Have you read Part One ?
Although I was only eight when I admitted to the Stepmother I'd been sexually abused, I still wanted to speak out about the things he did to me. I wanted to explain to her about things that little girls with tiny vaginas just shouldn't do. But I guess that I could. I wanted her to hug me and tell me that I didn't deserve it, or even sadness that it happened to me for so long. It never came, the kindness never came.
Crying was pointless, after a few weeks of the confession, no one wanted to think about what happened. I was told by both my Parents to just 'deal' with it. I wish it's that easy - oh how I tried !
Now I'm writing a book about the bastard and then putting it to bed.
Feel my wrath - it's barreling down the highway and the carnage will not be me.
I'm coming for the enemy - I'm coming for my day in the sunshine.
I am a survivor - but fear me not. May his own regrets and shame spoil his canvas until the day he dies all the twisted hate and rage eating away for eternity.
My only hope is that other survivors of abuse draw strength and inspiration from my story - let them witness life is not all about living the nightmare, over and over - what is really about is You.
One day victims of abuse will be parents to our own children and the pressure will be on to break the cycle of abuse and not perpetuate the pain. I don't want to be hardwired to struggle anymore. No more drugs, no more bad relationships and bad choices, no more procrastination and fear.
No more bullshitting myself about how long ago this happened - it's really time to inspire myself to become healthy and loving again - I will be the best mother I can be. I'm committed to the healing process so I can break the cycle of abuse that runs in our family. As I always say... It ends here.
I wasn't ever allowed to cry, mention or even ask questions about what was going to happen now. The stepmother made me sit on my bed and think about the sins I had committed. I hated her so much in these moments, my little face twisted into a terrible red crinkle of rage.I remained petrified for many years that he would steal into my room at midnight and gag me with his sweaty penis, jamming his fingers inside my carebear undies whilst I , as always, remained ever so quiet.You see I never understood why he chose to do this in the first place, so how could I be reassured that this impulse had well and truly 'disappeared'?
My parents never asked for details about the abuse, daring not to probe under my pain and unearth their own shame at not being able to see what was going on in 'the room next door' . I never really thought it could be called my bedroom. I remember I became very tired at school and had to sleep in the playground - sometimes the sessions would go for hours and often in the early hours of the morning. It breaks my heart to remember the time I carefully scripted a note that read -
"Please don't come tonight as I'm really tired - I will do it on Thursday"
I carefully sticky-taped it to the window, so he would see it when he would come a knocking that night for 'playtime'. I remember the note stayed up for two days and I started to think my plan had worked - maybe he was getting the hint that I didn't really like sucking his penis - maybe he could finally leave me alone ?
I guess I was just young and naive; the plan seemed simple and scary at the same time. On the third day, I was playing Barbies on my bedroom floor when Adrian stormed into the room, yanked back the curtains and tore the note off with anger. He stormed out of the room, without speaking a word or meeting my eyes - I felt the sick rise in my throat, I stopped playing Barbies and started to worry what he would make me do tonight as punishment.
I didn't even think that The Stepmother could've seen the note and questioned me - it was innocent I swear - I was just so tired.
I often wondered why he didn't have something better to do than abuse me ? I actually felt sorry for him at times - I was his dirty little secret for four long years. I guess I still am.
Dad had also found out about the abuse and I heard the screen door clatter as he barged past the Stepmother and grabbed Adrian by the throat, lifting him inches off the floor. My throat tightens and my hands begin to tremble uncontrollably. Father's face was livid with rage and emotion and when he shook Adrian - everyone would scream urgently. I poked my head from out of my bedroom to watch the commotion down the hallway, I felt a secret swell of pride and absolute faith in my Father, my savior was hollering at him with all he had. I felt a twinge of guilt but then I remembered that this is what Daddy had to do. This way he would not sneak into my room anymore.
"Is it true?" Father's eyes brimmed with tears. He shook him with frustrated fervor when he failed to respond, preferring to cry instead.
However, Adrian was simply too petrified to speak, he nodded rapidly like he was a conduit for my Father's emotional electricity. I expected to hear sirens and big men to crash through the walls to separate the two of them - but it's family secrets and we all suffer in silence and shame. Eating us all away with endless questions; How could it happen to us and then Who is to blame . Years past and people move on and we all grow up; we never get the answers. We all just accept that it's never going to be the same family again.
Survive it all and wake up tommorow and build it all on your own.
How can you exactly build your own love when you've never known what a healthy family feels like ?
All I do is stumble fishing around my own expectations of what I could achieve and only sometimes discovering what I could actually get.I've wasted ten long years of wondering about the 'missing ingredients'. I have overloaded on spice when I always had enough - letting things boil over in the meanwhile you persist for the perfection that alluded you as a child.
You'll never know what the final flavour will be - but Victory is sweet.