I was finishing a separate post yesterday which ended with the line “…since in the past everyone seemed to think that if it was someone in the family, it must have been my father.” Suddenly an image came into my mind of my father walking out of the shower naked. I recalled how he had once came into my bedroom to turn off my alarm clock (it was a snow day–school cancelled) and I tensed up in great fear, because I was naked under the covers. I remembered his smell…and then it all came back.
I was perhaps 4-7 years old, and I was told that it was my turn this time–I was lucky, it was supposed to be a happy occasion, I got to go into their bedroom to play. Yet when they closed and locked the door, something seemed strange. The smell of marijuana smoke filled the air, my mother was drunk; there was a colored light bulb burning, it must have been Sunday. Then I was naked on the bed, being forced to give my father oral sex (it tasted bad…), and then my mother. She made mocking remarks about my penis. He asked her if he should do it, she said ‘go ahead’ in a blasé manner. They never even considered me. I was pinned down on my stomach, frozen; he slipped behind me and I could feel his scratchy hair against my butt, a waxy feeling, and pain as he entered me again and again. I was crying, but they kept on their happy faces, smiling and laughing like a circus in the sick air.
My parents used me as a sex toy, took me into their bed and raped me. They didn’t even think of children as human beings, as thinking feeling people with rights. They felt they could do whatever they wanted to me, and who knows/cares about the consequences. My father sexually abused me. It wasn’t just my mother, brother, and grandmother. I can see now that this knowledge was starting to slowly drip into my mind over the past few weeks. My body gradually readied me for it, because it’s so difficult to admit, to reconcile with everything I’ve always known consciously. What unbelievable scumbags my parents were!
I remember my sister had said to me in response to my father’s hatred, “He’ll come around, he used to consider you his most special treasure.” Why? Because I had blonde straight hair, blue eyes, pale skin; all traits that my father lacked and ones he envied out of his own self-hatred. He liked me for my looks, and considered me to be a “prized possession” when I was a young child, but couldn’t care less once I had crested 9 years old. There was a definite element of pedophilia in the way these people cared about me less and less as the years went by. But I don’t and didn’t want him to “come around.”
I can no longer believe that my sister had nothing to do with any of this. It would be quite strange for these people (my mother, grandmother, and father) to all decide to leave her alone and only prey on my brother and I. Especially since the emotional incest was definitely there between my mother and sister–she was used as a surrogate for her dead father, my mother’s first husband. I don’t know if I may even uncover memories of her. The incest was so profound and pervasive.
Many years ago I was very absorbed in following the blog of a boy who had been sexually abused by virtually everyone in his family–I never thought we had so much in common.