___________________________________________________________________________

The Hell Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a soul dared to stir, not even the mouse.
The belts were hung in the closet with care,
For soon dear Ernie would be on a tear.

The children so frightened shuddered and prayed in their beds,
With visions of relentless horror filling them with dread
And mom zonked on her pills, and Ernie with a noose,
Both children and Ernie knew all hell would soon break loose.

When through the bedroom door their arose such a clatter,
The sweet little girl knew just exactly what was the matter.
Away through the window the girl wished she could fly,
But he tore off her covers, her clothes, and forced himself inside.

The moon on the breast of a new-fallen snow,
Only mocked her vain hopes that someone would know.
And what to her terrified eyes should appear,
Her dear stepfather madly lusting to drive her to tears.

The hulking monster, so powerful and quick,
Would begin by first forcing her to suck on his dick.
More rapid than eagles his curses and blows fell,
Red-faced with blind fury he condemned her to hell.

“Now take this and like it you worthless little bitch,
Cause daddy’s got his needs; daddy’s got the itch.”
On top of her lifeless, helpless body old Ernie did crawl,
And he raped her and beat her and soiled her – he did it all!

On down the hallway he nimbly made his way,
The little boy was next, and Ernie was still ready to play.
Ere the young lad caught his breath daddy’s hand was round his neck,
Bent over the bed for mercy he cried and plead, but daddy had other plans instead.

Exhausted, but satisfied Ernie’s lust finally began to recede,
And back to his bed snug and sound, his conquest complete.
His fantasies fulfilled at last he could sleep,
Never mind that the children could do no more than weep

Outside on the lawn the fresh snow shown so innocent and clean,
But in their own dungeons the children felt dirty, worthless, and mean.
Their innocence long shattered, their bodies and spirits gravely hurt,
By the hands of that brutal monster their souls had been ground to dirt.

But never mind, for tomorrow came a new day,
And dear Ernie, feeling mighty generous, said “I have a new game to play”.
Off in his car to the movies they sped away,
The children so naive allowed themselves to think, “Perhaps not today”.

“This is not a movie theater at all” the children thought to themselves,
“No it is not” Ernie pronounced as he commanded them to undress.
The lights came up and the camera began to roll,
The stars of this movie were small, naked and cold.

But dear Ernie had much more fun in store you know,
There was the game with a revolver – now how did it go?
One bullet in the cylinder he gave it a spin,
Pointed it at them and said with an evil grin “This is for your sin”.

The hammer quickly fell, but who knew what sound it would make,
Would it be a click or a boom, would they come out of this dead or awake?
“This one is for you, you little bag of shit” he did say,
And when the gun went click said, “This is your lucky day”.

Christmas was finally over, “Thank God” thought the kids,
But Ernie knew better because day after day, he did what he did.
And their lives became lonely, bitter hells that no one should bear,
Oh, but dear Ernie had his way with them without one single care.

___________________________________________________________________________

To my abusers,

    In my life there have been too many of you. From the age of five, my father sexually, physically, and verbally abused me. He systematically raped and tortured me. My mother was his silent accomplice, turning a blind eye to the abuse until I spoke up, and then told me I’d been brainwashed. She rejected me, stopped the charges I’d pressed against him, and went back to loving and supporting my rapist.

At fifteen, my boyfriend held me down by the throat and raped me on my living room floor. He made me clean up the pool of blood it left behind, and didn’t understand “why it upset me so much”. The man I dated after him verbally, physically, and sexually abused me. He told me he loved me. His idea of love was to force himself on me, to only stop if I pretended to enjoy what he was doing. He’d wrap his arm around my throat, triggering me to my past abuse, so that I would dissociate and it would be easier to rape me. He used my back as an ashtray when he wanted to “indulge his vices” while he raped me.

After that, I thought it was all over, that I’d gotten away, only to have my girlfriend use her gender to hide her abuse. She told me I was horrible, that I was a slut, and she threatened to make me homeless, as my mother had done. She dislocated my shoulder, and the cops who arrived to my call did nothing. After all, a woman can’t be an abuser, right?

 My first abuse was disguised to be love. I needed to do those things to show love for my father. I didn’t know it was wrong, didn’t know that other fathers didn’t do that. I knew it was wrong the night he broke my jaw when I wasn’t giving him an “exciting” enough blowjob. But I was six years old, and I couldn’t stop it. I made my body my sacrifice, and learned to visit a place inside myself that no one else could reach. I learned to dissociate, and I learned to go away when stronger people, my dissociated identities, took over my body to protect me.

You were supposed to love me. You were supposed to protect me and respect me. Instead, you hurt me, you taught me I was worthless, and you tried to teach me that no one could ever love me. I was more than willing to give you love, and all you wanted was to hurt me and keep me under your thumb.  I spent years feeling like I was tainted, that I was un-loveable. I had been taught that the only way to show someone I was loved was to have sex with them. More than one person took advantage of that, to have sex with me when all I wanted was support and love.

I tried more than a dozen times to kill myself, each time growing more desperate. My last attempt was years ago, now, but the memories of those nights still haunt me. Of the nights I lay alone, bleeding, or lying in my own vomit from failed attempts. I burned myself, cut myself, and drank until I couldn’t see or stand. I felt so out of place, like I would never find out who I was underneath it all.

Who am I now? I’m an advocate for the abused. I maintain a community where survivors can talk with each other to be supported, a safe place for survivors to be. I’m happily married, and live in a safe home, surrounded by people who love me unconditionally. My body is no longer my sacrifice to be loved. It is respected and treated with kindness. I spend more days feeling stable and happy than I ever have before in my life. I feel strong, like I can make it through anything that life throws me. I realized some time ago that I was hurting myself as constant punishment for being alive, that I was acting as your agent in causing myself pain. I haven’t hurt myself in 17 months.

 And the most important part of this letter?

 I want you to know that who I am now, this beautiful and strong woman I am? You had NOTHING to do with making her. Your abuse did not make me stronger, more capable of living. Your abuse only provided me an opportunity to prove what strength I’ve always had.

I have so many ways of coping because I am resourceful. I live my life independently because I am strong and good at working on a tight budget. I have patience and compassion, not because of how many times I survived your abuse, but because I genuinely care about others. I have a beautiful and supportive chosen family because I am a good person, and I insisted the good people surround me. While you may lay claim to so many horrible things in my life, you cannot lay claim to the most important things – all that I have accomplished.

