Growing up

The hardest part of growing up for me was having to deal with sexual abuse. After the first time I was abused at age 10, the abuse started back up when I was like 11 or 11 and 1/2. It progressed from inappropriate touching and fondling to forced oral sex and rape. These things happened daily from the time I was 11-11 and 1/2 until the time I finally found the courage to tell someone at age 15. I would dread the times where my mom would leave the house and I’d be alone with my step dad. He would almost always do something inappropriate to me when my mom would leave. Either that or he would come to my room in the middle of the night and abuse me.
The first time he actually raped me was when I was 13 and he told my mom some crap about me needing to go to his apartment (he got it after he was forced to move out of our house when I reported the abuse at age 10 and part of his probation or something was that he couldn’t live with us and couldn’t be within 100 feet of me or of anyplace I was in) and do some dishes I didn’t do when I was there the day before. I can’t believe my mother believed that when she knew he wouldn’t just let me leave without doing something he told me to do, he’d just beat the crap out of me and make me do it before I left even if I had refused already. I begged my mom not to make me go, I cried and I was terrified but she made me go anyway.
He took me to that apartment, and after some inappropriate touching, he raped me. I have never felt so much pain in my life, the only thing that even came close was some abdominal pain I had due to my Irritable Bowel Syndrome where I actually was rushed to the emergency room because I thought it was appendicitis. I was so terrified because there was so much pain and I was bleeding. He had me go and sit in a hot bath to help with the pain and all I could do was feel totally disgusted and enraged that he was trying to act all concerned and like a dad after the horrible thing he just did. I told him I hated him and slammed the bathroom door in his face when I went to go take a bath. I sat in that tub and cried.
I had to wear my bloody underwear and pants back home because it was all I had to wear. I was told to lie and tell my mom I started my period if she asked about my bloody underwear and pants when she did the laundry. She didn’t though, I ended up doing the laundry when my bloody clothes were in it, so she never even saw them. I just can’t believe she didn’t know what was going on, it seemed so obvious to me. I felt so bad and although part of me knew it was not at all my fault, part of me believed it was all my fault and that I did something to deserve it. I felt so guilty and that guilt got even worse when I didn’t tell anybody what happened and it kept happening. When I finally told someone what was happening and how long it had been happening, it only made my guilt worse. I was depressed, confused, hurt, angry, guilty, ashamed, scared, humiliated, and disgusted by what happened. I suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and for a long time I was afraid of men.
My childhood was traumatic and unpredictable and I had to grow up so quickly. I was expected to be the adult in my home as early as age 10. My mom and step dad expected me to do things that most kids don’t start doing until a lot later than I did them, like laundry and dishes. I was doing laundry when I was ten, dishes when I was 9, and cleaning the whole kitchen when I was 10. By the time I was 13, I was doing laundry, cleaning the kitchen, and taking care of my brother and sister as well as my mom and step dad and still finding time to do my homework and try to have a little fun. These things have had a lasting effect on my life and I am still dealing with the fallout from my traumatic childhood to this day. I am finding that telling my story is very therapeutic and cathartic. It feels good to get this all written out and I will continue writing about the experiences in my life because telling my story is a good release and is very helpful for me.