wake to fingers in my pussy - and just as quickly again I would pretend to sleep.
I began to gain weight... to try and sheild myself from his touch. It didn't really work, as I was able to do no more than put on adolescent baby fat. I withdrew to my own world. I began to masturbate ferociously, using objects and items such as my twirling baton. I fantasized about men peeing in my mouth (I did not know about sperm yet, actually). I started to dream about being tied up and raped.
I began to go with the boys to thier secret clubhouse at lunchtime, so desperate was I for something resembling consensuality. I was, unfortunately, so naive that I did not know that boys talked about girls like me, until it was too late.
You may ask "But where was your mother?" This is a very good question. As I began to become quiet and withdraw, avoiding my step father at all costs, my mother was pushing me into his arms - "your daddy misses his little girl". For Chistmas that year, my stepfather made me a bed... complete with canopy and speakers. There is a photo of me, somewhere... my just developing adolescent body, curled up asleep in this princess pad, thumb in my mouth. I had to pretend to be grateful.
"She must have known", you protest. Yes, I suppose so. One day, I was 12 or so, my stepfather had me in his lap, in a rocking chair. He was showing me pictures in a penthouse magazine of all the beautiful women, and rubbing my stomach - telling me that I should watch what I eat and should let him massage me so I could have a flat stomach like all those beautiful girls. My mother walked into the room, tore me out of his lap my the hair, and began to beat me and call me a slut and a whore. So much for showing my "Daddy" that I "loved" him.
We moved again, shortly after... moving back to Kenosha, to a little town called Paddock Lake. I was 13 going on 14 the summer we moved. The chronoglogy again becomes a bit fuzzy.... I cannot tell you if the rape occured when I was 14 or 15 - or which summer it happened in. I remember the order, sort of - and I remember that the attacks and night time visits steadily increased. I remember being afraid. I remember running away from home because I knew that he would fuck me sooner or later.
And like the story of the man who runs away to avoid death, death met me on the road with a man who raped me while I was trying to get away from my rapist. An older teenager agreed to help me escape, and took me to his workplace in Illinois. The owner of this place sent my freind out on a job. Having the worlds strongest pelvic muscles I clamped myself shut, and he could not enter me. I tried to call the police ... he ripped the reciever from my hands and threatened to smash my brains out if I didnt suck his cock. I sucked his cock.
I called a runaway hotline, and I was returned home. No one asked why I had run away, and I never said.
I had my first boyfriend, my first orgasm. The visits increased. He knew how to pick the lock on my door. I knew it was coming, I found a boyfreind of 19, and I forced him to take my virginity... just in time.
A week later, my mother, again - "Your Daddy misses his little girl. You two are taking a trip together in his semi". It was fated. I could do nothing.
He had me sit in his bunk while he drove. He gave me porn to read... the vibrations of the truck, the inevitability of the encounter, the pornography, the years of fear and love.... I did it. I said it. "Daddy Fuck me". So he did.
The shame I carry for these three words, are as yet unhealed. I betrayed myself. I betrayed my mother.
I know why I did it. I was tired of being afraid. I was tired of fighting it. I was horny (which was what he intended). I was 14 years old, and I could no longer avoid the inevitable
But I wish I could have fought longer, harder, I wish I had been successful at running away. I wish it had been violent.
Afterwards I lay there... with a razor blade in my hands pressed to my wrists. I cried. There was one reason, and one reason only that I did not kill myself that night... because if I had, my mother would know what I had done and it would kill her.
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