I used to fear talking about myself in a positive light, because I felt it was the abuse that made me who I am. I am no longer afraid. I know without a doubt that I have been this strong my whole life, because I have survived, because I face each new challenge with that same strength and determination.

None of you are in my life anymore, and I’m glad for it. I know several of you still catch up on my life, and I hope you seethe every single time I smile. You have no power over me, and I have reclaimed my life and my power from you. You will never know your grandchildren, you will never know again what it is to have me in your world.

With each day I find happiness beyond the nightmares and flashbacks, I prove that I’ve been strong all along. With each day, with each smile, I defy you. You tried to kill me inside, only to find that I was un-killable. My strength is in my ability to love, in my ability to thrive amongst starvation, and has nothing to do with you. I only hope that one day you find even one tenth of that strength inside yourself, and realize what you tried to do to me, so that you, too, can overcome your abuse.

In Peace,

KBH

___________________________________________________________________________

Dear Step-Grandfather,

I, without regret, would like to inform you that what you misappropriated, I reacquired.

You see… I was 8, only 8 innocent years old.

You stole my vulnerability. You stole my enchantment. You stole my sparkle. You replaced them with fears and self loathing and pain. You took what was suppose to be my joyous childhood and twisted it into some perverted moments of pleasure for yourself. What does that make you?

Vile.

I wish I could say that I was above hate. I wish I could say I was above hoping for some cruel revenging act upon you. But I can’t. Each day that I look into a mirror, for near 25 years now, I see that frightened abused little girl looking back at me. Replaying those days like a movie reel that’s stuck in a horrific loop. I wish you nothing but misery.

For two weeks, my Christmas break, you sexually scarred me. You made me think that perhaps I liked it. That I was pretty and adored. You told me to keep the secret or I would be thrown away. And when that secret did come out….I was. No one in my family looked at me the same. Or looked at me much again actually. 

You tainted every holiday season that ever followed.

You stole from me so much. But I took it back.

I took the tangled mess you left inside me and I created the woman I am today. Poised, strong, beautiful, and even on some levels virtuous once more.

My life is mine again.

I recreated my innocence. And you may never touch it again.

~~PC

___________________________________________________________________________

Letter to the Abuser

It was 50 years ago, and you are dead. I am angry about that, because I wanted to confront you with your crime.  My mother said, “it doesn’t matter anymore, because he is dead.”  She is abysmally ignorant.  You were drunk when you broke into our apartment, and it wasn’t until years later that I realized with horror, that you must have seen my mother leave, otherwise you wouldn’t have done that.  She never should have left my sister and I alone in that roach/rat-infested tenement house at night.  If anyone would have ever dropped a match, it would have gone up in flames immediately, being that it was 120-years old—no foundation, snow which came in through a crack in the wall.  We had no father….an abusive mother….poverty: no phone, car, refrigerator or bathroom.

I have no memory of what you did, I just know that you were in bed with me, and I didn’t know who it was.   You went into the living room where my sister slept and molested her.  She knew who you were, because you said, “I’m sorry, are you still coming over to watch TV?”   I will never understand why my mother would allow us in your apartment. The one place of safety for a child should be their bed.  There was no safety or stability in that apartment, and you exacerbated that.  I am not even sure of what age I was; somewhere around 9 or 10.

A few years ago, I finally got the courage to confront my mother and ask her why nothing was done about your molestation.  My heart was pounding and I was shaking.  I told myself I had a right to know what happened, but since my mother is so volatile, I was afraid she would be angry.  At first she said: “I didn’t know you were molested.”  She needed to be in denial.  I can remember her checking me with a flashlight, so she knew you might have raped/molested me.   She said she had reported it, but the “cops were all in cahoots with each other” and did nothing.  This made no sense.  I contacted the police department, but their records didn’t go that far back, and they said I would have to contact another agency.  I haven’t done that yet; I doubt the records exist.  You were however, in the database in the 1970’s.  What  shock to find out you were still committing crimes when you were in your 60’s.  We were not allowed to know what it was you were arrested for.

I spoke to a woman who lived next door, and found out you had grabbed her, and she said she scratched your face up.  She was disgusted when she found out what you had done to my sister and I.  She told us that you had been in and out of jail and prison all of your life.  Somehow that made it much worse for me.  My thinking was that perhaps molesting my sister and I, was a first and isolated incident.  Knowing you were  career criminal made me feel even more violated.

I heard that my Sunday school class was going to have someone speak about abuse.  I thought it would be about emotional/physical abuse, and thought “how innovative.”  I went to the class and the woman was speaking of being molested as a child.  I listened for about a half an hour in a “clinical” sense, not feeling any discomfort (as I had discussed the issue before), and then all of a sudden I began to cry and couldn’t stop.  I thought I had processed the situation, and it hadn’t affected me.  I was shocked to find myself in this state, and had to leave.  I called my therapist who was out of town and driving in his car.  He took the time (bless his heart) to talk to me for quite some time.  The angels were on my side that he was available.

I always thought that it didn’t  really affect me all that much, and because it only happened once, was no big deal.  I read an article which stated that, “Even one incidence of molestation can have  a scattergun effect on your life: promiscuity, drinking, drugs, self-abuse (cutting), bulimia, anorexia…and the list goes on.| Fortunately, this didn’t happen to my sister and I.

Where I am now.  I have taken the pain of a lifetime….turning pain into power (except for 3 years in the army)….a childhood of abuse, 31 years of abusive marriage, and spiritual abuse (a church who voted me out of membership because I got  a divorce).

I counsel abused women.  I’ve been published in a psychiatric journal (www.psychiatricjournal.com, entitled: The Transcendent Child on Overcoming Verbal and Spiritual Abuse).  I have a website: www.churchabusepoetrytherapy.com.  Elie Wiesel has written to me regarding my poems; how humbling and what an honor.  I’ve written my memoir: Ghost Child to Triumph (from a child with no voice, to someone who speaks up against injustice), and have some incredible endorsements from some amazing people.  I don’t think of myself as a survivor, but an overcomer, because that word denotes action, and I have been working my whole life to make a difference.  I believe that is why we are all here.

It took me 25 years to find the book which saved my life: The Verbally Abusive Relationship by Patricia Evans.  I believe it should be required reading for everyone on the planet.  Usually ALL abuse begins with the verbal.  This book has been called the “cornerstone of civilization.”   I believe that. 

