Snowball

According to wikipedia...

"A chain of events is a number of actions and their effects that are contiguous and linked together. 

A chain reaction is a sequence of reactions where a reactive product or by-product causes additional reactions to take place.

A metaphor for chain reactions is a snowball - causing larger snowfall - until finally an avalanche results (also known as the snowball effect)."

As I sat in the office, alone, I found myself fixating on the most random things.

Things like the bland beige paint on the walls. And either my eyes were a magnifying glass or the fibres in the carpet were huge.

Although I was sweating profusely, the air conditioning was freezing, sending cold shivers up and down my spine. 

I was so uncomfortable that I felt the need to continuously shift in the chair. Each time I shifted I almost had to prise my leg off the vinyl. What were they thinking having vinyl covered chairs in the tropics anyway? The sweat between my legs and the vinyl kept building up and I could feel it trickle down my legs like tears. 

My heart was beating so hard in my chest it felt like it was going to burst through.

I couldn't fathom the chain of events I had just set into motion.

My hands were clammy and my legs felt weak. I had to keep trying to place my feet flat on on the floor. Each time I raised my foot a particular way, my leg would begin to shake, like it had a mind of its own. 

The shivering got worse. It seemed like my whole body was shaking.

I was running on raw, nervous energy - not just an ordinary rush of adrenalin - this fear was constant. 

This was dread.  

Someone had torn a hole in me and my entrails had spewed out onto the altar of life. Someone had exposed what was inside of me to the world. That someone was me. 

What was I doing? I didn't know what was going to happen next. 

Finally the Deputy Principal appeared in the doorway, with two men (one was really tall) and a lady. The men were was a detectives from the CIB, the woman was a social worker from the department of family services.

So this was it. There was no turning back now. 

As I talked about the sexual abuse, they looked at me with their piercing eyes. Judging Me. Reading my body language to see if I was telling the truth.

Eventually it was time to go. But I would not be going home. We were going to the office of the department of family services, where I would need to give my official statement.

My mind was spinning. Trying to comprehend. 

I didn't know how this was going to work. 

I couldn't just not go home. 

People were expecting me.

I rode my bike to school and couldn't just leave it there. 

Someone might steal it.

Did I have to ride my bike to the department of family services office? 

No - I had to go in their car?

The Deputy Principal told me that they would put the bike somewhere safe. She got me to describe what it looked like and where it was and I told her the lock combination so that they could lock it somewhere safe.

When we got to the office, I sat at a large round polished table, recounting all of the things that my stepfather had done, while they took notes. This seemed to take hours. Finally, it was finished and we waited while the statement was printed out. They gave it to me to read over, so that I could make sure it was all correct, and if there was anything else I needed to add.

Then my Mum was there. She had to give a statement too and I could tell from the look on her face that she had been crying.

After a while, the two of us were in the room alone, waiting for what was going to happen next.

Mum said to me, "Why didn't you tell me about this? Now 'J' is going to lose his job, and we are going to lose the house".

I can't even remember my response.

Eventually, the social worker came back and we talked about what was going to happen next. 

That is when I found out that Mum was going to stay with 'J' and help him fight the charges that were going to be laid against him.

I would not be able to live in my home any more. 

I was being cast out. 

And it wasn't because my mother didn't believe me. She knew that all of it was true.

But I was being cast out anyway.

While 'J' was at the police station, I was able to go home and pack some things. 

The first thing I did was to get the cassette walkman out of Mum's cupboard that was put aside for me for Christmas. A walkman was the only thing I wanted for Christmas and I had pestered Mum for one for months. I had only chosen it a few weeks before, so I knew it was there and there was no way I was missing out on that.

I gathered up some clothes and things that I needed, and went back to the department of family services.

While all this was happening, they had contacted my Nan (my mothers mum) and it had been agreed by all that this was the best place for me to stay for now.

Amazingly, they even asked me if that was O.K. with me. I was grateful to stay there. I didn't want to go to some kind of foster care - if there was even anything like that available in our town. 

By the time I got to my Nan's place, I was exhausted. I was numb. It had been a long, tiring day. I don't think I had any more tears left to cry.

All the time I had kept my secret, I had feared that my mother would not choose me. My worst fear had now been realised and my world had crumbled beneath my feet. 

I felt hurt, scared, and very, very alone. Unloved. Worthless.

My one bright shining light in all of this is the love, strength and support that my Nan had for me.

I didn't know what was going to happen.

I knew that there was going to be a court case.

I would have to go to court.

Things were about to get a lot worse before they got better. 

And they did get worse.**

But my Nan was my rock through all of this strife.  

She helped me to survive.

My past does not define me.

I am not a victim.

I am a survivor.

** I will talk about this in my next post.

For new readers who want to start at the beginning, start here.

