If only I had been braver.
Fragmented
New Registrant
Guess I'll start at the beginning.
My father was arrested just a bit before my second birthday on charges that he molested me and my older siblings. The oldest was the only one that was able to be interviewed and, since there was no traces of his sperm or other physical evidence, he only got three senteces of three years to run concurrently. A year for each of us. Great court system we have, isn't it? Anyways, my first memory is of the day he was taken away. Everyone was crying and I didn't know why, so I started crying, too. I grew up with people showing pity to my sisters, which they definately deserved, but telling me that I had to be strong because I was a boy. I was three the first time someone told me that and didn't understand what the hell they were talking about. All I knew was that I was being treated more like it was my fault rather than a victim. At three.
When I was five, someone decided to tramautize our family further by calling up DCF and lying to them. They said that my father was spending weekends with us. I didn't understand why I had to go to the doctor when I wasn't sick or feeling bad in any way. Then he told me to take off all my clothes. I didn't want to. I didn't trust men. I looked up at my mom, scared out of my mind. She had always explained what my father had done by saying that he touched us in places only doctors should. He was telling me to get naked. Was he going to touch me? I refused to take off my underwear, afraid that he was going to hurt me. But I couldn't tell them that I was scared. I was a boy, I had to be strong and put on a brave face. He put me up on a table and I remember being really confused. No doctor had ever wanted to see my butt before, why was he looking all around it so long? It wasn't until just a year ago that I first put together in my head that he was looking for signs of penetration. He didn't find any. My mother would've killed him with a bent spoon before letting him anywhere near us.
I hated the word sex and didn't really understand why. Every time I heard it, something in me felt like it was killing me. I also didn't trust men. But I craved physical affection. I wanted everyone to hug me and love on me, as long as they were female. Men even brushing by me made me extremely uncomfortable. But no one noticed. I was a really hyperactive ADD kid, so I would get distracted and my mind would travel to some better thought and place. ADD was a blessing in that way. Anyways, I said all that to tell about the first man I ever trusted. He was the 20-something son of the pastor of the church we went to. He was always nice: let me play his SNES games without standing right there to make sure I didn't break them, didn't treat me like he wanted me to go away even when he did, and, when he would occasionally pat me on the back, I would wish he would pull me in and hig me. I was too afraid to ever hug him, though. When I was eight, my mom and I went to watch a football game at their house. I fell asleep early on, and I woke up hearing them talk about me, that they would have to wake me up to leave. For some reason, I pretended to be asleep, even when they tried to shake me awake. Then he picked me up in his arms. I felt like crying, but I still pretended to be asleep. My mom commented on how that was amazing, how I hated men and never let any touch me. You see, for all I said up there about that very fact, I had never realized it until that moment; I had only known how much I wanted a man to love me. Anyways, he carried me out to the car and put me on the seat, buckling me in. I remember just wishing he would hold me a little longer.
Then his father sexually assaulted my mother in a counseling section and we were chased out of town. That happened three years later. That same year, we went to visit my evil grandmother (who offered up my mother numerous times to sexual predators as she was growing up. I didn't know that until recently). She was soon to be married. Deciding that I needed to bond with my soon-to-be Step-Grandfather, she brought up the idea of me staying the night with him in his apartment. He had been really nice to me and I said I wanted to. That's the only reason my mom allowed it. I trusted him, and I never trusted men.
Shortly after they left me there, he started asking me about everything that I liked, from really crappy pop-music to video games. Then he brought me some coke from the kitchen and my memory goes blank. I woke up in bed with him. I only had my underwear on. I was shaking and confused. I gathered up my clothes as silently as I could, they were scattered everywhere. I locked myself in the bathroom and nearly threw up when I saw some of my grandmother's langerie (sp?) hanging on the bathroom door. I got dressed, still shaking. I didn't know why I was crying, just that I was scared and confused. Once the shaking stopped, but not the silent sobbing, I stumbled out to the living room and passed out on the couch. I can only thank God that he didn't wake up and decide to bring me back in with him.
I never told anyone until just a few months ago. He had 9 years to, from the time I was eleven till now, to molest any other children he came across because I never told anyone. What would I have told them? I had no clue what he had done to me, only that I suddenly fell asleep after drinking the coke and could barely move when I woke up, finally falling unconcious again the second my head touched anything soft. I put in a police report via phone, but there's not enough proof to go after him. It's on the record now, an allegation. Maybe one day other people whom he drugged will come forward. The only thought that comforts me is that maybe I was the only one. But I know that the chances of him only molesting once is slim to none. If I had been braver, not scared to death by the horrible dreams that plagued me or scared that people would just tell me to be strong again.
I met my father earlier this year. For the first time since a court-ordered visitation when I was five. I thought that he had really changed, that we had finally cleared everything up between us, had been completely truthful. I took his word when he said that he only ever molested the oldest. Then, after I came back home after the week of being lied to, he was talking to the middle sibling and said things that no real man ever would. I gave him trust he didn't deserve and he betrayed it. I'll never be able to trust him. Knowing that is, in some ways, even worse than it was before. Like acid in a scar that has been cut open once again.
Neither of the men that molested me will ever be criminally punished for it. They may be molesting other children right now. Other kids I may even be related to. If only I had been braver.