 I cannot change the past, but I can…and am…changing the future.

WAC ALICE

_____________________________________________________________________

Frames
by Melissa Cox

Frame 1
I was 4 when my mother
packed our toys and moved
my brother and me across the frozen
Missouri River to St. Joseph.
My mom told us
she was tired of carrying us,
and dinner, from the car
in knee-deep snow--alone,
while my father was playing with our
babysitter.
All I knew was that I wouldn't see my father
that Christmas--
and all of the Christmases to come.

Frame 2
I was eight when my mother
married again and my step-dad
morphed into an abuser. I
watched him put his fist through the
wall
in our basement
because he missed my
brother's 13-year-old face.
I sat outside with the neighbor kids and
strained to hear
the sweet sound of summer
over my brother's bruised screams and
the sound
of oiled leather
on bare skin.

Frame 3
I was nine when my mother
worked long hours at the hospital--and
left us
with our step-dad.
One evening I turned off
my shower water and noticed the door
was open. I asked him to shut it--instead,
he shut me.
I cried, begged him
to stop, but over the sound of
my legs hammering the sides
of the plastic tub--and jets
whirling, you couldn't hear my childhood
flushing down
the drainpipes.

Frame 4
I was ten when my mother
relocated our family
to southern Missouri, and
my baby sister was born.
For two years I hid her
in the laundry closet--so she
wouldn't hear the yelling
at high pitched decibels, between her
parents.
That same year, my step dad drove us t-
school
and took that muddy, backroad to tell us
that
he didn't love us--
only our mother.

Frame 5
I was 14 when my mother
finally told him to move out
of our lives forever--
two months later, he waltzed back in,
took my mother by her throat.
I woke up on a Saturday
to the sound of my sister
watching cartoons in her room
and my mom shouting
and him threatening to kill her.
Mom got it all on tape;
the Guardian ad Litem
called me a liar.

Frame 6
I was seventeen when my mother
turned into a stranger.
She fell asleep, smoking, on the kitchen
table, and I
can still run my fingers
over burn sores in the wood.
Each day I watched her count her pills,
like a meticulous spider, counting her
food.
That year, I took
a paring knife to my wrist
on our back porch while my mom was
inside on the phone with my dying
grandma.

_____________________________________________________________________

The players we will look at today are: my brother, my father and a friend of the family.  There are more, truth be told.  But I find it too much as it is to address these people, and I don’t think I could bear addressing everyone today.  It’s too much of a fight to address these three, let alone everybody who helped paint the picture of my life as a victim of abuse. 

Dear the first men in my life,

I have spent a lot of time in the darkness of my mind.  Throwing blankets over my consciousness, like I threw blankets over my body in a childish attempt to keep you at a safe distance.  You never respected the blankets over my body, and the ghosts of you never respect the blankets I try to throw over my thoughts. 

I couldn’t keep you away from my body then, and I can’t keep you from my mind now.
Dear brother, how are you?  A lot has happened since you were six and I was two.  My lover never smothers a pillow over my face when he kisses me, and his body is warmly accepted when it moves over mine.  How can a boy of six know to do those things?  TV? Or did someone burn such situations on your psyche like you did mine?

How did you know to touch me there?  Is that why you’re so mentally abusive now?  Is that why you treat me like you do every other woman in your life?  As a piece of meat to fuck and throw away?  As someone who keeps their mouth shut, lest they summon your anger?
Dear father, I don’t know why but I still love you.  I still love you even though you hurt me so bad in places I had no name for.  I still love you even though you say I’m a drama-queen for being affected by your years of inflicting pain.

I was a toddler when I crawled into your bed at night.  Mother was gone somewhere, working to support us while you slept the days away.  I was a toddler when you touched me.  I still hate the feel of Vaseline.  I can’t think of it without flashes of pain.  I still can’t think of it without feeling it inside me.

I was heartbroken when you took another child under your wing.  You admired her, you loved her and I was just your garbage.  You had no use for me, so you ignored me.  I hated you then.  I hated you even though I loved you.

It remains today.  I don’t know how I can love you when my hate is this great.

And finally, a friend of the family.  We haven’t spoken in two years, since my family banned you from their house.  It wasn’t because of how you raped and touched my sister and I.  It wasn’t over how you told us pedophiliac stories of the conquests of “other men”.  I don’t know why they disowned you, but they did.  But it wasn’t over something you did to me.  It was something you did to father.

Mother and father let you get away with so much.  They let you get away with ruining my childhood.  They let you get away with the murder of my inner child.  They stood by as she screamed and cried.  I couldn’t be a child anymore because you killed everything that grew inside of me. 
You called me “vixen”, ever since I was six.

That day I stood up to you, was the day I realized my parents never protected me.  You told me to go fuck myself, right in front of my mother.  And when you threatened to leave she chased after you, apologizing over my rude behavior.  You taught me that I didn’t matter.  You taught me being a child wasn’t safe.

I am becoming strong.  I am becoming whole thanks to my friends and lover. 
My lover, he is a man.  I have no idea what the lot of you, are.

Regards,
R.

_____________________________________________________________________

These are the two actual letters that I sent out to (the first) one of my abusers, and then the second I sent out to all of my family, as the first letter got taken around (by the wife of the "accused" uncle and talked about by everyone. 

Letter #1
How I wish that this letter would purge you from my memories, the effects of having known you from my soul. I wish that I could point my finger at you in a room full of all your family and tell them all what you are. But of course that isn't reality. None of them would believe me... and if they DID, they would never admit it, because then they'd have to admit to their own abuse. Or even better, if they admit that you are a sick pervert, then many of them would have to admit to the same fault. You are part of a sick and twisted family.

I wonder if you still get pleasure from little girls. I wonder how it is that you ever had children, when it seems as though you only got pleasure from pre pubescent girls. I wonder how far you went with your own daughter. I even still am wondering how far you went with me.

I remember plenty though. I absolutely refuse to let you keep affecting my life. I will not hear or accept your words any longer. I am NOT bad, I am not at fault, and I think you are just beyond sick to be able to, day after day after day, purposely manipulate a little girl's mind so that she will think she is at fault. How can you even live with yourself?

