My father has, was, and always will be a control freak. When the divorce was finally finalized. (It took up to like 6 months for my family to finally separate) My step dad and my mom could finally get married. That angered my father even more than the divorce had.
Also, our visitation “schedule” was crazy! It was every day for a few hours after school back and forth. Dad, for a while, lived with Dan’s ex wife until he finalized the apartment. I don’t remember the first time I spent the night, but it was a while into my eighth year. Through all the turmoil and court and changes, everyone was pretty estranged. But my Father – this pushed him over the edge to insanity. Because no one sane could carry out how he abused us.
My brother suffered physical abuse to a degree, so was I. But it was the emotional turmoil that took its toll. I thought it could not get worse than it was but I was wrong…… It changed soon after we stayed that first night. There was a nice upstairs room. I had slept up there that night, but I went to bed without my father. I woke up with him in bed with me. I remember thinking how odd it was, Dan never did that. Only mom did because nights were always tough for me, especially now.
I remember being sore too but thinking it was because of all the running around we did outside the previous day. Everything carried on as it did on any other day and he took us back home.
Waking up with my father in bed with me kept happening. He would force me and Jack to sleep with him, but would curl around me as if I were his wife. He’d kiss me and it was inappropriate how he did. He’d use the excuse, “I’m your father,” to ease the worry and I believed him. At this point I had no reason not too. No, I couldn’t not trust my father. I knew with a sickness that he would hurt me if I questioned him. So I submitted.
Some time later, when I was 9, I finally got a bed upstairs but didn’t use it except on occasion. I didn’t feel safe up there for whatever reason. I knew there was a sanctioned reason, I just couldn’t remember why. So I would sleep downstairs on the couch. It was the first time I remembered. Looking back 10 years ago this year, because I’m 19 now, I remember with more ease. Compare that to when I was 8 trying to find out why I was so scared and it was about this time I hated to touch and let myself feel touch.
I would freak out if anyone tried, but would have to submit to my father again. I had to let him touch me. It would feel familiar and in that way only would it feel more comfortable. I remember being on the couch and hearing my dad come up out of the bed room. Jack was in bed with him and I begged him that night to let me please sleep on the couch. He allowed me. Jack was snoring (my brother could sleep through the worst thunderstorms possible). I heard him come around to the couch to just check on me. He did more than just check on me. So much more than just check on me.
He told me things in hushed voices, telling me I couldn’t tell anyone, that what he was doing was “normal”. He was my dad and I believed that liar. I was silent and allowed my mind to drift, to ignore what was happening to me. It was wrong, some part of me knew it. I just couldn’t quite tell anyone. I was too scared. I’ll spare you the details, because you need none. The details of how he touched me and where don’t matter. It is uncomfortable to read about sometimes, I know.
People talk about rape and sexual violence, sometimes with desensitized minds in this culture. I wish to bring humanity back into the way we look at it. How wrong it us, how disgusting, how evil it always is.
Sexual abuse is wrong but when you are doing it to your own daughter because you have no idea how to handle being out of control is evil. He did something against my consent or permission, and it was more than just exploring. It meant something with ill content and it hurt me in many physical and especially emotion. I was -and sometimes still am- a wreck.
I know why now that he abused me: it was because he had control over the situation. whether I wanted him to or not and no matter how much it hurt me. He didn’t care how young I was, or how innocent. He hated the fact he no longer had control so he took the only thing he could.The light in my heart…and my confidence.
It’s still gone but there is still something he can never take to call his own. He can’t take the Love that God gave me. It gets so much worse before it gets better, but get better it does.