Heads up: this is deep. If the post heading doesn't clue you in, *TRIGGER WARNING: SEXUAL ABUSE, CHILD ABUSE, SAD STUFF ahead*
When I was ...younger, I was sexually abused. On more than one occasion, by more than one person. The first 'incident' happened when I was quite young, naive and well, scared shitless, if I'm being totally honest. I don't remember the specifics, but I remember waking up and noticing 'things'. I never told anyone because I was scared. This person terrified me, and deep down I hoped my parents would question the changes, even if I didn't realise this at the time.
They never did. Question me, that is. As I withdrew from my family, it was blamed on adolescence, the friends I had, or just my attitude in general. I eventually started associating with different people: older people. People who gave off safe vibes, I guess. Never too much older, for those people made me uncomfortable. Just, older. Big brother types. People who wouldn't question my moods, behaviour, or my need to be protected. Eventually, this group of people became some of my closest friends, but never around my family. I kept them apart for fear of them being tainted by the nightmares in my home life. To this day, my family has never met most of these people. They are my safe bubble. My second life, where I can be myself. I find this ironic, considering they know more about what happened than my family does, but that's what happens when your family doesn't really care. I don't have one of those super lovey tv families. Not even remotely. To provide a little context, I have been hit in the face by both parents, and at one stage, my brother aggravated me so extensively that I held a knife to his throat. And I don't regret it. I think that was the moment he realised I didn't care for his bullsh*t games.
Anyway, I digress. A common theme amongst my posts!
I had never told my parents about any of the incidents from my past. I was too scared of the ramifications. Afraid to be held responsible for a family falling apart. Afraid to be called a liar. An attention seeker. A slut. So I kept it to myself for years. It wasn't almost ten years later that I told one of my best friends. She had been diagnosed with brain cancer and finally questioned why I had a fake boyfriend in high school (this is true, I really did make up a boyfriend!!). Of course I told her the truth. I had been waiting for someone to genuinely ask me for years. Mr *insert fake bf's name here* was responsible for my loss of virginity. Back then I didn't know there were other excuses to account for my lack of hymen. Oh God, I wish I knew. Trying to convince some friends a person who didn't exist actually existed was so hard!! I'm such a tragic liar, lol.
So I told her everything. She suspected some things, as she had met the people involved. Then she cried for me. Not full blown crying: she wasn't that kind of girl. But she shed a tear, and that was when I realised that what I had gone through as a child was some serious shit. So I started seeing a psych. Talked about it. Had a great boyfriend. Told him about it. He also suspected, from my behaviour, but patiently waited for me to be ready. He was so amazing. The perfect boyfriend for the broken girl in need of more bandaids than the world could supply. Yet he fixed me, as much as someone as broken as I could be fixed.
The moral of this? After all the drama and emotional problems I have had to overcome these past 20 years, I found out not too long ago that my parents actually knew. Or at least suspected. Yet I was never questioned. Never comforted, or supported, or hugged and reassured that everything will be okay. Never protected from it happening again a couple of years later with someone else. Or again, a few years after that.
And learning this? I don't know how to deal with it. I cannot tell my psych, because I'm so scared I will erupt with such force that I end up admitted to a psych ward. So scared that I will shatter what little family I still associate with, and leave Spawn with nobody but me. I know that he is all I need, but he needs family. He needs more. He deserves more. And so I lie here, as this sh*t once again circulates through my mind, and I ponder what the actual heck I'm going to do about this. And then I wonder if my dad lied about the conversations from the past. Because I don't want to think that my parents could live with me, knowing what happened, and not try to protect me. Not keep me from seeing his face at family events, even to this day. Not apologise for shitty men who make shitty decisions. As a parent, I cannot fathom turning a blind eye to something so horrid. I would do all kinds of unspeakable things to anyone who even thought about hurting my son.
And so goes the bitter circle.
I'm sorry for being so deep. I know some of you don't know this stuff from my past, and it has taken ten years of therapy to get me here. But here I am. Typing to a screen with tears streaming down my face, and a teddy squished next to me.
Night, crazies.
- L. x