Loop

I was initially going to write a post called "Snowball", however in my efforts to procrastinate and put off writing for yet another day, (and therefore not have to deal with a the avalanche of emotions that are about to envelop me) I spent a few hours trying to find a free image of a snowball / avalanche to accompany my post. 

I didn't find a suitable image, but I did find this awesome video from Ice Age on you-tube.

This amusing video got me back to thinking about the chain of events that changed the course of my life when, at the age of 14, I took the giant step to 'tell'.  When life as I knew it changed for ever.  

For so long, I had kept so many secrets. Like scrat clinging to the acorn I had painstakingly clung to them - I had carried them around for years. But after I warned my stepfather that if he tried to touch me again I would tell, I had a few months of freedom from the abuse. It was such a relief. 

And then, when I was starting to feel safe, he tried to touch me again. It was a subtle start - he tried to fondle (my mostly non existant) breasts as I walked from the lounge room to the kitchen. From experience I knew this was only going to escalate. And I couldn't deal with that. The only way to escape was to tell. So I took my acorn and shoved it in the ground. I told. And that is when the ground split beneath my feet and my world fell apart. 

Damn you brain! I didn't want to think about this today! That is why I was procrastinating in the first place. So much for that! Why does my brain find the parallel between a cutsie kids cartoon and one of the most traumatic periods in my life. Why do these videos that hide in the shadows of my soul roll on cue every day?

One day this internal video recorder - that fills my head with loops with of every horrible memory - this automatic playlist that is triggered with even the most innocent stimuli - will eventually stop rolling.

When I talk about my past it hurts. I re-live every thought. Every fear. Every memory. So why do i do it? Why do I force myself to re-live it? Why do I tell the world?

Because if I don't deal with it, it hides in the shadows of my soul, it is a cankerworm, feeding on my bitterness, it fuels hatred and negative beliefs.

Because talking about my past brings it front and centre. It brings it out in the open so I can deal with it and process it. 

It can't hide in shadows of my soul if it is out there for everyone to see. 

The only power my past has over me is the power I let it have.

I am battling myself. And its a struggle. 

Bit by bit I am reclaiming pieces of me. 

My past will lose its power.

I am getting stronger. 

I am a survivor.

NB - My fear and procrastination did not win! I have started writing my next post, talking about what happened when I decided to "tell" and I will post this soon.

For new readers who would like to start at the beginning, my story starts here.

The Dark Hour

Warning - this post contains some confronting material. For obvious reasons I usually try not to go into detailed specifics, however, some content in this post may confront or upset some readers.

Single income lower to middle class families don't often have a lot of spare cash.

Growing up in my household, my stepfather was a truck driver for the local council. It wasn't a massive wage, but there was always food on the table. We didn't get a lot of great treats, but we didn't go without either.

I didn't ever have to worry about where my next meal came from, or having clothes, or shoes. At Christmas time, there were always presents under the tree. We always had birthday presents. We always had easter eggs. We were never spoiled with these things. We didn't get everything that we wanted. We learned that there was compromise. We couldn't always have 'the best'. And that was ok.

My mother was a stay-at-home mum. She was always there for us. We didn't have to go to after-school care, or vacation care. She made sure we were in plenty of extra curricular activities over the years - and drove us to and from - activities such as dancing, swimming, little athletics, brownies, girl guides, orchestra, gymnastics, nippers, sunday school.... we got to try a lot of activities.

But a couple of years before the 'recession we had to have' things had started to become a lot tighter for our family. And Mum started work. 

Compared to a lot of the girls at school I was quite a late bloomer. When I turned 13 in 1988 I was still relatively flat chested. 

Mum had two jobs around this time. She worked as a cleaner at a local school. This entailed her waking very early and going to the school for a few hours to clean all of the classrooms before school started. She also worked at a fish and chip shop on some evenings and weekends.

For the most part, Mum tried to make sure that we were VERY scheduled when she wasn't around. More often than not, my Nan was dropped over to look after us, even if my stepfather was there. 

But many of you reading will know, that even when surrounded by many people, a pedophile can find an opportunity to be alone enough to molest a child.

And once again this became my reality.

It started off in quite a subtle way. 

Step 1: 'Accidentally' brushing up against my private parts in the swimming pool.

Step 2: Wearing no underpants underneath his "stubbies" so that when he parted his legs his genitals were exposed 

Step 3: Talking to me 'one on one' at bedtime and at other times, befriending me, confiding in me about all kinds of inappropriate things, showing me the bills, talking to me about the mistakes my older stepsister made 'looking for love'.

Step 4: Touching me and telling me he is teaching me about love so that I will have experience.

Step 5: Blatant disregard for my feelings refusal and inappropriate touching at every opportunity.

All of this was leading up to what I call "The Dark Hour".

