This is just a start for me. I've never told anyone my story before....and am not sure how to start....but here goes. I am not finished yet.
I lie here awake. All that goes through my mind is memories. Memories of that little girl. I would go to sleep at night, praying that he wouldn’t come in and hurt me. I would listen to the television….waiting for my parents to go to bed. This is it. I know he’s coming in soon. I wish I could just go to sleep. But I can’t. I know he’s coming in soon. I’m scared. I wish I could just disappear. Then it happens. He comes in. Sweetheart is what he would call me. Daddy loves you. You want to make daddy happy don’t u. I was so scared. I felt so dirty. Shhhh. Don’t want to wake up your sister. I would tell him I didn’t want to do those things. He told me to be quiet. It was going to make him happy and love me. It feels good he kept reminding me. It didn’t feel good. It was awful! I hated it. He would tell me that was what my parts were for. I was a big girl and needed to do big girl things. Your mommy doesn’t love you. I do. In the beginning, he would touch me as he would touch himself. I didn’t make a sound. I was scared. All my mom would do is yell at me and tell me I was good for nothing. If she saw us…..she’d say it’s my own fault. Everything was always my fault. He would always tell me how much he loved me when he was through and to go to sleep now. I hated it. I would bite myself until I would bleed. After a few nights of this, he started putting his fingers inside of me. It hurt so bad. It was like having knives put inside of me. Sometimes I would bleed after. He would then make me touch him. Eventually I had to give him oral sex. This went on for years, and happened almost every night.
I got dumber, or at least that’s what my mom said. I wasn’t aware of much, or anything at all. I couldn’t focus. Especially when she would tell me what to do or yell at me. I wet the bed every night until I was 8 years old. I couldn’t do anything right according to my mom. I had chores to do. Mop the floor, take out the trash, do the dishes. Mopping the floor required me to do it on my hands and knees. If I missed a spot, she’d make me start all over again. If a dish was dirty, she’d wait till I was in bed sleeping around 2 am when she got home from work and rip my head up by my hair and make me wash every dish over again until they were all clean. She called me a retard. Threatened to take me to a shrink, and that they’d take me away and put me with other retards. One day my mom told my father to take me to a shrink. He didn’t though. He took me to Mc Donalds and let me have anything I wanted to eat. He told me when we got home to act upset. So I did. See my mom wouldn’t let me eat any junk food or sugary food. I was diagnosed with hypoglycemia, and put on a strict diet. Her diet. My dad would give me cakes, cookies, candy bars, anything I wanted, to keep me quiet and happy. I loved him for that. I felt he understood what I was going through. At desert time at home, I would get sent to my room while the rest of the family enjoyed the desert. I would cry and cry, and bang my head against the wall until I felt nothing.