WatersMoon110's Journal

I was 12 my my (now-ex-)step-father first raped me. I remember that he was yelling at me, as usual, for something in the kitchen. This time, however, he took my down to the basement. I remember my sister and mother talking above us in the kitchen, their soft footsteps overhead as they went outside.

I remember how I screamed when he took my virginity with his dirty finger. I can still hear it, echoing in my head sometimes. He bent me over a stool, to rape me from behind. After he finished, as I sobbed hysterically, I heard my mother and sister in the kitchen again. After I had calmed down as much as I could, I remember going up to the kitchen and asking them why they hadn't come down to help me, "I was in hysterics," I said. My mother replied, "There isn't much difference between someone in hysterics and a child throwing a tantrum." A tantrum! I knew at that moment that no one would ever help me, and how could I ask people unwilling to listen to help?

That was only the first time out of four years of torture. I remember how he would insert object into me, both in my vagina and my anus, late at night. At first we would be down in the basement, then later I got my own room and things would happen there. Eventually he built his own little room in the basement, where he felt secure in torturing me.

He loved it when I cried, and at first I cried very easily. Eventually, when just rape or insults wouldn't get tears, he would insert knives in me, or threaten my siblings. I always believed that I was "protecting" them from him, by fulfilling his horrid needs. I know that he "bothered" my sister some before she went to college, but she was too old for him. I'm pretty sure that he abused my brother who is closest in age to me, after he turned 12.

My (now-ex-)step-father was a huge cocaine addict. He sometimes gave me little "bumps" of it, often before anally raping me. He also drank O'Doul's  "near beer", smoked Marlboro Ultra Lights like a fiend, and occasionally smoked pot. He stank, was far too thin, and drained our family of all money to spend on drugs.

Sometimes he would make me drink his urine, or my urine. I was also made to eat feces, and he liked to catch my menstrual flow (when it was heavy) in a jar and make me drink it. Sometimes, when I threw it up, he would make me eat the vomit after.

When I was 15 I got pregnant in maybe July. In October, he gave me an abortion in the basement with a coat hanger, caught the "products of conception" in a mason jar, and made me drink it. After that I stopped eating meat, finding it far too much to deal with.

He told me that it would "make people feel bad" if I told them what was happening to me and that "no one wants to hear that sort of thing". I can only remember trying to tell anyone on one occasion. I often would listen to my sister talk about her problems, so that she had someone to talk to. Once, I started to tell her about my very big problem, and she told me, "I don't have time to listen to your problems, I have problems of my own." That certainly confirmed my idea that this wasn't anything to talk about. I didn't tell anyone until I was 19, three years after my mother (finally) kicked him out.

It's been 9 years since the abuse ended. But I'm still learning to deal with it. I have a pretty good life, though. I have a loving and very understanding husband, and we're looking for a first house. I just wish that my past would let me enjoy my present a bit more.

Thanks for listening.