Do you remember what you used to do to me? What you would make me do? Do you think on it with regret, or are you still so twisted that you think of it with pleasure? I cannot imagine how you can be attracted to someone so young that they can't possibly know what they are doing. I can't imagine the gross pleasure you must have gotten in seeing me manipulated, bending to your will, trained so well that I did whatever you wanted. I'll bet by the time I was old enough to really be under your spell, after years of your abuse, that you really were able to reassure yourself that I wanted it. That my 12 year old self knew enough that I wanted you, that it WAS my fault, in your mind.

It wasn't my fault. IT WAS NOT MY FAULT. No matter what delusions you have in your own mind, it was ALL you. It was YOUR mind games that you played with me before I even turned 6 that made me that way. You taught me with the tools of guilt and fear and plied me with negative thought after negative thought until I couldn't believe that anything else was true. You as good as brainwashed me, you BROKE me. Your actions, your choices, your WORDS even literally made me split myself up... made me INCAPABLE of being a normal child, a normal teen and even a normal adult.

Well NO MORE. I will recognize any ANY words of negativity that come from you and they will leave me. I will see you for what you are, and see myself as a grieving child that is healing. I will see you as a sick twisted man who deserves to wallow and die wrapped in self loathing and guilt... and then I will forget about you because I refuse to give you the energy it would take to hate you. I refuse to give you anymore of myself or my mind or my life. I will heal, I will be complete and I will learn to have a normal life again. Nothing you do or say, nothing you DID or SAID will be able to continue to affect who I AM.

I will remember it ALL, I may even have to relive some of it, but then it will be gone from me, the guilt will be gone. However YOU can never be rid of it. The guilt, no matter how deep it goes, is there and is eating you alive. You can't look at me, I'm fairly certain that you can't look at your daughter or even your sisters without seeing who you really are. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is enough of a conscience in you somewhere, maybe not much, but just enough to realize how completely you have destroyed so many people. Your sickness, your perversion has DESTROYED many of the people I'm sure you profess to love. They are all broken now, they may have healed, they may have come through the other side, but they are forever changed, scarred because of what you did.

You are sick, I'm sure you are still sick, and I will do what I can to see that you do not have easy access to another little girl like you did to me. I hope that in just reading this letter that you will be crushed with an agonizing guilt, a darkness so thorough and complete that you can't find your way out of it for a very long time. That you won't be able to even LIVE or find joy again without repenting of your perverse sins, and asking forgiveness of those you hurt.

I PRAY that you will be so CONSUMED with a need, a desperation a drive so strong that it can't be ignored, a need to CONFESS your sins to your WIFE and your FAMILY and heal yourself of this sickness before you hurt anyone else. I pray that you will find a way to ask forgiveness and admit your wrongs and admit that you need help. I pray that this is in the forefront of your mind for the rest of your life, that you will never be able to touch or even think of another child in that way again without literally being physically ILL at the thought of what you have done, actually vomiting up your shame and guilt over your sins. I pray that if you still get close enough to another child to hurt them too, that you will be so overwhelmed with digust at yourself that you will be literally paralyzed and unable to move excpet for the gut wrenching feeling of your heart breaking for all the little girls whose heart YOU have broken.

I pray that by some MIRACLE you will be able to do SOMETHING to repair some damage that you've done. That you will put any resources or energy you have into helping those very kind of people that you spent most of your life destroying.

I pray that I will be able to forgive you myself, not for your sake, but for mine. That I will be able to let go of all the anguish and hurt and damage you did. That I will be able to love and have a life that you no longer have a hold on.

I want you to know, that although I am fully capable of being healed, it is because God has given me the strength to do it. I am STRONG ENOUGH to get past this... but many of the other girls you hurt, that you damaged and took advantage of, most of those little girls whose innocence you stole were completely destroyed. They never had a chance to heal and have a normal life. You might as well have killed them with you bare hands. You sick, SICK man. I hope not another day goes by that you don't realize exactly what you are.

Letter #2
Hello.

First and foremost, I would like to respond to at least one of the responses to my accusations. Responding to someone's idea that Kenny was the one that abused me ~ and yet I chose to name Jim, is absolutely asinine. I can't stand Kenny, never have, if HE was the one who abused me, I would have absolutely no qualms about naming him. Why would I choose someone in the family and cause so much more stress for myself and my mother? That is just stupid. Besides which, the sexual abuse started looong before Kenny was in our lives.

And sorry to say, my mother didn't JUST come up with her "story" of being molested by Jim as a child. I know that she told a few people long before I ever told her about my issues. No, Jim was not the only person who abused me as a child, but he did. And lest you misunderstand the word molested, I'll use the word rape instead. Clearer picture for you?

I also want to point out that it was not by any stretch of the imagination a one time event. I'm not talking about being hugged too tightly, or taking a normal uncle's affection too seriously. I will clarify and be specific if anyone feels the need to hear the details.

I have lived most of my life with no memories of my first 9 years of life. None. Any effort on my part (or my husband's) to bring those years up resulted in nightmares, dissociation and just stark terror. There continued to be large black spots in my memories for the years after that as well. This has not by any means been a pleasant task on my part. It has been a trial I wouldn't wish on anyone, including my husband who has had to watch me struggling to breathe because of the pure agony of remembering these things that happened to me. My children, who have had to deal with a mom who has had to have alone time several times over the last few months as flashbacks and body memories assault me out of nowhere.

This is not some minor incovenience that I've decided to traumatize everyone with. This is a huge thing, a life altering thing. I'm not complaining because I was denied some treat as a child, or we didn't have enough money. I'm saying that someone took my childhood away from me, and if people refuse to see it, I'm sure it will continue to happen, and at some point in the future, you will be hearing similar sentiments from others. I have to speak up, for my own healing. I have to get it out of my head, out of my life, and by no means has THIS been easy either. Its not easy to purge your soul, give up embarrassing shameful awful, horrific secrets ~ put them out there for everyone to criticize, disbelieve, and blow off. There is no way in hell I would have ever EVER said any of this "outloud" to anyone in this family if I were not thoroughly convinced of the accuracy of my claims. Never would I choose to bring more stress upon my head for any reason other than bringing the truth to light.

