A Letter To My Inner Child

Dear Little Rose,

I know you're confused on who to trust. Men tell you lies as easily as they breathe air. I wish I could tell you some trick to know if they're telling the truth, but I don't. The best I have to offer you is trust your instincts. You're instincts are basically good. When you have rationalized or minimized you've found yourself in trouble. Sure, you might not want to believe what your instincts are telling you, but that doesn't mean they're wrong.

Trust doesn't get any easier as you grow up. People let you down, but sometimes they surprise you too. Along with trust, you have abandonment issues. You assume it's not IF someone is going to leave it's WHEN are they going to leave. You've been able to push most people away, but there are a few who will not leave. This will shock and surprise you. Try to stop pushing. You might think it would be easier being alone, but you're wrong.

You have many coping mechanisms, some better than others. You need to modify the dangerous ones. The point is to heal not to cause further damage. Of course healing is far from easy and painless. Healing hurts. You've already shown you can handle great pain, both physical and emotional so don't give up. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to have healthy relationships with positive boundaries. You deserve to be loved and adored, in a healthy manner by appropriate people.

You are worth it.

You are worthy. And most importantly.... IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT! You did nothing wrong. Little girls are supposed to love their fathers. Father's are supposed to call their daughter's their Princesses. Father's are not supposed to be sexual with their daughters on any verbal, physical, or emotional level.

You learned to survive. You leaned how to forget, how to function. Your emotional needs were neglected. You still have a chance. You helped put a child molester in jail. You have the power to help yourself and others. You're not weak. You're strong.

You are NOT alone.

Sure you'll make mistakes. You will even make some mistakes more than once. More than 5 times, but eventually you will see the pattern, the reason for the mistakes and you will stop. You are intelligent. You truly can do anything you set your mind to. Just remember the family you make is more important than any material item. The healthy love you share, and show your Beloveds is the most important. They will keep you humble. They will keep you in check. They will frustrate you, and anger you. They will love you like no one else on this planet. You have a chance to do for your children what your parents never did for you. It is a glorious wonderful thing. Remember that.

Naming and Believing The Abuse

This week my writing assignment is to name and believe the abuse. To describe what I remember. Sure, I can say with ease, My father's a child molester. My father-in-law is a child molester. My children and I have had an overdose of child molesters.

Is that really naming the abuse though? The book says no. The book says that's our cop out which helps us survive. To really name the abuse we need to tell our story and believe it.

The Believe It sounds kinda silly. I mean here I am reading, writing, and going to therapy, obviously I believe myself... right? Uh... that would be a BIG FAT NO. I still find myself wishing with all my heart it was just a bad dream. That I imagined it. That I'm wrong. Somedays I attempt to rationalize it all away. In fact, I have championship rationalization skills as it is the foundation of my survivor skills.

Now to describe the abuse. I can't describe all of the abuse, because my body is telling me there are things I have yet to remember. My childhood memories (the ones I do remember) are so disorganized I'm not sure of the chronology. That being said, here goes....

I remember the sound of ice clinking in a glass of Wild Turkey after dark. I remember how my father always told me how he loved me more than life its self. How special and important I was to him. How I was his princess. I remember the wrinkles on his neck. The nape of his hair. His scratchy beard on my neck and chest. I remember standing in front of my dresser with his penis in my hands looking down at it curiously.

Oddly while writing this I realize I don't remember feeling any feelings. I don't remember being scared, or ashamed. It's like I was empty. Like I am still empty. I don't remember any scents. Granted I can smell beer or whiskey on a person a room away, but I don't have any smells to accompany my memories. I don't remember hearing anything during the abuse either. Which seems weird because I have amazing hearing, probably forged through necessity to signal danger. I've always been clued into the sound of foot steps approaching, no matter where I am.

I remember watching porn with my father while he spooned me, and feeling comforted and special. I mean he never did that with my older sister, so I must be special just like he always tells me I am, right? I remember the warmth of his body behind me. Seeing his beer can in front of me, but I couldn't tell you where his hands were, or if he ever spoke to me.

In short I rationalized his behavior as examples of what fathers who love their daughters do. That and I disassociated to make sure I wouldn't feel anything.

Interestingly, this past Saturday I rented and watched Mr. Popper's Penguins with my Beloveds. I recall when I was a kid finding the book in the school library. I remember it was the first chapter book I read, and how proud I felt at my accomplishment. At dinner, I relayed this memory to my Beloveds. My oldest who is eight asked how old I was when I read it. (His teacher read it to his class when he was in 2nd grade.) I thought for a second and said, I think I was eight or nine. My Beloved almost choked on his dinner. "Wow mom" he said, "Why did you start reading so late in life?"

