The parts that I don't talk about 1

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is the beginning of sharing the things that I don't talk about. I'm starting with what I feel marks the ending of my childhood.

Submitted: December 25, 2012

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Submitted: December 25, 2012

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The End of Innocence

I’ll begin my journey with you at age 6, because that is when life began to change for me. Before then my life was pretty much like any other kid, well except for the fact that I was being raised by my step-father. So, the man that I call my father on this page, is actually my step-father.

One of the things that my father believed heavily in was to not teach fear and shame. So, when my mother tried to get all religious and teach about fearing the devil, he compensated by taking me to the Unity Church.

When my mother beat me with a coat hanger until I had bruises up and down my body, he told my mother she was never to touch me again. From then on he was the only one that could punish me. Of course it didn’t take much, because I worshipped my father. If he showed the least bit of disappointment in me, it was worse than my mother’s coat hanger beating.

By protecting me from fear, my father actually left me vulnerable. He kept the bad stuff away from me or so he thought. In reality he was protecting me from my mother, but leaving me vulnerable to the other bad people in the world. I was never taught about inappropriate touching or told about the bad guys that take advantage and hurt kids. In a later confession from my father, I would learn that he was against doing so at that time, because kids should think about kid things and not worry about the evils of the world.

When I was 6, I would hang out down the street a lot. There were two girls that lived there that were a year or two older than me. They were sisters only a year apart in age. Sometimes their father would pat them on the butt or other small things like that which seemed completely innocent. Though, looking back I remember a look in one of the girl’s faces that just seemed odd and unlike how I felt about my father. She appeared to hate her father.

Well, one day I went to their house and the girls were not there. Their father told me to come inside and watch tv with him and wait for the girls to come home with his wife. Not having any fear of men, I sat in his lap as requested. He unbuttoned my pants I remember. The rest is blurry, except for the fact that he thanked me for not wearing any underwear. I know he only touched me, so there was no rape or anything of that sort. His wife and kids came home and he pulled his hand out of my pants as the door was opening. I have a memory of the three of their faces. They knew what he was doing even though they didn’t see. His wife just told me to go home.

That night I asked my father, “Are grown-ups supposed to touch me here?” So, I may not have been taught to fear adults, but I was comfortable enough with my body to ask such a question. From what I knew at that time, I was just not allowed to go over there anymore, but it was never talked about. I found out later that my father went down the street and beat the man and told him that if he touched his daughter again he would kill him. Though, I knew none of this until I was older.

My father felt at the time that if they were to take it to the cops it would be worse for me and that it was better for me to just forget about it. Of course, anyone who has experienced any sort of abuse knows that this does not work, it will eventually come out somewhere. It can only stay hidden for so long.

When I was in my early 20’s my cousin called me all shocked. She had been friends with the two girls down the street as well. Apparently, she had met up with one of the girls. They were in the process of speaking out in court against their father. At the time when their father touched me, he was raping his daughters. The mother knew and allowed it. I don’t know what ever became of the case. All I know is that they were speaking out and trying to prosecute her father.

Knowing this, I couldn’t help but feel a wave of guilt. If my parents would have chosen to take my experience to the police, these girls may have been saved years of incest. As I type that, I want to cry.

Later, after my parents divorced, I saw the struggles my mother had emotionally because of incest. By the time I knew the story of those two girls, I understood the affects. I knew what their life had been like, because of my mother. Knowing that I could have put a stop to their nightmare by speaking out more, still tears me up. The reality is that I was just a kid and I had no control.

Compared to what these girls experienced, to what my mother experienced and what I would experience later, this abuse was very small, but it marks when my innocence was lost. I became different. I had been around nudity and knew what a male and female body looked like, but I understood things a little differently now. I began to experiment. I would masturbate with my teddy bears. I’d feel guilty and dirty. Instead of playing dress up with Barbie, they now had sex with each other.

When I was 7, I stayed at a babysitter’s house while my parents worked. She had three kids ages 2, 7, and 9. The youngest was a little girl and the other 2 were boys. I went to school with the boys and the 7 year old boy was in the same class as me at school. Anyhow, we used to play cops and robbers all the time. At this time that I’m going to share, the 9 year old and I were the robbers while his 7 year old brother was the cop. We hid up above a chicken coup. While we were hidden I offered a trade. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.” I remember he was really nervous, but did as he was told and I did the same in return. We studied each other visually and with our hands while little brother searched for us. I had seen nudity before, but this was different because were were fondling eachother. Or rather I was fondling him and encouraging him to do so with me.

I know that a lot of you are going to think this is all innocent like those stories where people talk about experiences playing doctor as a kid, but it was different. I really feel that if I didn’t experience what I did a year earlier, I would have not experienced what I did above the chicken coup. It was a side-effect of the abuse that I experienced. The more sexual abuse I would encounter in my life, the more promiscuous I would become. Sex would become a way of punishing myself and oddly an escape as well. Between the age of 13 and 15, I had approximately 20-30 different sex partners. Most of them were older than 18 years of age. When I try to look back and count, I lose track.


© Copyright 2019 Xilia. All rights reserved.

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