To let you know, I realize this must be nearly impossible to accept. I can't imagine what you all must be going through. I am not lying, making this up or anything. Why would I choose to? As a matter of fact, I wanted to avoid the stress and not say anything, but my husband and others helped me to understand that doesn't solve anything. It just lets the abuser keep on abusing, it lets more people get away with it, because they know no one will tell... it lets the victims keep on suffering in silence, because they'll see what happens when you tell. No one will believe it anyway. Know that this is not something I CHOSE to do/go through. If you think its hard accepting the fact that someone you know/love/are related to could do this, try imagining how hard it is to know that it happened to you/your daughter, that all those people you love and trusted could have missed this stuff going on all around them. That your mohter/father/aunt uncle MISSED seeing what you were going through. Try picturing what it feels like to have grown up with this weight always hanging on you ~ and then to finally get some measure of courage to say something and everyone thinks you're lying.

If someone had stood up years and years ago, I wouldn't have been abused, although if the majority of the family had acted as though they though the accuser was lying about everything and making it up ~ hmmm... I can't imagine that would have changed anything in my life, except that I would have been too afraid to tell, ever. Look seriously at your family, look at all the signs and hear me ~~ If you need or want details, I have journaled extensively and am willing to share it with you. It won't be easy, as I have purged my soul on these pages, with months of anguish and sobbing, being nearly overcome with all these memories.

Because of what I said in the first letter, I now have to say that I hold no grudge against most of the family. Jim was not the only person in my childhood that abused me, nor was he the only family member that abused me. I can say freely and clearly though, that out of the people in this family, the following people never did anything inappropriate towards me, were never involved in any abuse towards me of any kind, and I generally have fond memories of these relatives of mine: (I'm not including females, or anyone my age (35) or younger than me, because no females, or anyone my age or younger than me had anything to do with it.) John M****, Joyce's husband(s)or son, Sharon's husband/boyfriend or son, John P*****, Jerry P*****, Sheila's husband(s) or boyfriend(s), Charlotte's husband(s) or boyfriend(s), My own father had nothing to do with my abuse either, and as far as I'm concerned, these people are completely innocent of any inappropriate behavior towards me. I will make sure this time that everyone I have addresses for will receive a copy of this letter.

I didn't think I'd care at all if everyone thought I was lying. I didn't think it would matter to me, as I actually expected it. But it does bother me. I couldn't begin to tell you why, other than my emotional state already being so strung out from dealing with this, I don't know why I feel a need to have someone actually believe me... other than wanting to STOP all of it. I don't want to tear apart the family, I want the family to have their eyes opened. I don't want to hear about some other girls speaking up 5-10 years from now, and know then that I COULD have said something much earlier and stopped it, but I didn't.

I realize it is much easier to believe those that are in front of you, those you see at family functions all the time, and I understand if you don't have the strength to get into all of this. You won't have to be dealing with me, as I live far away (ever wonder why???) and won't be around. Just please, please, regardless of what you believe about this, please be careful with your children. If any child there comes to you with a need to talk about something "bad" that happened to them, please don't turn them away/disbelieve them just because "things like this don't happen in our family" ~ just keep your eyes open. That is all I ask.

If you really think all of this is impossible, I'd like for you to hear/read this list of the effects of sexual abuse on survivors as they grow up. Tell me you haven't seen any of this in your family, in your daughter(s), granddaughter(s), niece(s): There are two articles attached. Know that none of these lists "preceded" my memories neither did any therapist have anything to do with it, just things I found later in my search for answers... as I didn't want to accept it either.

(From here on out, it’s just copies of articles on childhood sexual abuse):

Byn Always

_____________________________________________________________________

You Know Who You Are:

Never thought I would be talking.

Did you?

Two of you are already dead. I thought I would be happy, relieved even. But I’m not. I wish I would have spoken up sooner.

As for the rest of you? The other three of you who took part in the abuse…you ruined me.

I was three years old. THREE YEARS OLD!

Three year olds should be laughing, learning to talk. But not me.

Do you know how much pain you have caused me?

I was silent for 12 years. I never uttered a word, never mentioned the fact that I had been abused.

I grew up, thinking that the abuse was my fault.

I grabbed a blade.

Drugs were never my forte. Neither was alcohol. No. What I began to dabble in, some might consider worse than any drug.

Self Mutilation. Cutting.

Imagine that!

I had to drown out that voice, that voice that YOU put into my head. I had to make myself feel something. Anything.

And then…I began to want – no – NEED more of that feeling. That rush. I had control for once. I could control how much I bled. It seemed like that was the only thing I could control.

The sad thing?

I was ten years old, when I began to cut.

One day, very recently in fact, I saw my friend’s arm. My boyfriend’s arm. I saw 9 scars running up his forearm.

I was so scared.

And then I realized something.

I realized: that voice, was just a scare tactic.

It was never real.

I realized that I did matter.

No longer did I feel like that ugly, self mutilating, anorexic, depressed girl. I mattered. Not only to my boyfriend, but to my family. And my friends.

I am reclaiming what you have taken.

Can I get back those years, I was petrified with fear?

No.

But I can move on. Live my life.

Without you.

______________________________________________________________________________

Simon was a teenage boy (15 -19). He was the nephew of a lady whose home we were staying at for a brief time. Simon’s parents both worked long hours. My father owed them money. I remember his mother saying sharp, hard words to my father and being curt and abrasive towards me and my younger sister.

Dear Simon, I hate you.

I was 5 and 3 quarters. I don’t remember how it started or how long it went on for or how far you went. What memories I do have are bell clear and just scenes.

The wardrobe

 I’m naked and so are you. You’re hunched over because you’re too tall. I try not to look at you. The inside of the wardrobe is claustrophobic, the wood has it’s own old stale smell and the light edges around the corners of the closed door the dust particles drift in the light and I’m so quiet, because it’s day light and people will hear. You crouch down and turn me towards you, I don’t turn all the way but you don’t notice. You nudge my legs apart and you put your mouth on me. It feels wet and slimy and invasive. I feel hot and unclean and try not to move. If I don’t move I’m still a good girl. You speed up and the air becomes hard to breathe and your head is too big and it’s pushing me off balance and I panic and push at your forehead, your forehead is hot and slick with sweat and I’m not strong enough. You jab me with your tongue one more time and pull back, you are mad at me and tell me it’s normal and women love it. You say other things and your voice is too loud, I shush you and you speak louder. I feel scared and guilty and ashamed you calm down and tell me that I should go down on you because it’s only fair you went down on me. I tense up and say no because if I don’t do anything I’m okay, I’m still a good girl and you get mad again and grab my hand.