The Dark Hour was my nightmare. This was the hour before my sister and I had to get ready for school. Mum was at her cleaning job, and left while we were still asleep.

Each morning, regardless of my pleas for him to leave me alone, my stepfather crept into my room, and into my bed.  

During the dark hour, he touched me. He made me touch him. He performed oral sex on me. He made me perform oral sex on him. He rubbed his penis against my vagina. He penetrated me with his fingers. Thank goodness he never penetrated me with his penis.

Each morning I had an excuse, a plea, for him to leave me alone. I literally felt sick to my stomach. 

But what could I do about it?

Even worse - when he touched me, my body felt pleasure. The things he did felt good, even though I hated it.  

Then came the guilt. I hated it. But it felt good. There was something seriously wrong with me.

I was sick. I was damaged.

I hated me.

Financially, we needed Mum to work. If I told Mum, she would leave my stepfather. He would go to Jail and my sister would be without a father.  

I had to keep this hateful, disgusting sick secret. 

I couldn't be responsible for Mums second marriage to break down. 

More Guilt.

It was like I was having an affair with my stepfather. And I was betraying my mother. How could ever she forgive me for that?

More and More Guilt.

So I suffered.

Every. Single. Morning.

Even if I got out of bed, tried to go to different parts of the house, he found ways to touch me.

One morning in desperation, I thought that if I could just wake up my sister I would be safe. But no. My sister slept like the dead and hated school so there was nooo way she was waking up. Right there in the room, next to her bed, he touched my private parts while I desperately tried to wake her.

One day, Mum began to suspect that something was going on.

She took me aside one morning and asked if my stepfather was 'being rude' with me again.

"No Mum!" I emphatically denied. "Of course not. I am old enough to know that is wrong. I would tell you."

I felt sick to my stomach. 

Did she believe my denial?

Did she know it was true in her heart?

Why did she ask?

Did she suspect something, or was she just asking out of concern?

And so the Dark Hour and the Dark Days continued.

And then one day..... A miracle.

My stepfather had to have an operation. He was laid up in hospital for a while.

While he was in there, I had a reprieve. It felt so good to be free.

It emboldened me.

And while he was in the hospital, and no one else was in the room, I confronted him.

"I don't like what you have been doing to me. It is wrong. When you come out of hospital you won't touch me again. If you do, I will go to the police and tell them everything."

That was it. 

That was all I said.

I took a stand.

I was not going to be a victim anymore.

I was going to be a survivor.

The harshest lesson

If Children are raised in the right way, they have a basic understanding of right and wrong.

They know what lying is. They know they shouldn't lie. They know that stealing is taking something that doesn't belong to them, without the knowledge or permission of the person it belongs to.

But there are always grey areas, and unfortunately, the boundaries for these are only often learned by making mistakes - and more often than not - suffering the consequences - or punishments for those mistakes.

When I was in primary school, money was not something that children (in our family) had access to - apart from the occasional tuck shop order. There was no pocket money system in our household.

Once a fortnight (when Dad could be bothered to show up for his access visits with me) we would go to the house where my father grew up - his parents house - where I was often subjected to sexual abuse by my Grandfather. For new readers, I have talked about this here.

But my Grandmother was amazing. She was an amazing cook - whenever we came, it was no trouble to make an amazing soup, or stew, or roast. And there was always dessert. Home Made Fruit Salad with fruit - mostly grown in her garden. Custard Made from Scratch - with eggs - and a manual hand beater - or creamed tapioca pudding. Dessert was a MUST - it was never something that was taken for granted - but it was cherished - and because of Grandma, dinner is never really 'special' unless there is dessert.

She also didn't like my stepmother, and she didn't like the way my stepmother treated me. I think she also thought I got a bit of a raw deal with my parents being divorced, and remarried. And although I wasn't the first Grandchild, I felt like a was a favourite in her eyes.

Truth be told, I probably wasn't a favourite - she probably loved all of her Grandchildren equally, but she made me feel special.

(Weeping right now as a write this).

After each visit, Grandma always made sure I took home a bunch of bananas that she grew in her back yard, or eggs from the chooks, oranges and mandarines, and even lychees, cumquats, five corners, pumpkins and cherry tomatos. (Sometimes I wonder if she thought Mum wasn't feeding me).

And one day Uncle Tobys (the staple breakfast in the house was Porridge made from Uncle Tobys Rolled Oats) came out with a new product - Muesli Bars. These were AMAZING! A crunchy bar with fruit and oats! OMG.

Soon after each visit, Grandma would make sure that I took home a couple of boxes of Muesli Bars - sometimes they were Crunchy Apricot ( my favourite) and sometimes they were Crunchy Peanut Butter Flavour , or soft and chewy (when they came out - but I let her know I preferred the crunchy ones).

