While I am on a roll of sharing my life struggles, I figure I might as well tackle this one. A blogger friend of mine is coming clean about her abusive past which has made me really consider my own.
WARNING: THIS IS NOT GOING TO BE AN EASY STORY TO WRITE OR TO READ.
I talk about not having any family. Mostly that is true. Both of my parents are deceased. My mother passed away 13 years ago this month of cancer at the age of 46. I miss her terribly. Though we fussed and argued all the time, she was by far my best friend and strongest ally on this earth.
My dad. A can of worms I probably shouldn’t open but I am going to anyway.
Where do I start?
My father died of a self-inflicted gun shot wound to the head almost nine years ago. I wish that I could say that I miss him as much as I do my mom, but I just can’t.
Here is why:
Three months prior to using his pistol to end his own misery, he used it to inflict misery on me instead. My father held me at gunpoint. He was so drunk he could barely keep his eyes open. But he could hold a gun pointed at my skull.
While people want to believe that the deceased aren’t really horrible people, I cannot pretend that my father wasn’t a hideous man just because he chose to run away from his problems.
During the time he held me frozen in fear (as if I didn’t fear him already), my father sexually assaulted me. Again.
My father began abusing me when I was 12 years old and just developing. On Easter Sunday, while my half brother watched cartoons and his second wife worked in a hospital cafeteria.
I kept this to myself for years. I feared my father, just as he wanted me to. Actually he wanted most people to fear him. He had a history of physically abusing the women in his life, and his children were fair game, too.
Throughout the years, I avoided being alone with him at great length. There were times that could not be avoided without telling my mom what he had done to me.
At first I didn’t tell because I knew my mom would kill him. Seriously kill him. There is no way she would have been accepting of him just going to jail. My mom was hot tempered and vicious when it came to her kids. So I knew that she would end up in prison if I told.
By the time I was 16 and ready to make it stop, it seemed like too much time had passed to tell the truth. I feared no one would believe me in spite of my father’s reputation. I was 16, I had been raised in absolute fear, and both of my parents were crazy. I should have told then, but I wasn’t strong enough.
Flash forward 16 years and many failed relationships. Looking back I now see just how badly the abuse messed me up. I never once made a rational relationship choice. Not once.
That day that my father held a gun on me will forever be the day that haunts me. I had managed to not be alone with him for the better part of two decades. But, like now, I was in some deep financial troubles. So I drove to his trailer alone to ask for help with my rent. I opened the door for him to hurt me by being desperate.
My father’s behavior became even more erratic over the next several months. I left my home state and entered a domestic violence shelter 7 hours away. I have ended my 11 year marriage just weeks after this incident. I took my kids and fled to what was supposed to be a better life.
I got the call 17 days after entering the shelter. Only one person on the planet knew how to find me, and it took my family several days to find her to relay the message. I had to return home to take care of things. That what my uncle told me. My life beer got straightened out because I had to deal with the nightmare that I was facing.
In my grief I confided in someone who knew my dad when she asked why our relationship was so strained. This is where I should have thought carefully before opening my mouth. I suspect that she was on the phone with my father’s family before I even left her driveway.
His family has shunned me. No one will even speak to me. I have long since stopped trying to talk to any of them, but they could get in touch if they really wanted to. They don’t. Honestly, I don’t really care that much anymore. I know the truth and dying doesn’t erase the evil things that he did.
As I struggle to keep my family together and safe I am reminded of why it is so hard for me to ask for help. The one person I should have been able to trust when the chips were down seized a moment of weakness and scarred me for life.
I have spent the majority of my life terrified, weak, and ashamed. He did this to me. I was 12. I didn’t ask to be abused. So why do I still have to suffer the effects so many years later?
I have no one to call on right now because of his actions and the way I have handled the abuse. I cannot trust anyone. I’m always waiting for them to destroy me. And for the most part, I have been right about that. Every time I trust someone new, they end proving that my trust was misplaced.
So, here I sit waiting for my entire world to crumble. I don’t have anyone to rely on or even talk to. The worst thing he did to me was to alienate me from all healthy relationships. He abused me and yet I am living with consequences.
I have no regrets for telling what happened to me. HE DID THIS TO ME. I refuse to feel guilty for something he did. I did not ask to be abused.
So….there you go. I have told the world what no one wants to acknowledge.