I have more memories in much the same theme. I remember the fear and shame and the hot flush of panic I couldn’t name then. I remember my three and a half year old sister being too young for pre-school and going with my father to work, being safe. I remember the walk back from the bus-stop and how some days you wouldn’t let me into the house. I remember your physical and verbal abuse. 

I remember the warm strong arms of my father and how much courage it took me to tell him that I didn’t like you, but he was tired and he told me “just a little longer”. I didn’t tell him again.

Simon what you did to me was wrong. You should have been someone I could look up to. You should have played with me and made me feel safe. I should have been able to confide in you. You should have listened to me and made me feel worthwhile.

Simon you’ve hurt me; for 16 fucking years I suppressed my feelings and emotions both of what you did to me and everything else. I was happy and boppy and nothing else escaped besides tears behind locked doors.

This year the damn broke, the emotions are hard: panic and hurt and despair and anger, but they are mine. They are mine and you’ll never take anything from me again!

I have scent associations now and my dream of a husband and two twin boys is in ashes. I really don’t believe I’ll have a partner in the next 2 years and I’m questioning every goal and desire I’ve ever had, but I don’t care.

I feel stronger and more whole now than I can ever remember. I’m aware of myself now; I can put myself first. I can set my own boundaries. I can see when someone is using me and put a stop to it. I can take an active role to make sure that when I do choose to take a partner I’ll feel loved and safe and cherished.

Simon I hate you and your ugly taint, but I’m moving on.
Grace.

Reflection process:

This took me four and a half hours to write with the memory already mostly written, but it hasn’t been hard, the words were there. The process has left me angry (the tears have dried up) and I feel like confronting him. He took from me and he is not forgiven. I’m not in therapy at the moment, however I’m going to re-enter it to help me with my scent associations which have started to ambush me. Talking to a friend about what happened helped me the most. I didn’t go into any great detail, but she was supportive and hugged me and it helped more than I can say.

I’m 22 years old and in my third year of a bachelor of science and somehow managing to pass with all this happening.

-b

______________________________________________________________________________

Sometimes When I Can’t Sleep

Sometimes when I can't sleep at night, I wonder where you are. I wonder who you're with. I wonder what you are doing. I wonder if you're even still alive. I can dream can't I? I can comfort myself with a fantasy and imagine that somehow you've gotten what you deserve.

But what is it that someone like you deserves? What could ever teach you a lesson? What could ever be a sufficient punishment for what you did to me? Even your death wouldn't ease the pain I feel; the pain that has forever changed my life.

Do you ever think about the consequences of your actions? Do you ever lie in bed at night and wonder about me? Was I even special to you? Was I just one of many innocents you conquered? Does your wife know about me? Do you have a wife? Kids? Are you the perfect family man with a dirty secret or a dead beat alcoholic living off of whatever you can find?

Why did you do it? Was it the power that got you off? Did my screams and tears excite you? How long were you waiting in those woods for some cunt to walk by? Was I simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, or did you know I was going to be there that night?

Why didn't you just kill me when it was over? Why run the risk of being found out? Did you know that you would get away with it? Are you happy now knowing that you will always be free, that I will never even know your name? For so long I've tried to put a face on you. I've tried to break down the monster from my memory and make you human. But you're not a man. You're a little boy lost who fashioned his own pathetic destiny. You're the coward hiding behind the safety anonymity provides.

What you do must make you feel like you have authority in this world. You must think that you're really something to be so full of yourself. What you do proves that you never were and never will be truly important or powerful. You intimidate others and make them inherently weak for a few hours just so you can feel superior. Well you aren't. You aren't better than your victims because they aren't your victims any longer.

I am not your victim. I don't belong to you or owe you anything. My life is so much more than what happened that night. You didn't ruin my life, you just made me stronger. I survived. I am the survivor of your selfish actions. You cannot hurt me anymore. You cannot control me anymore. I refuse to think about you anymore.

So just get out my dreams, and maybe I'll be able to sleep once more.

________________________________________________________________________

Writing for Healing~A letter to my abusers

________________________________________________________________________

Dear Dad:

It surprised me, after so many years of wanting all traces of you to disappear from my life, but when I first heard that you had cancer, I started fantasizing about ways that I could save you, maybe by offering health advice that you might not seek out-- acupuncture, meditation, guided imagery.  Then I started thinking about all of these mundane things -- like talking about publishers with you, the differences between this one high-end lefty publisher with the gorgeous square books and the other one moving into their territory, plus oh the drama of working inside the whole disastrous publishing machine.  Most people aren't that interested in publishers, but it seemed like something you might like to hear about.  That's when I realized that, even after 11 years of not talking to you, I still held some hope that maybe you would come to terms with sexually abusing me, that you would finally admit it and then perhaps we could have a mundane conversation about publishers.

There is no question that, as a psychiatrist, you have had access to absolutely any possible way to come to terms with sexually abusing me, more resources for dealing with your abuse than almost anyone in a similar situation.  Instead, like most parents (and psychiatrists) who sexually abuse their children, you have chosen to deny it.  You even contacted a “false memory syndrome” specialist, someone whose job is to assure abusive parents that their children are confused at best, that their memories can be dismissed and discarded, that it's never too late to cover up the violence in order to bolster the status quo.

I know that an abusive family is like a boulder landing on a glass of water -- even if you succeed at lifting the boulder, what is left to drink?  When I confronted you, I was certainly aware that you might very well never accept the reality of your abuse, and that I might never again speak to you.  Still, I continue to feel angry and disgusted (and yes -- sad and abandoned) by the ways in which you have chosen to maintain a veneer of “respectability” at all costs, including the loss of any relationship with me.  I am grateful that you have respected my request not to contact me unless you could say that you raped and molested me, but sometimes it shocks me that you haven't been able to step out from the comfort of denial in order to face the reality of your abusiveness.

Especially now, when you may not live for that much longer.

Sometimes I resent that I have to be the strong one -- even here, against all hopelessness, I’m attempting to facilitate your epiphany that may never come.  I am not strong, I am falling apart -- my body is failing me -- you know that. The smallest activities are painful -- chopping vegetables, sitting in the wrong chair, holding the rail on the bus, walking one block too many, carrying a bag.  Writing more than a page by hand is enough to make my wrists, arms, shoulders and neck burn, my whole body aching afterwards.  Bed is a place where I can sometimes stay, but it fails to nourish me -- many days I'm so exhausted that just leaving the house can be completely overwhelming.  I have a strong will, otherwise I would have been dead long ago from the wounds you enacted.  I'm strong, but I'm falling apart.