My father was arrested just a bit before my second birthday on charges that he molested me and my older siblings. The oldest was the only one that was able to be interviewed and, since there was no traces of his sperm or other physical evidence, he only got three senteces of three years to run concurrently. A year for each of us. Great court system we have, isn't it? Anyways, my first memory is of the day he was taken away. Everyone was crying and I didn't know why, so I started crying, too. I grew up with people showing pity to my sisters, which they definately deserved, but telling me that I had to be strong because I was a boy. I was three the first time someone told me that and didn't understand what the hell they were talking about. All I knew was that I was being treated more like it was my fault rather than a victim. At three.
When I was five, someone decided to tramautize our family further by calling up DCF and lying to them. They said that my father was spending weekends with us. I didn't understand why I had to go to the doctor when I wasn't sick or feeling bad in any way. Then he told me to take off all my clothes. I didn't want to. I didn't trust men. I looked up at my mom, scared out of my mind. She had always explained what my father had done by saying that he touched us in places only doctors should. He was telling me to get naked. Was he going to touch me? I refused to take off my underwear, afraid that he was going to hurt me. But I couldn't tell them that I was scared. I was a boy, I had to be strong and put on a brave face. He put me up on a table and I remember being really confused. No doctor had ever wanted to see my butt before, why was he looking all around it so long? It wasn't until just a year ago that I first put together in my head that he was looking for signs of penetration. He didn't find any. My mother would've killed him with a bent spoon before letting him anywhere near us.
I hated the word sex and didn't really understand why. Every time I heard it, something in me felt like it was killing me. I also didn't trust men. But I craved physical affection. I wanted everyone to hug me and love on me, as long as they were female. Men even brushing by me made me extremely uncomfortable. But no one noticed. I was a really hyperactive ADD kid, so I would get distracted and my mind would travel to some better thought and place. ADD was a blessing in that way. Anyways, I said all that to tell about the first man I ever trusted. He was the 20-something son of the pastor of the church we went to. He was always nice: let me play his SNES games without standing right there to make sure I didn't break them, didn't treat me like he wanted me to go away even when he did, and, when he would occasionally pat me on the back, I would wish he would pull me in and hig me. I was too afraid to ever hug him, though. When I was eight, my mom and I went to watch a football game at their house. I fell asleep early on, and I woke up hearing them talk about me, that they would have to wake me up to leave. For some reason, I pretended to be asleep, even when they tried to shake me awake. Then he picked me up in his arms. I felt like crying, but I still pretended to be asleep. My mom commented on how that was amazing, how I hated men and never let any touch me. You see, for all I said up there about that very fact, I had never realized it until that moment; I had only known how much I wanted a man to love me. Anyways, he carried me out to the car and put me on the seat, buckling me in. I remember just wishing he would hold me a little longer.
Then his father sexually assaulted my mother in a counseling section and we were chased out of town. That happened three years later. That same year, we went to visit my evil grandmother (who offered up my mother numerous times to sexual predators as she was growing up. I didn't know that until recently). She was soon to be married. Deciding that I needed to bond with my soon-to-be Step-Grandfather, she brought up the idea of me staying the night with him in his apartment. He had been really nice to me and I said I wanted to. That's the only reason my mom allowed it. I trusted him, and I never trusted men.
Shortly after they left me there, he started asking me about everything that I liked, from really crappy pop-music to video games. Then he brought me some coke from the kitchen and my memory goes blank. I woke up in bed with him. I only had my underwear on. I was shaking and confused. I gathered up my clothes as silently as I could, they were scattered everywhere. I locked myself in the bathroom and nearly threw up when I saw some of my grandmother's langerie (sp?) hanging on the bathroom door. I got dressed, still shaking. I didn't know why I was crying, just that I was scared and confused. Once the shaking stopped, but not the silent sobbing, I stumbled out to the living room and passed out on the couch. I can only thank God that he didn't wake up and decide to bring me back in with him.
I never told anyone until just a few months ago. He had 9 years to, from the time I was eleven till now, to molest any other children he came across because I never told anyone. What would I have told them? I had no clue what he had done to me, only that I suddenly fell asleep after drinking the coke and could barely move when I woke up, finally falling unconcious again the second my head touched anything soft. I put in a police report via phone, but there's not enough proof to go after him. It's on the record now, an allegation. Maybe one day other people whom he drugged will come forward. The only thought that comforts me is that maybe I was the only one. But I know that the chances of him only molesting once is slim to none. If I had been braver, not scared to death by the horrible dreams that plagued me or scared that people would just tell me to be strong again.
I met my father earlier this year. For the first time since a court-ordered visitation when I was five. I thought that he had really changed, that we had finally cleared everything up between us, had been completely truthful. I took his word when he said that he only ever molested the oldest. Then, after I came back home after the week of being lied to, he was talking to the middle sibling and said things that no real man ever would. I gave him trust he didn't deserve and he betrayed it. I'll never be able to trust him. Knowing that is, in some ways, even worse than it was before. Like acid in a scar that has been cut open once again.
Neither of the men that molested me will ever be criminally punished for it. They may be molesting other children right now. Other kids I may even be related to. If only I had been braver.