One day, when I was about 11 years old, Grandma started giving me some pocket money to take home. This started off at 50 cents, sometimes one dollar. WOW! Money. This was awesome, I could buy stuff from the tuckshop, or from the shop across the road from school.

My best friend Lisa always had money. She was always able to buy tins of Maringa Fruit Drops from the shop across the road from school. (Maringa Fruit Drops were an amazingly yummy fruit flavoured hard boiled lolly, dusted with icing sugar - mmm my mouth just waters at the memory - and they came in a round tin). Unfortunately for me, the 50 cents and Dollar, didn't go very far.....

This was when I discovered, and understood for the first time, the true value of money. The Fifty Cents, the One Dollar, was not enough to buy things that I wanted to buy.

This was also when I discovered, people often left small amounts of change lying around. If I took these very small amounts, no one would probably notice. I reasoned that they probably didn't even want these little bits of money.

Over the next couple of months, 1 and 2 cent coins, 5 cent coins, 10 and twenty cent coins were all full game. Soon even 50 cents coins. If no one missed them, what the harm?

Dad smoked B&H Special Filter. I had been smelling the second hand smoke my whole life, and just recently nicked a couple of them from his packet, and smoked them (coughing up my lungs the whole time) in the chicken coop on his last access visit. I could be like him, and smoke the same cigarettes. That felt awesome.

Soon I had enough money to buy my own packet of B&H Special Filter. I bought them from the shop across the road from school ( they assumed you were buying them for your parents in those days) and smoked my first one walking home from school. Awesome.

Unfortunately for me, Mum was a non smoker, so smelt the cigarette smoke on me straight away. She searched my bag and found the cigarettes.

She confronted me when she found them. I did not want to say where I got the money, so I lied and said that Lisa (my best friend) had given me the money. Mum said to me 'SMOKING! What next? Stealing?' I can't remember what my punishment was, but I remember feeling REALLY guilty, thinking, "eeerrr, I have already been stealing, how do you think I could get this pack of cigarettes?"

As a consequence for the cigarettes, Lisa was not allowed to be my friend anymore. She had access to too much money and was a bad influence. I even believed my own lies and disowned Lisa at school. But the worst was to come.

Dad came down for a a visit on the Mothers Day weekend. As was the custom, he came down with his wife and new kids on the Saturday, we stayed at Grandmas on Saturday Night, and then he dropped me off home on Sunday Evening before driving home.

On Sunday Morning, while walking down the hallway, I noticed money in a glass vase on top of the bookcase.

It looked like a Five Dollar Note. I decided, if it was a five dollar note , I would take it. I knew this would be wrong, but figured no one would miss it. Five dollars would buy me a lot!

Eventually, I found the right time. No one was around, and I took the note out of the vase. Once I had taken it I had to keep on going.

But when I got to my bag, I realised that it was a $20 dollar note, not a five dollar note! Damn, I had taken the wrong note! I decided I had to return this note. Taking twenty cents here or there was one thing, but taking a TWENTY DOLLAR note was SOMETHING ELSE.... Not acceptable....

If finding the right time to get the note from a vase in the hallway was hard, with time running out before it was time to go home, trying to put the Twenty Dollar note back and swap it for the smaller Five Dollar note was super hard.

Eventually it was time for my shower, and I figured it was now or never. The money was in my hand, Dad was in the lounge and couldn't see the hall from where he was sitting, and no one else had view of the hallway or the vase.

But just as I went to put the money in the vase, Dad got up to go to the kitchen, so instead of putting it in the vase, I quickly slipped it into the bookcase - and then kept on walking, and went downstairs and had my shower.

When I came back upstairs, I noticed the Twenty Dollar Note was not in the bookcase where I thought I had stowed it, but I had the perfect opportunity to get the other note, so picked it up and kept walking to the room I was in to pack up my bags - only to realise this was a TEN dollar note, not just five dollars. I couldn't keep this either. But there were now a lot of people around and it would be impossible to find the time to return it. I put the note in my slip on shoe, so that I could carry it without being noticed and quickly return it before going home. Hopefully I would also have an opportunity to find the twenty dollar note and put it back in the vase.

After about 10 or 15 minutes, Dad came to confront me.

When I put the money in the bookcase on the way to the shower, it had actually fallen straight out of the bookcase onto the floor, and looked like I had dropped it. He figured out I must have taken it from somewhere and went to find Grandma to find out where I got it from while I was having a shower. By the time she remembered she had the money in the vase, and they checked it, they realised this was where I must have gotten the twenty dollar note from, and there was also a ten dollar note missing.

Dad told me that he knew I had stolen some money, and to hand it over. At first I tried to deny it, but he knew it was $10 and it came from the vase. Everyone knew I must have taken it, so eventually I handed it over. I tried to explain I was trying to put the money back - and even though it was the truth, it just sounded like lies.