I learned will from surviving you, shutting everything inside even when it pushes back.  There are other ways of showing strength.  I am still learning them.

Some people, when dealing with a terminal illness, decide to make dramatic changes in their lives.  That is what I'm asking from you.  I'm not asking whether you love or miss me, whether you feel miserable or guilty.  I'm asking you to hold yourself accountable for the pain you have caused me, the pain you continue to cause me, the pain that sometimes I'm worried I won't survive.  I'm asking, once again, for you to acknowledge that you raped, sexually abused and molested me.  I'm asking you for this because it would make it easier for me to go on living.

On a more mundane level, I would also like for you to ensure that I have enough money to meet my basic needs for the rest of my life.  That is something I know you can do, but the most important thing is that you acknowledge that you sexually abused me -- I want to make that clear.  I don't think this is a lot to ask.

In any case, I would be dishonest if I didn't say that I would like to see you before you die.  Obviously, our conversation would be much richer if you decided to admit that you sexually abused me, but that is your choice.

I haven't yet figured out the parameters of a potential visit, and I will be in touch.  Please do not write to me at this point unless it is to acknowledge sexually abusing me.

________________________________________________________________________

Thanks to the two of you  I had to endure thinking that having sex with boys and guys was the way to act.
I was 5 and it probably like only two months after my dad died unexpectedly and you two grabbed me and one of you put your hand over my mouth
so I could not  call out.

Yeah, you did things to me that were unspeakable. Wow, aren't you powerful?  Taking advantage of an already traumatized child who had lost his daddy.  It took my over 20 years to remember what happened to me.  I buried it in the recesses of my mind.
I thought I was gay and finding other males who wanted a good time was a big part of my life and I even thought it was normal.

It hit me one day after therapy what had happened to me that one day.   My you must have felt good about yourselves taking advantage of a 5 yr old and threatening to kill him if he told anyone.

I did not tell a soul, in fact I did not remember until that day.

Well, weren't the two of you surprised when I was moving out of town and made it a point to stop and knock on both of your doors.  I bet you wondered what I wanted, well after I invited myself in to both of your homes I made sure that you would not do what you did to me on that day. 
I did not kill, hit, or threaten your.   I did promise you however, that if I ever found out that you did what you did to me to any other child that I would be back to find you.    I told you that I have contacts back there and they are still around.

I could have gone on and gotten STD's ,or AIDS. Thank God for my psychiatrist that helped push those memories to the top.  After I dealt with what happened to me I was born again.

The joke is on the both of you.  You still live with what you did.  I have seen you two when I have come home to visit.  You still hang your heads and turn them away.  For me I walk proudly knowing that I have turned out fine in spite of what you did.

Guess what, I don't know why or can't explain it, but kids seek me out to ask me to help them.   It can be simple things like "can you tie my shoe", to
"can I stand beside you, I am afraid".  I am glad kids come to me, I only hope it is for simple things in life not , two guys just grabbed me and did things to me.

Good luck to both of you.  I am a strong man with a strong will and my life continues to be fulfilling.  What about yours?

________________________________________________________________________

Peter
I am writing you this letter uncertain of when if ever I will send it to you. If I do and  that seems a strange thing then I guess (hope) you will understand as you read on. My name is Micheal  and I was born and brought up in the same town as you from 1954 onwards.

In 1965 when I was 10/11 years old I tried to get some ‘pocket money’ work around the local market and that was when I first met you. I recall it was at the start of the school summer holidays when I enquired at your families fruit and veg stall, run I believe by your brother Tony. He turned down my request but in doing so he suggested that I have a word with you as you ran another stall at the back of the market which was open Fri/Sat.

It was a Thursday and you were at the stall preparing it for the next day when I first spoke to you and I initially recall that you were a very friendly and welcoming person. You said that I could help out with the stall and could start imediately, you gave me various tasks which I cant now remember. At the end of that session you took me to the back of the stall to get some money to pay me and that is where you first sexually abused me. When you had ‘done your thing’ you gave me some money, it was the sizeable amount of 1 shilling in old money which was quite a large amount for a 10 year old and rather surprisingly now you sort of apologized and gave me a longish talk about how some things happen and how it could cause great trouble if they were talked about. You also told me that if I tried to tell anyone they would not believe me as I had ‘offered myself’. Before I left you asked if I would come back the next day and help again which I agreed to, although for the life of me now I cant imagine why, .
The next day was a Friday and the stall was open to trade and I remember enjoying the whole day but feeling a dread as it came to closing time and the time when I would have to ask you for my money, but you gave it to me with a smile and a wink and nothing else happened so I went home, it didn’t dawn on me until much later that I think  this was because other people were around.

I nearly didn’t come the following Thursday to help you set your stall because of what had happened the week before but I did as I convinced myself that what had happened had indeed been an ‘accident, a ‘one off’’ and that you would not behave in that way again. Well I was wrong wasn’t I? It was the same scenario as the week before and me coming away from the stall so ashamed and guilty holding my shilling. I still to this day am not sure why I ever returned again but I remember being frightened that you would mention what had happened and I believed then in my own mind that the whole thing was really my fault for allowing it to happen.

This event carried on until after the school holidays until one week when you were not there at the stall for some reason and when I turned up your father was there and asked who I was and what I wanted, when I told him you had paid me to work there helping out he said something like ‘Yeah I bet he has’ and told me to bugger off. I never saw you after that and a short while later my parents moved out of town so I was well away from the market. Throughout all this period which I calculate to have gone on for a few months I worried about what was happening and thought that I should tell someone what had gone on but I couldn’t. I felt I had no one to tell! I had a lovely father who was a good caring man but I couldn’t tell him mainly because I was frightened that as you said people would see it was my fault and I knew that if that was so he would be very disappointed, upset and angry.

My mother was a different person altogether and it would have been impossible to approach her with any problem no matter how small and certainly not something as bad as this. I was glad when we moved as it took away the problem and I thought at the time that although it was something I should never reveal to anyone, that would not hurt me and I should just pretend that it had never happened and forget about it.
I never did forget about it! And I continued to recall it for many years.
I also kept it hidden until just recently.
46 years is a long time.

