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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1548458-It-is-not-just-about-me
by Shadow
Rated: 18+ · Non-fiction · Biographical · #1548458
What you are about to read are actual events of abuse from child to adult.
One can search all their lives and never get the answer to those questions we ask.
I am 44 years old in a few weeks’ time, gave life to eight beautiful children, blessed with eight beautiful grandchildren. I lost my fifth child to cot death back in 1988.

The list of questions I have unanswered. Span out, over “three decades”. It is an on going struggle, not being able to come to terms with this life;  Trying to find ways, to making them understand, what it feels like to live with so many convictions, has and is frightening. Has had a major effect on all our lives.

Have you ever felt so much despair and heartbreak, that you would consider the idea? That the only way to end that pain, is too end the life they force you to live. Having, been placed in such a position, “that even crying out for help”, when the ones have been sexually-emotionally-physically-psychologically-financially abused and tortured you? Parentally alienated from the ones you gave life too.

They said I was blaming them for my past, became their piss poor excuse to turn their backs and walk away, when one desperately needed their help.

I never blamed them (ex-partners or our children) they are my past; present and gave a future that was never wanted, fought so hard trying to stop history from repeating it's self. The idealism of my family thinking that a victim can choose consciously how to proceed in life, is insidiously flawed. The trauma one goes through is debilitating, no defernition of life and humanity.

The selfish pride of others to thinking, the sun only shined out of those stronger than "I" even knowing that they are doing wrong, particularly when it came to the way my childrens' "perceiptions" as well endure the abuse from others. Adults ignoring how it was affecting them, their education, social communication skills, while a mothers' attempt only created visions, to see as me blaming those all around. Was in fact for financial gain and denigration.

It’s not “just about me, (it was and still is) about all that is ignored, priorties, and responsibilities. "anymore stolen lives" forced to feel like trash, then thrown in the garbage, when things get out of hand, keeps the whole insidious thing, at a level of torment, with the intention of simply inducing fear, and destruction.

I never chose to be the victim, my stepfather made those choices for me.  Mothers’ choices over the years, feel as though I have to be punished for her failed marriage and inabilities to protect myself and sisters. To start the viscous cycle of denigrating; not only my life, but those who dared to be apart of it. Including the innocent ones, that never had a choice.

“She should be ashamed and guilty"

How does one understand why? Why a man can take the innocents of a child, as well as have those all around you, expect that child to live with his (stepfathers} extra curricular ways, without it causing further pain, once you have become an adult, especially; if it has been ignored. How we are not destined, to feel as though we are continuely punished, used as scapegoats for others only for self preservation.

Thirty years of abuse, delivered in such a fashion that it cripples you, in never being able to have a relationship of any sorts, as a result, eventually have ones you do meet, join the long line of "ass holes" called "family". It is inconceivable to think that your own parents would be so pitiless and vindictive. When in actuality all you wanted was their unconditional love, not scares or memories that will never heal.

Well maybe this is the moment to put in the bigger picture into the light of day, for the readers to better perceive the torture, one has gone through, in detail; hopefully they might try and find ways to stop the continuance of repeating history. (GOUND-HOG-DAY) so as the next generation wont have to endure it.

I thought he loved me, I loved him, thought he was the greatest. Telling anybody who would listen to the stories of mischief and silly things we did as kids.  Until, that first night he came into my room.  A stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke, on his body, still to this day is an impregable memory. I thought there was some thing wrong; I sat up yawned, what is wrong daddy? Just seeing if your ok and to give you a kiss good night.

Therefore, I leaned over to give him a kiss and cuddle, thinking he might be upset over my mother leaving only a few weeks before. In doing this, he started to rub my breasts, trying to push him away, only made him use more force. Proceeded to place his hand down my knickers, started to rub my virgina; at the same time, say he loves me, but this is our little secret; the sick sinking feeling you get in the pit of your gut, it felt like eternity, "never going to end". Fighting him made it even worse. Desperately trying to say stop. screaming but it will not come out.

Can any of you (apart from the few that also endured his sick acts) imagine what it was like to be a child, having to live that shame, your own father cheating you out of a life of love; happiness and a right to not live in fear? (Keep reading)

He got under the sheets, turned me on my side to put his penis in between my legs, a memory I have suppressed, as I do not know if he actually put in, but makes no fucking difference if he did. I hated him for making me feel dirty and degusted with the fact that this man taught me right from wrong and wants me to lie to save his ass from being “screwed” in jail.  Told, not to say anything, it is our secret. “Fuck you daddy”

For weeks, months and even years later, he attempted to degrade and torture me. Some successful, some not, eventually upgraded to school friends, and the rest of the family expected me to forgive and forget. "this ones for you (sis)".

He would call me to his room and the first time he did this, was my first encounter, on what it was like to have an orgasm.  To see the face of that “fucking monster” doing it every time, I try to make love to a real man; (real men do not abuse women and children) will forever, stay imbedded in my memory. Sobbing, because you cannot stop that feeling it gave, knowing that it felt good, made it even sicker, and placing shame and guilt, and the fear of not being able to say to someone what he was doing. Shear fucking torture!

It’s a sad fact of life when you have to start putting more cloths on, so it takes longer for the act to get their, dodging him just in case he starts rubbing your breast or if you tell him no he finds other ways to hurt you. Calling you a slut, worthless and would never a mount to anything other than a good root. Saying to others, I am a user and a liar. Forcing you to sit at the dinner table for hours on end, until you ate the dinner that he give to you, not long after you got home from school.

Having to drive him underage, home from his drinking hole, because he has had a belly full of piss. Or have his putrid mates hit on you, was ok for them, but heaven forbid if it was someone I thought I could find peace with, have a life of something other than the constant dream, you have whether you’re a wake or a sleep. Never being able to ask for help without it entailing hours of his bullshit excuses, why he felt i was not worthy of his help, three times in my life I only asked for money, that was enough for me.

In the end it does make one feel worthless, useless, hopeless, and doomed to fail anything remotely promising. Dropped out of school early because the friends I had, that bastard hit on, would turn up to school get spate on, fights started, terrorized by most with a song that I loath, that was always sung out load when I walked past. I presume they never really thought to themselves why, I had left. I guess the (good vibrations). Daddy taught my best friend, was enough to kill any chance, of having what other women, seemed to have readily available to them.

White picket fence, two, half kids, a loving husband. (some dream) of cause it was, it was the only nice dream I could conceivably have.  Just; couldn't quite touch it. Thought I did for a while there. I guess the fear of the past, inconsistancy of the present. the future of uncertanty, changed his mind.
© Copyright 2009 Shadow (euphoriadreams at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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