The money had been put aside in the Vase for Grandma's brother, who was collecting it the next week. I had let Grandma down - she had never had a reason to not trust me before, never worried about where she kept her money, and I had let Dad down as well.

My stepmother and half-siblings stayed at Grandma's while Dad took me home. On the way home, he said to me, "Do you know what today is?"

I said "What?"

"Mother's Day" he replied. "Now I have to bring you home to your mother, and tell her what you have done. Some Mother's Day Present".

I hadn't known. If I had of been at home on the weekend, my stepfather (even with all of his faults) would have done something special for Mum and Mum would have made sure we visited Nanny and my Stepfathers Mother to give them a mothers day present. I had missed out on that. Dad had come down for a weekend access visit, we stayed overnight at Grandmas, and we had not wished her, or my stepmother a happy mothers day, and had not done anything special.

This was horrible. I was scared and I felt terrible. Not only had I stolen from Grandma, but on Mother's Day!

We pulled up at the house and walked down the driveway. I trudged up the stairs with my bag. Dad told Mum and my Stepfather what I had done. They all decided, that as a punishment, I needed to get a 'belting'. My Stepfather went and got his belt from the bathroom, but Dad would be the one who had to give me the punishment.

They made me go downstairs into the middle of the front yard. Dad looked at me and his voice was husky as he said,"This is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you".

Mum and my stepfather watched from the stairs as Dad held onto my arm with one hand, and wielded the belt with the other. After the first whack, I kept trying to jump out of the way of the belt and so I was hit all over my legs and arms with both the flat and the edge of the belt. Although it was all over in a few minutes, to me it felt like a thousand years.

I don't really remember what happened then. I guess Dad left and I went to my room. After a while, mum helped me to have a cool bath to try to ease the pain of the welts.

When I went to school the next day, Mum said I had to try to hide the welts, and must not show anyone. But that very week my Grand Aunt and her daughter came over for a visit and Mum proudly showed off the welts.

Not long after that, I was at orchestra practice after school, when Mum came to pick me up early. The department of Children's Services (Child Safety) these days had been called in to investigate.

It's all a bit vague now, I can't remember if I still had the welts or not.

But because of the belting, I had to attend counselling sessions at the department of child safety each week. I thought it was because I was in trouble and I was bad though, not because they were trying to ensure I was in a safe and stable home.

All I knew is that I had to make sure I put on a brave face, and keep all of my secrets, or I could be taken away. Children who were taken away have to live in an orphanage with high fences and weren't allowed out until they were 18. That is what my family lead me to believe.

I can't really remember what I talked about during all of those counselling sessions. I was angry at Dad for giving me the belting, so I told them I didn't want to have access visits with him for a while. In one session I had to fill out a scale of how 'close' I felt to people in my family. I remember on the scale I drew Dad at the very far end of the scale and my Stepfather about middle on the scale.

Eventually Mum got sick of taking me to the department of child safety each week so she booked me into Gymnastics which fell on the same afternoon each week. I loved gymnastics and really wanted to go, and they agreed that I didn't need any more sessions. All of my secrets were still intact.

Once Dad was able to have access visits again, his visits were only short, and for a really long time we didn't go to Grandma's.

I didn't think she would ever love me again. It was the worst feeling in the world.  It was worse than any punishment, even worse than any belting could ever feel.

After a while we did start going back to Grandma's, and although Dads visits were shorter, the fortnightly Sunday Night Dinner routine went back to the way it was.

And more importantly, Grandma FORGAVE me for what I had done.

But, I still had one harsh lesson to learn.

Once you steal, you are the first suspect when things go missing.

I was on my access visit with Dad, and it was around my birthday.  He took me aside (down to the van?!) to give me my birthday card. It was a lovely card with many pages, he took pains to read to me the words the card said about being a beautiful, loved daughter.

Then he looked at me very seriously and said that he had to ask me something, and that he wanted me to tell the truth no matter what.

My heart was racing as I thought he was going to ask me about the sexual abuse my Grandfather or my Stepfather had been perpetrating. I thought that somehow he had found out and was going to ask me about it.

But instead, he asked if I had stolen a ring. We had recently been at my Uncles house, and my cousin had apparently left her signet ring in the bathroom, and it was missing, and they thought that I might have taken it.

I hadn't taken it or even remembered seeing it. I told Dad that I didn't take it. I can't remember how the conversation ended, whether he believed me or not.

The card, those beautiful words, were ruined. They meant nothing, they were just words, and I would never believe it. I was nothing good, nothing beautiful.

I had stolen money, how beautiful could I be? And now they all thought I stole something else. The words on the card meant nothing.

I would never be a beautiful loved daughter. I was an accident and a disappointment.