Before we met I was a healthy kid but within a short period after our encounter I became ill with what was described as depression. At the age of 13 I was placed in an adult psychiatric crisis unit in the city reportedly because I had expressed ideas about suicide, that was the start of a horrific 2 year stay in various hospitals including the so called West Yorkshire Paupers Asylum which I was discharged from the day before my 15th birthday. I have continued to suffer with mental ill health for the rest of my adult life and am currently under treatment for severe depression and possibly Chronic Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and it is through that treatment that I have arrived at a stage where it feels it would help me to confront your abuse of me as something which certainly had a big effect on my life.

In the grand scale of things what you did to me could be considered as minor, and I know from what I read that people have experienced far worse events than those that you subjected me to. Even though that is so what you did affected me greatly to the degree that it is only in the last two months I have actually spoken to someone about it. I have so far only managed to tell my wife and my psychologist about this and even then I have been unable mainly because of the shame and anger inside me to tell them exactly what happened merely to say that I was sexually abused.

That stops now!

I remember in great detail what you did to me starting with the rather comforting hug around the shoulders which slowly led to your large usually dirty hand (your fingernails black from handling potatoes) sliding down the front of my trousers. I remember you stroking and fondling my genitals and asking if I was enjoying it, (I never replied) I remember you unzipping your trousers and pulling out your fat swollen smelly penis and grabbing my hand in yours to first stroke it against my face and then masturbate you. I remember the warm and unpleasant taste of your semen when you ejaculated into my face and some of it hit my mouth as you attempted to get me to put your penis in there. All this to the backdrop of the smell of fresh fruit!. I remember as soon as I could darting to the outside tap on the wall and scrubbing my face and mouth in the cold water sure that if I didn’t remove any trace of you someone would know what had happened.

46 years I have had that memory and that is the first time I have recounted it in any format so how does that make me feel? You would be surprised and shocked at the amount of hatred I feel for you at this moment in fact I am shocked at it myself. I have dreamt of ways to get back at you for what you did and have gone to great lengths to trace your whereabouts through the internet and the electoral register. I have dreamt of things I could do to you to repay you for your abuse. I have researched things on the internet with the aim of finding something which could cause you as much pain as your actions caused me.

How could I find anything that would give you that pain to stay with you every second of your remaining, hopefully short, life. I so wish you could feel the pain and shame and anger that I feel at this moment.

I would bet you don’t even remember me as whilst I was researching you I came across many stories of young boys you have abused, real or imagined by people many of them believe that of you so I am inclined to believe also. How many is it? or is it too many to count? The feeling amongst people who live near you is that you still ‘hanker’ after young boys. You are a vile disgusting creature, I would not call you an animal because I have too much respect for animals to compare them to you.
Certainly what I will do is to look into the process of informing the Police and if I can get together the confidence I will make a complaint to them of historic child sexual abuse. I will do this not so much for my own satisfaction but as a way to hopefully contribute to it being made harder or impossible for you to continue abusing children.

Mike

 ________________________________________________________________________

John,

I have many reasons for writing you a letter. One is for my own closure and to let me begin my healing. This letter is in no way meant for a comfort or a sense of peace of mind for you.
I will no longer feel sorry, bad or shame for you. I have carried that burden all my life!!! NO MORE!!!! You never felt my pain or carried my burden for what you did to me!!! Well I will start by saying if I was GOD I would send you straight to hell!!! If I was a judge I would sentence you to a life of torment with a sign on you that says “I killed the person Dawn Holloman should have been because of my own sick impulses”!!!!

The summer of 1982 I stayed at you and Mary’s house for about three weeks. I was 12 years old. It started as I was in the hatchback of your red station wagon I was using the vacuum and you were sitting down on a lawn chair watching me. I remember your first comment was “you have a cute butt Dawny” I don’t know why no one would ever say you didn’t. I guess in some way you were trying to build me up and I remember thinking …Oh that’s nice but strange coming from him. The next thing you did was you slapped me on the butt and said it again. I knew it wasn’t right at that moment because when I looked at you, you had a very distinctive nervous look on your face and your face was redder than usual, I had seen that look before but wasn’t sure when in my life.  The next incident happened same summer 3wk visit it was in the afternoon after you had picked me up from the daycare.

I went to up there for the summer. You were laying on the brown couch in your family room. You asked me to lay on the couch so you could tickle my back and so I did. It was then that you molested me. And I remember being confused like some kind of mind trick. You didn’t say a word to me because you knew what you had done and I knew enough to know it was WRONG!!!!!! The next afternoon you asked me again if I wanted to lay on the couch and let you tickle my back and I said NO and you said Yeah I know I did something that was wrong and should not have!!! That was all you ever said!!!! No apology no acknowledgement to my feelings it was all about your own sick gratification!!! You make me SICK!!!!! On the other occasion I was laying on the foot of you and Mary’s bed with you and Mary both under the covers and as I went to hug you, you deliberately pushed my head under the covers so I could see that you were turned on!! Again..YOU make me SICK!!!!!!! Now does this jog your memory?????? It has been in my life since I was 12 yrs old and I will not carry it anymore. I only had a relationship with you for all those years because I didn’t think I was worth anything and do you know why I felt like that???? It’s because you did these things to me!!!!!  Today I know I am worth something and I didn’t imagine these things nor did I make them up!!!!  I don’t ever want you in my life!!! I regret ever letting you in!! I love myself and that little girl you took so much from!! I am of sound mind and am building my self confidence and after writing these things down I feel I am freed a little!!!!!! 

I give you all the hurt and pain that I have ever endured by the hand of you!  I know with no doubt that there was much more in my mind that is so deep down it will never come out because it would hurt me to much and that’s where it needs to stay.  There is no cure for sexual impulses of this nature and I consider you a highly dangerous person around little children!!!  I just pray to God that you never laid a hand on one of my own children!!!!!

I also remember bits and pieces of things that happened to me when I was very young and you were still living in the house with us on Sunshine Dr. It’s a part of my life that is blocked out because of the abuse.

Due to the fact of the year that I recall specifics about the abuse took place with me I would say I am pretty accurate when I say there is no cure! You were not even drinking in 1982 and you had found God and married to Mary!!!  One more thing…..Mary said she questioned you about a possible incident with me and she said your response was: Oh we were wrestling around and we might have ended up in a funny position. That is a LIE!!!!! I did not ask for this and was not wrestling around with you. I was tricked by someone who was suppose to protect me not abuse me!! Damn YOU!!!!  You made me doubt myself, question my own decisions, and took away the person I should have been!!!