So you want to know my story. You want to know what makes me tick and why I am the way I am. You want to see into the inner most parts of me.
If you think you can handle it, I encourage you to continue reading. This is not a story of rainbows and butterflies. It is not a story of smiles and vacations. It is a story of pain and tears. If you think you can handle it, you are more than welcome to continue.
Keep in mind, I do not expect your pity. I do not want it.
February 1991 I was brought into the world. My sister (who is 5 years older than me) insisted that the reason I was crying is because I wanted French fries.
When I was two, my parents divorced. That was the beginning of all the bull shit I would face in my life.
My father remarried when I was 4. I now had a new brother (4 years older) and a new sister (6 months older). We were a giant happy family. Or so we let on.
My mom also remarried. My step dad and step sisters on that side were amazing. To this day I talk to my step sisters. Even though my mom and him are no longer married.
My older sister and I spent every other weekend and Tuesday nights with my dad at his house. Then every other week in the summer. Time, I learned, that would break me.
My step brother was a cruel kid. It began with little things. Poking, pinching, doing anything he could to get a reaction out of me. He would steal my food and pretty much do anything he could to try and hurt me. I was sent to a therapist. I still remember the exact building I visited her in. She told me that he was just doing it to get attention and that if I ignored it, it would stop.
So that’s what I did.
Six years of praying that it would stop. Six years of looking at him and seeing the pure evil in his eyes. Six years of random bruises and nail marks in my skin. Six years of hoping that me not crying or flinching would make him stop.
It eventually got worse. It wasn’t just his hands he used to inflict pain. He would use shovels and his knives to my throat. Anything he could find, he would use. It got worse and I got more brave. I was 7 years old with a bottle of perfume and a knife under my pillow. Just in case he came in my room.
You may be asking if or why I didn’t tell my parents. Here’s the kicker. I did. I told my dad and stepmother what happened more than once. Their solution was to hug it out and for him to apologize. While he would hug me, I would shake. I would wonder what kind of pain he could inflict at that moment. I remember one of our “hug it out” moments he whispered 5 words that will haunt me until I die.
“I’m going to kill you.”
Things started getting more sexual. Asking to sleep with me because he was cold, touching my hips, touching me anywhere really. I can still remember the looks he would get. I remember how his eyes would narrow, and his teeth would clench. I remember the exact fear I felt in my stomach. I remember holding my breath so I didn’t cry. I remember everything like it was yesterday.
When I was 10, I was sitting at the dining room table eating breakfast before church. My sisters were in the bathroom getting ready. He came up next to me, pulled himself out of his pants and told me “suck it bitch”. I remember jumping up and running to the bathroom and telling my sisters that I had to go to the bathroom.
Church went on as normal. Dinner went without a hitch. Step brother and I were on dishes duty. While my family was in the living room, him and I went to the kitchen to do dishes. He pulled a knife from the pile of dishes and pinned me to the fridge with it to my throat. His exact words were “If you tell anyone, I will kill you.”
Well that night, that is exactly what I did. I remember laying in bed and I just couldn’t focus. I walked from the pink room I had into my mom’s room. I remember her giant wooden bed. I climbed up and started telling her what happened. I remember the look on my mother’s face as she was trying to be strong and comfort me. A look I’ve only seen a few times.
She was starting a new job the next day. The day after was Tuesday. My mom called my uncle and asked him to pick me up from school and make me disappear. She didn’t want to know where I was. All she wanted was that my dad didn’t take me back to that house.
The few weeks and months after that were a blur. I remember filling out a report at the police station. I remember hearing my mother crying in her room. I remember my dad calling and refusing to talk to him. I remember feeling like everyone’s misery was my fault. Everyone’s pain…. Was caused by me.
Soon after my mom and step dad divorced. We moved and my sister moved in with my dad. She couldn’t handle the emotional roller coaster that was me. And honestly, I don’t blame her. I was a ticking time bomb. I was angry and crying and silent. I was a mess.
I started therapy and got a little better. She helped me understand that none of what happened to me was my fault. She helped me understand that I was not to blame for anything, and speaking out was the RIGHT thing to do.
My step brother was given a lie detector test and passed it. Therefore he was innocent. The scars I have on my legs from a shovel disagree. The pain and anxiety I deal with 15 years later disagree.
I did not see my father for four years. My decision. No one else’s. I remember my mom telling me that the court mandated family counseling for my dad and I. With the man who said I ruined his family. With the man who let a child who wasn’t his abuse his flesh and blood. With the man who didn’t believe a word I said.
I remember the smell of her office. I remember the sounds. I remember the anxiety. I remember not wanting to go and begging my mom not to make me go. The sessions got us no where. All it got me was crying and remembering all of the bull shit and the pain.
Eventually I agreed to start going to dinner with him once a week so I didn’t have to deal with more therapy. It gave me the chance to eat out and I avoided tough conversations.
I am now 24. I have a beautiful 5 year old child who I love more than life itself. I have survived. I’m a survivor. I survived. I still deal with a ton of depression. I still deal with anxiety. I still look over my shoulders because I’m scared he will be behind me. I Feel like my past hurts a lot of my relationships. I either trust way too much or not enough. I feel like I’m broken. I feel like I will never be a whole person.
My step brother took so much from me. He took my innocence. He took my youth. He took my vivid and wild life and turned it to a life of anxiety and pain. He took an innocent child and turned her into a complete disaster. He broke me in ways no person should ever be broken. And her did it just because he could.
I was an object of hate. I was his outlet for the pain his father caused him. His father was a piece of shit. So honestly I don’t blame him for having anger issues. Was what he did to me okay? Never. Do I understand why he did it? Yes. Because I do it too. When people get to close I sabotage it. I can’t tell you how much I put my mother through. I have said some horrible things to her, and everyone else in family. There was a point in time where I took everything out on the wonderful men in my family. The uncle who rescued me. The uncle who would have given anything to see me smile again. My grandfather, who was nothing but supportive and loving. My grandma. I literally hated everyone.
Would I abuse anyone? Hell no. But I understand why he did it. The same feelings of hate he has for his dad, I have for him. I understand. And I forgive him. I do not forgive what he did to me. I do not forgive the way he made me feel. I do not forgive how I currently feel. But I get it. I understand that pain.
At this point, my family has become everything to me. My mother and grandmother are two people I wouldn’t have made it without. I can’t imagine the pain I put them through. I am happy to say that they have forgiven me for all the uncalled for bull shit I did.
I am stronger than I ever thought possible. I still deal with lingering effects, but I’m damn strong. I’ve made it through hell. I have scars. I still have open wounds. But damn it… I made it. I made it.