And for many years, this is what I believed.

And it was the start of a lot of negative self belief.

But the things that have happened to me, and the things I have done in the past do not define me.

Those things are not me.

I am special, and beautiful and loved.

I have an amazing capacity to love.

I have a great future ahead of me.

I am a survivor.

I won't just survive.

I am going to thrive.

Fight or Flight

A while after my stepfathers abuse was discovered by my mother, they decided to sell their house and move from the small rural suburb that we lived - into the main township.

While they looked for a new house to buy, we rented a 2 bedroom unit in a small block of 4. The landlord and his wife lived in the first unit. A teacher lived in the second unit. The 3rd unit was ours and an old lady lived in the 4th unit.

While we were living in the flat, I shared the small bedroom with my older stepsister and younger half sister. My stepbrother was a lot older and he kept living with his Grandmother. 

We lived in the flat for about 3 years or so. During that time the old lady moved out of the 4th flat, and my maternal Grandmother moved in. The teacher moved out of the second flat and a single mother "T"and her son "P" (who was in my class at school) moved into the second flat.

One day, my mother and my two sisters and I were next door visiting T & P. P was playing some kind of computer game, which I found really boring, so I came back home, and was hitting a tennis ball against the brick wall in the garage with a tennis racket.

It had been quite a while since my mother had caught him sexually abusing me, and he hadn't tried to touch me since then, so I was totally unprepared for what happened next.

My stepfather was inside, and came out into the garage. "Where is everyone?" he asked quietly.

"They are over at T & P 's house" I answered, concentrating on the ball and racket.  I was facing the wall - he was behind me.

"Where's Nanny?" he asked.

"I don't know - I guess she is in her flat" I began... 

But he said "Sssssshh" and from behind me he began to put his foot in between my legs and slowly moved it upwards until he touched my bottom and pelvis.

I froze.  

I felt sick. 

I knew exactly what was about to happen next.  

I had to get out of there.

Any excuse would do.   

I decided to try playing dumb; to pretend I didn't know what he was doing; what he was trying to do....

I said, "I have to go over to T & P's place - they are waiting for me".

And I ran.  

Safe. 

For a while.

Later that night, I was getting ready to have my shower before going to bed.

My stepfather told me to go and have a shower. In an insolent way (just like most other normal 9 or 10 year olds tired of being nagged by grown ups) I put my hands on my hips and said "I was just about too." 

He completely lost it. 

"You won't talk to me that way. I am meant to be the head of this house, not the dog!" he bellowed. 

He grabbed his strap and gave me a belting. 

After it was over I lay sobbing on the bathroom floor.  

The tiles felt cool and comforting.  

Mum eventually came in to help me. "You will have to learn to do what he says," she said.

I have no doubt in my mind that he lashed out at me that night because he didn't get his way.

When I finally went to sleep that night, I dreamed that my stepfather was trying to abuse me again. In my dream, Mum came to me and accused me of 'being rude' with him, which I denied. In my dream, she said " I know you have been, because I can smell is Teeth!".

I know that dream is a bit random, especially about the teeth, but I believe it was my 9 or 10 year old brain trying to process everything that had happened. That no matter what happened, I was responsible all the bad things that happened to me. That my mother wouldn't be there for her when I needed her the most. That the next time he didn't get his way, I might suffer this consequence again.

But I am proud of myself on that day.  

I am proud that I ran.

I am a survivor.

Scars

Generally in life, when a person commits a crime, they leave an evidence trail of some kind, which leads to them being caught. They've slipped up somehow, there's something that they didn't factor in when planning their crime.

But child molesters don't often fall into that 'general' crime category. Firstly, they prey on children. Secondly, as an adult (and usually as a family member or trusted family friend) they are in a position of power over that child. 

Finally, they have the time and access to groom the child - developing a 'special relationship' with the child, often using a significant level of threats, worries and concerns to ensure that the child will not reveal their 'secret' to anyone.  

The evidence of their crime is locked away in hearts and minds of their victims. They leave scars that aren't really visible to those who aren't looking. 

Scars that can take a lifetime to heal.

Initially, I was sexually abused by my stepfather. From what I recall, I was about 5 or 6 years old when this started - and I gave an account of this in my first blog post. If you haven't read it, you can read it here. Later I was also sexually abused my paternal grandfather - you can read about this here.

My stepfather fell into a regular pattern of abuse. He would find opportunities to be alone with me, so that he could touch me, and so that I could touch him and perform the usual kinds of acts. In the swimming pool, in the laundry, even in the lounge room - as long as no one else was around.

But he got a little bit too greedy. .. And became just a little too brazen... He slipped up...

We had recently adopted a little puppy. He was a cute little guy. He bit us a lot, so we called him nipper. Because he was still so little, we were keeping him in the laundry, which was located in the back of the house.

