3mo to 14yrs

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3mo to 14yrs

HereandQueer

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My first recovered memory is from when I was an infant. We (I have DID, thus the early memories) were trying to get milk but it wasn’t working and we were so scared and hungry and she held our head against her chest while we alternated between crying and trying to suckle but nothing we did got us food. We kicked and squirmed to try and breathe or escape, which just turned her on more (sometimes, we could feel our feet getting wet). We know it started by 3 months old because we have an alter (see: dissociative identity disorder/DID) who is that age. The only thing he usually does in the headspace or when he’s out in the body is cry and squirm until he falls asleep, though our internal caretaker has sometimes been able to get him to laugh recently when he’s feeling better. The last memory we have, potentially the last time the abuse occurred, we were 14 years old. She took us on a ski trip to another state with our twin (who was never abused, they would never have kept quiet about it like I did). We “got to” have separate rooms, so that our twin wouldn’t notice I was missing at night. Our alter who was in front (essentially driving the body) and experienced this doesn’t feel safe sharing the details yet, but at one point we saw the book “Wicked” on a table and read the opening page and that’s the only memory I can access of the entire trip.

There was one consistent abuser, we’ll call her N, throughout all the abuse and sometimes the others she “shared with”.

A started joining when we were about 3 years old and she was the one who most enjoyed our pain. She was N’s girlfriend and stayed an active participant until we were 5 or so. She wasn’t allowed to leave marks that couldn’t reasonably explained as childish accidents, so she favored suffocation. She used pillows to reduce marks as she choked or pinched or scraped us. Sat on our chest or head untile we could barely gasp a breath.

R joined when I was 5. She was more “gentle”. Previously, she had been watching my twin to keep them away from what was happening to me. Once I was “bigger” she wanted in too. She was an active part of it until the body was 8. Even though she didn’t try to create pain, hers was most confusing, I think, because she told me it was a reward and a good thing even though it felt so wrong and we were so confused and scared.

And of course, to make everything worse, sometimes the body responded to the abuse in ways that we look back on and worry meant we “enjoyed it”, even though we know that it was a physiological response to stimulus and had nothing to do with whether we wanted to be there. Even now, triggering things make our body react in that way, which makes everything worse.

N was a fan of piss and pretty much any other bodily function/fluid, maybe that’s one reason she started with us so young, when we physically couldn’t control them. Sometimes she would make us feel sleepy with the “special tea” or floaty-weird with the “funny paper” but sometimes she just wanted us to struggle. She couldn’t usually indulge in blood because at the end of the visit she’d have to “loan” me back to our parents. “Loan” because she owned us and just let them take care of us in between. Even now, 25 to 12 years later, going to the bathroom or needing to go to the bathroom is triggering and overwhelming. Even washing my hands is triggering because after she took me to the bathroom with her, “to make sure we washed our hands”, she would make me do things and then wash my hands extra hard so no one would smell it and know. Claw foot tubs, any tub with a shower attached, showering in general, all are just so hard because of the occasional kneeling in the tub I had to do. Other times, the mess was half the point and making us clean it up was the other half.

She would sometimes film and photograph the abuse, at least once A joined in, who was a photographer. Starting in at least 1999, she would live stream us to others on the internet and take requests for what to do to us. I have no idea how many images of my abuse exist online or in personal collections. Sometimes I hope that they’re all over, because that would be proof I’m not making it up. Like maybe one day some government agency will find them and know it’s me and who it was that made them. I’ve recently discovered that the “sharing” me and the selling images of us in pain is a type of trafficking. That knowledge kind of floored us because we have always felt like it “wasn’t so bad”. It was “only” once or twice a month. It wasn’t anyone who lived with me. It didn’t leave marks.
 
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