I thought about it and the answer struck me like a hammer. See I refused to learn how to read. I also refused to do math, or pretty much any school work. I think I refused from 1st to 3rd grade but my memory is a little fuzzy. My teachers just kept passing me without much to do. I don't remember them saying anything to my parents as I fell further and further behind. Until 3rd grade where my teacher told my mother I was stupid and need special education classes. (Yes, she actually said stupid because I remember her saying it to my face more than once in class.) My mother demanded I be tested, which the tests showed I was actually quite bright. My mother decided I just wanted more of her attention, so she broke out her old teaching books and taught me to read.

I remember I loved the attention. The time we spend together. The safety and comfort I felt. So my question to myself is, what was going on in my life that I refused to participate in school work? Why can't I remember those years? Obviously it was a cry for help, but help for what? Was it during that time the abuse was going on? Did spending those evenings with my mother help curb the abuse? I remember being terribly depressed and not talking to anyone, nor having any friends. Why? And why didn't my mother realize there was something wrong? Or did she know and she just couldn't face it?

If I do the math, my half sister, who was also abused by my father, her step father had finally gotten the courage to tell my mother what he had done to her. Even though she hadn't believed my sister, did she spend more time with me so he couldn't? After all, I was Daddy's Girl. His Princess.

I'm not sure what all this means. I do know it makes me very sad. Since my mother died when I was 19 I will never hear her answers or reasoning. Is that good or bad? Would she still defend him? Or maybe that's why she died, because she couldn't face the monster she had married? Or the person she had become allowing him to go unchecked all those years?

I remember a few more things, but the above was the worst of the incidents. The rest was perceived as a natural state of family life. Even now when I talk to other women I think, You mean your father didn't________ (insert morally inappropriate action here) with you, your sisters, your friends, or your mom's friends? Huh. Strange.

Fear.

I usually love books and book stores. The majority of the time they are my salvation. I turn to a good story to find escape from the stress of life. As you all know my therapist has given me some books to aid in my treatement. One book and workbook is called The Courage To Heal. If you've read most of my post you know I mention it in almost every one.

She gave me another book though. A book the invokes fear. It took me a week to take it out of it's mailing package when it arraived. Even though the book is only about 600 pages, I'd swear it weights more than a full grown elephant. The name of this book of fear? Healing The Incest Wound, Adult Survivors in Therapy. I think it's the word Incest that's getting to me. Incest has always meant sexual intercourse with a family member to me. Now I'm wondering if it really means sexual relationship with a family member. You can after all have a sexual relationship without actually experiencing penetration.

Why does this word make be flinch as if I've been struck every time I read it or hear it? I'm not sure. Maybe it's all my guilt and shame? Maybe he put the fear into me? I can't really say. I do know this book haunts me. I don't know if I'll every be strong enough to open it. To read it.

Remembering Sexual Abuse

Writing Assignment from The Courage To Heal: Spend 10 minutes writing starting with the phrase, What I remember... Then write for another 10 minutes starting with the phrase, What I don't remember...

What I remember is my father always having a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I remember the cigarette smoke choking me in the car, house, bathroom. There was no safe place to hide from the smoke.

I remember my father hiding while he watched my friend and I take a bath when I was in the 4th grade.

I remember staying up late Friday and Saturday nights to have my father spoon me while we watched soft porn movies together.

I remember my father's friends making comments and questioning me about my boobs, lack there of, and my menstrual cycle... in front of him. He thought it was funny.

I remember having an ingrown pubic hair when I was 12 or 13 and not knowing what it was, my mother was out of town, so I told her about it over the phone. I was terribly embarassed. She told me to tell my father. (Why I don't understand.) My father told me he wanted to look at it. I remember telling him NO and running to my room to hide under a blanket of shame.

I remember the heaviness of my father as he laid upon me. The scratchiness of his beard on my cheek and neck. His warm breath on my neck. Him telling me how he loved me more than life it's self.

I remember how upset and manipulating he was when I got my first serious boyfriend. How my new boyfriend was "taking his place." I didn't understand it at the time. How could a boyfriend "take the place" of my father? I see now that's not what he meant.

I remember my father slept naked. I remember the warmth, sweaty scent of his sheets.

I remember how he never wore underwear in the summer and his penis would fall out of his shorts in front of my friends. I rarely had friends over after that.

I remember standing in front of my dresser, staring down at his penis while I stroked it.

I remember being 21 years old, being invited into his bedroom to let him know me and my fiance were back from visiting friends. When I walked into his open doorway he was jacking off. He wanted me to see him. To catch him.

I remember refusing to eat at the early age of 5. I see now as a grown up, food was the only thing I could control.

What I don't remember....

I don't remember where my mom was when I spent time with my father.

I don't remember how old I was when it all started.

I don't remember how old I was when it ended.

I don't remember what he said to me.

I don't remember how many times it happened or how often.

I don't know why right now my skin is crawling and my vision is snowy.

I don't know why I want to throw up.

I don't know why I want to cry.

I don't know why he did this to little girls.

I don't know why my mom wasn't enough.

I don't know why my mom didn't believe my sister when she told the truth.

I dont know why my mom allowed it all to happen.

I don't know why I didn't stop it. Why wasn't I strong enough?