One morning, I woke up early and decided to go and play with nipper in the laundry. My stepfather happened to be in there too - I think he was about to put his boots on so that he could go to work. He said something to me like, "Oh, Ok, just quickly" and as he got me to touch him again, also said something like, "We are going to have to be more careful, or Mum will find out".

When I think about this now (after my blood stops boiling), I can't help but shake my head in disbelief at his statement. I wouldn't have been any more than about seven years old. But somehow I was imposing on him? He was giving into my sexual wants and needs?  He was doing me a favour? Hmmm.... I don't think so!

A few seconds later, Mum walked through the door.  

I don't actually remember what happened then. I don't know what kind of view she had of what was happening. All I remember is seeing her in the doorway, and the feeling of fear - of knowing that she had seen us. 

The next thing I remember is being in the front yard. I think I must have been scared. Mum told me it was very important that I tell her the truth, and asked me if my stepfather had been 'rude' with me.

I remember the sound of my voice.  I remember my answer so clearly. It shocks me.

"Yes.... but Mum... Don't be mad... It's not his fault..."

That's all that I remember about that moment. I don't know what happened next, (I think they had a huge argument), but I knew that it was bad, and I knew that it was my fault.

Then life went on. Like nothing ever happened. The world didn't end. And he did stop touching me, for a while.

Mum didn't pack up and leave, but I am pretty sure that for a while, she watched me like a hawk. One night, I came out of my bedroom and walked into the lounge room, in my nightgown (it was like a partially see-through night dress), with no underpants on. My mother and stepfather were on the lounge watching tv. Mum saw that I had no underpants on and yelled at me.  

"What are you doing with no undies on?! ... Are you trying to show "J"?! ... Are you trying to be rude again?"  

She smacked me and sent me back to my room to get underpants on and to go to bed. I learned that I was the bad one. I was the cause of it all - it was my fault.

And so I began to exist the way many abused children do.

In sadness. 

In secrecy. 

Alone. 

I think about these events a lot. I don't think of it every day. Not even every week. But I do think of it a lot.  

Sometimes it can be the littlest thing, that brings it to the front of my mind.... like last year when we added a puppy to our family, reminding me of Nipper, which in turn makes me think of the events in the laundry. Or a mundane activity like doing a load of washing, and thinking about the events in the laundry. Or seeing a pair of blundstone workboots (or whatever brand they were).

And I sometimes I get mad. I get so mad that Mum didn't leave him. I was so young. You can't explain away sexual abuse as an accident... or a once off...  And I get mad that I thought it was my fault.

Sometimes I feel sad, and cry about the innocence I lost. Cry that Mum didn't love me enough to protect me. Was I worth so little that she would choose a man over the safety and well being of her child? 

I will never understand. One day, when I am ready I will ask why. But I am not ready today.

For now, I don't need to know. The scars are still there, but I am starting to heal. I am building my life. I have a loving husband, and three beautiful children that I cherish with every fibre of my being. 

I am strong.

I am a survivor.

Copyright © 2011 http://strifesurvivor.blogspot.com

The Angel Will Help You

Something a bit different from my last two posts, but something that I feel I need to share.

I have been suffering from a cold for the last few days - keeping up with working full time and dealing with three children after work has been exhausting.

On Wednesday night, I was too sick to go to my ladies group - it is held every second Wednesday and is one of the only things I do for 'myself' so I was feeling particularly sad.

That night, I dreamed that I was trying to paint a mural on a glass arch window.  

I only had a thin paintbrush and a bucket of white paint, and it wasn't working. I was starting to get more and more upset, and I started crying," I just can't do it!"   

My tears started falling into the bucket of paint, which then mixed with the paint, making it too runny, so as I kept trying to paint, it made the white paint all streaky on the glass. This only made me more upset.

Then I noticed some beautiful music in the background. I looked at my hand, and instead of the thin paint brush, there was a beautiful red rose. 

A voice said, "The Angel will Help You".

I put the rose onto the glass, and it lit up with a soft yellow glow.  

As I moved the rose over the glass, I began to paint a beautiful mural.  

It was amazing.

Copyright © 2011 http://strifesurvivor.blogspot.com

The Beginning Part 2 - Shouldn't you be my protector?

For a few days I have been thinking about what exactly to write in my second post about the beginning of my journey.

The Beginning Part 1, talks about the start of that journey - the start of a sordid period in my life being sexually abused by my stepfather... If you haven't read it yet, you can read it here.

I am not comfortable using the names of the people in my stories, and so - at least for the time being, whenever I need to mention a name, I am going to use the first letter of the person's first name.

What I am about to write, has been weighing on me heavily. It is something I have only shared with one, or maybe two people in my life. After much consideration, I have decided to share it, because maybe by sharing it will help to heal me, and maybe it will help someone else to talk about their experience, so that they can heal too.

