I head downstairs, the overwhelming scent of mold permeates throughout the room. Garbage and wet clothes are scattered everywhere and makeshift hammocks adorn the ceiling. A dirty rabbit hutch reeks of urine and feces, and the rotting smell of dead mice or some other mysterious animal buried beneath the filthy ruble burns my nose. As the intense aroma penetrates my eyes, they begin to water incessantly, I don’t think I can handle this. With a trash bag in one hand and plugging my nose with the other, I proceed down into the dingy basement. I begin wading through the plethora of items in my path, deciding what to keep and what to throw out, I’m disgusted at what I see, my mother would have never let it get like this. I stand, staring at a massive pile of clothes laying on the damp floor by the washing machine. It feels like just yesterday my mother died and suddenly life went from living in splendor to living in squalor. For me, living in “splendor” didn’t mean living in some extrav
Lately it has felt like I have reached an impasse when it comes to my depression and anxiety. I am at a dead end and I am certain that I am destined to fail at life. I am not meant to be successful. All of my confidence has been stripped from me and I have officially hit rock bottom. I don’t know how to pull myself out of the darkness. It’s as if I’m standing outside, naked and exposed. I’m exhausted and I just want it all to be over.
This is me at 12 years old before I was placed in foster care for a year. I have now been experiencing abuse for 3 years. I’m tired and I don’t feel like a little girl anymore. I feel like a grown woman who lives in the 1700s or something. I must get myself ready and prepare for my nightly coitus with my husband. Only, I am not waiting for my husband, I am fearfully waiting for my abuser. I am laying in bed, covers tightly wrapped around my body, my hands are fixed to my side. My eyes are wide and my lips are tightly shut. I hear heavy footsteps headed towards my door. I can see the shadow of my dads feet peeking through the bottom of the door. Tears stream down my face as I close my eyes. Please, please, please go away. Sometimes, if he has had too much to drink he might only reach his hand down my pants or up my shirt. It means he is to drunk to “perform.”
He knocks on the door...how kind of him. Is he making sure I am decent before entering? I sigh and roll my eyes, I can only hope. He comes in the room. I can feel my body tense as I clutch the blanket so tight my hands start to feel numb. He sits down on the end of the bed. He starts talking, he isn’t rambling or slurring his words which means he isn’t that drunk. I just keep thinking that I want him to hurry up and get it over with. I wonder if woman in the 1700s felt the same. Those young girls who were married off to old, disgusting men. They were expected to “take care of them” every night and perform their wifely duties. I often let my mind wander off to wonderland so when he is ready to act, I am already disconnected from myself.
He always likes to talk first. I’m not sure why. I think it is comforting to him, maybe he feels like he isn’t abusing me if he is being kind to me and not going straight into action. He asks me if I want him to touch me or if I want him to sleep with me. It’s pointless for me to say no because his questions a rhetorical. I suppose it isn’t rape if he asks permission first and I never truly say no. I never say no, not because I want him to do these things to me but, because I don’t want him to do these things to my sisters. Often times when I feel the urge to fight, he uses them against me. Threatens me with a phrase I have heard all to many times, “if you don’t let me do it to you, then I will do it to them.”
I can see him getting bored with the conversation. He really doesn’t care about talking. He is ready to do his business. Of course he always wants to look first. He has always been this way. The first time he started molesting me, he made me stand in front of a window and remove my clothes. He just stared at me. I could feel his icy blue eyes piercing through me. Why did he want to look at me naked? I just thought, he is my dad, I’m sure there is a logical reason for it. In my mind, I know this isn’t right, especially when he asks me to come sit on his lap. I do as I’m asked and without hesitation. I was 9 and I trusted him. Prior to now, sitting on his lap was a harmless act, usually involving hugs and kisses and story telling. Maybe I provoked him by being so willing to be affectionate with him.
I sit on his lap and I think, my God he stinks so badly of cigarettes and alcohol I can’t even breathe. He proceeds to run his hands down my body, he places his hand on private area. I panic and jump out of his lap. He says “it’s okay,” he says he is just “checking me out.” I don’t really know what that means. What is he looking for? I don’t like this feeling. This isn’t normal.
That was the beginning of how I would spend the next 9 years and it only got worse as time went on. Molestation turned into rape and by the time I was 11 I was no longer a virgin. His examination process became a nightly occurrence.
I am laying here while he does his deed and all I can think about is when will it be over. I have school tomorrow and I just want to go to sleep. I know I need to focus on something else so I try and think of school and how safe I am there. He places his hands over my mouth to ensure no one can hear my me cry in agony. Every time he thrusts himself into me, I can feel a wave of pain pass through my belly. He is heavy and rough and the stench of alcohol burns my eyes. I hear him say my name. He always says my name before he finishes, I hate it. I think I should change my name, if I can ever get out of here.
He is done and he always acts like he has done me a favor, like I’m the one who asked him to do this to me. After all, he did give me a choice. He says he loves me and he heads back downstairs. I’m sure to get another beer and turn on a journey record or play November Rain on repeat. He wasn’t emotional when he left me, if he was, it would mean the ambulance was soon to arrive. Sometimes, he feels guilty for what he has done or sorry for himself because he is a young, single parent with so many kids that he feels suicide is the best option. Do most people call emergency services before trying to kill themselves? I don’t care how he is feeling, I am just glad it is over. I think to myself, maybe this is the last time. Yes, maybe this was the last time. I begin to sob into my pillow. I don’t want anyone to hear me. Im so stupid, I think it will be the last time every time. It’s a ridiculous thought. I continue to cry and eventually exhaustion takes over and I fall asleep.
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