After the initial incident in the bed, my stepfather started finding many opportunities to be able to touch me, and to make me touch him. He talked to me a lot about what he was doing, and how people wouldn't understand, that I must never tell anyone. 

Often once a child is sexually abused, their eyes are opened to the world of sex, in a way that they never were before. Often their behaviours and interactions with other children and adults can become overtly sexualised.  

This was true in my case.

On access visits with my Father, we often used to spend a lot of time with at his parents house. My stepmother hated these access visits, and wasn't too fond of me, so I tried to stay out of her way as much as possible. Dad would often read the paper, and watch tv, and I often spent a lot of time with my Grandmother and Grandfather. My Grandfather had a chicken coop, where he kept chickens and pigeons, and a large paddock that other people often kept horses in.

One afternoon, in the shed next to the chicken coop with my Grandfather, he lifted me up onto one of his workbenches. Automatically, I spread my legs so that he could touch me. He said to me that he shouldn't touch me there. I said to him, "But J does it all the time."

What should have happened at that moment?  I have pondered this many times.

In a perfect world, my Grandfather would have been horrified, revolted even.  

He would have taken hold of me, bundled me up with love and carried me into the house to talk about this horrible revelation with my father and grandmother, and he would have made sure I was safe...

He would have made sure I was kept away from my Stepfather so that this terrible thing never happened to me again. He would have called the police. He would have confronted my stepfather.  

In a perfect world. I have had plenty of time to think about this scenario.

But, it is not a perfect world, and my Grandfather was not a perfect man.  

He took my invitation at my word. 

He has been passed away for many years now, so I will not ever know what he was thinking. I can only imagine. I know that he was not thinking like a grandfather who wanted to love and protect his granddaughter.

Perhaps he was thinking this was a perfect opportunity to do something sordid and secret - a willing participant - served up to him on a platter. After all, it was pretty safe, I was used to keeping this type of secret.  

He just had to coach me a little more than J did - he didn't want me telling anyone else - that would be much too dangerous... I had to promise I would never, ever, tell anyone, not even J. And I had to be careful about how I acted around other grown up men. I couldn't do this type of thing with them.

And so I kept his secret.... and for years, kept keeping the secret.  Even when the truth eventually came out about J , I kept his secret. 

But I won't be defeated by the strife I have faced in my life.

Today I am telling the world. 

The world knows my secret.  

And I am a survivor. 

Copyright © 2011 http://strifesurvivor.blogspot.com

The Beginning - Part 1

I was an unexpected blessing. My parents were Aussies living and working in New Zealand. It was 1974 when I was conceived and so they quickly came back to their home town in Australia, to get married. My mother was 18 or 19, I think Dad was 20 or 21.  

I don't ever remember my parents being together. They divorced when I was a baby.

After sharing a flat with my Aunt for a short time, my mother rented a house in a small rural suburb about 20 minutes drive from the main township. (A long way in those days!) The owner of the house was a divorcee, and lived in the house next door, with his mother, his son and his daughter. It wasn't long before they were married and I had a new family... and soon I had a new sister on the way...

My father moved to a new town (about an hour away), for a fresh start and a new job. He met a young woman at square dancing (part of me wants to say LOL) and he was soon remarried too... with a son on the way...

I have vague memories of my fathers wedding. I was a flower girl. I remember getting my hair curled at the hair dressers. The hair dresser used a large clunky heated curling wand - the type that had spokes all over it. I remember the hairdresser telling me to let her know if the curler got too hot or too close to my scalp, but kind of being too afraid to say it was too hot. I wanted to be brave. I had a purple flowery dress. I felt like a princess.

By the time I was in Grade 1, in 1981, my life felt normal. I didn't know any different. Dad got to visit me every second weekend (when he actually turned up) and we would go to my grandparents house...

Then, something happened....

One morning, I jumped into bed with my mother and my stepfather. I don't remember if there were other kids in the bed.  

As I was kicking about a bit, under the covers, I felt something soft with my feet. It felt weird. I didn't know what it was so I tried to touch it with my foot again. I began gently prodding this soft thing with my foot. Suddenly my stepfather grabbed my hand. He pulled my hand down, and placed it onto his private part.

I am not exactly sure what happened then. I don't think Mum was in the bed at that stage. She may have gotten up to start getting breakfast ready.

I think my stepfather said something about not telling Mum.  

It was the start... of something... sordid.... that went on... for a while...  

I was five, or six years old.

When I think about this now, I can't understand, how he was able to justify what was going on.  

But this kind of scenario... when no one else was around, was about to become a common occurrence.   

This was the beginning of my journey as a survivor...

Copyright © 2011 http://strifesurvivor.blogspot.com