Love or Lust?

May 12, 2011
By Anonymous

So how do I begin this awful tale of love and lust, mixed together so perfectly that even he couldn’t tell the difference? I was about 4, barely out of diapers when the abuse began, the sexual abuse anyways for the physical abuse had been going on since I was born. I don’t exactly remember how it started or what caused him to take me into the bathroom and strip me of my precious clothing. At first I thought I was getting a bath, nothing new right?-Wrong! Instead he started up the bath, locked the door and started touching me… and eventually did something that caused me so much pain. I think I started to cry but he held his hand over my mouth and even under the water for a while until I nearly passed out. Luckily I don’t remember anything after that, and honestly I don’t want to. But somehow I survived it.
This cycle continued on and off for years until I was 6, that’s when things got really nasty, I remember laying naked on top of my tiny twin sized bed looking up at my father and one of his friends, their eyes glistening with lust. I remember my father lying on top of me, naked while his friend watched. That was his thing, having other men watch or even participating in the act. It wasn’t till year’s later when I fully understood what had happened and how it would affect me for years to come… Along with the sexual abuse with my father, he also had a temper. He would hit me, my mom who at the time was very deep in her depression to realize what was going on with me… and even my other younger siblings.
I was basically a sex toy for my father and his friends-and sadly even his drug dealers. My father was deep into crack cocaine and something else, what I still don’t know, nor do I wish to know. I’m just lucky I never caught anything from him or his pals… Well lucky for him too. Could you imagine how embracing it would be to go to the clinic with his young daughter and find out she has an STD, when she should still be a virgin? Hmm, sometimes I wish I had caught something, just so that the truth could have come out earlier and prevented what came next.
After what happened when I was six my father started getting more aggressive about the sexual encounters. He started to choke me during the act, and even to the point where I passed out. At one point he started hitting me, at first on the ass, but then on the chest, leg and even the face but he soon stopped after people started asking questions. He always blamed it on how clumsy I was but we both know the truth. The sexual acts ended around the time I was 10, the same time I became depressed and got kicked out of my elementary school due to racism since I was Hispanic and the new principle was white and hated that fact that my father was Mexican.
Soon after being kicked out, the sexual abuse stopped. Allowing my fragile mind to block and even erase some of the abuse. But the physical and mental abuse got worse, far worse. I became quiet, and even sometimes I was just a guardian for my younger siblings. Nothing more. Nothing less. I felt like the only reason for my existence was to keep him from touching them, and being my mom’s only friend who she would constantly cry to about her problems, about his abuse. I remember lying in bed every single night praying to god, a god, any god for me to die. For my death to be a blessing to my family and make this pain go away. I even started cutting to control my emotions, to control my pain. I wanted to die because at the time I honestly believe it was my entire fault. That the only reason my parents were fighting was because I was a f*** up, a failure in their eyes. Which wasn’t true at the time, but later on it soon came to be true.
When I was 13, 3 years since my father had touched me sexually, my mom decided she had enough and filed for divorce. I remember standing by my mom’s pink mustang, watching the police officers lead my dad across the street towards his mom’s house. I had to hold my little sister who was maybe 6 at the time, as she cried for him to come back. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched my abuser cry empty promised to her, promises that he loves her and he’ll never leave her. Promises he couldn’t keep. Promises I didn’t want him to keep. Soon after that I started acting out for the first time. I became more violent towards everyone, going so far as to physically abuse my younger siblings. It became worse when my mom was trying to be friends with my father, and had him around all the time. I was a complete spoiled brat or so my mom had called me not understanding why I was in pain. I couldn’t even be in the same room as him, but no one could understand or take the time to. I was becoming more depressed, to the point where I tried to kill myself, when I was left home alone one night, while everyone else went and got something to eat and I wasn’t allowed to come because I was acting out. Which I hope they regret it the moment the truth comes out. I swallowed a handful of my Allergy meds hoping It would kill me, but as soon as I realized what I’ve done I went straight to the toilet and forced myself to vomit up the pills. At the only person who knows about that is my mom, but it took me years to tell her and even then at the time I didn’t understand why I felt that way.
Right around the time my mom kicked my biological father out, I started having nightmares of having sex, and being raped by my father. At first I tried my best to avoid it but it soon started becoming the only thing on my mind. To make things worse If I wasn’t dreaming about being raped by him I was dreaming about crawling into bed with my siblings and touching them, using them to fulfill my own sexual needs. I hate myself for thinking it, dreaming it and sometimes how I wanted to go into my brother’s room so badly and touch him, or have him touch me, but I didn’t. I was able to control myself. I know I should go to counseling for it, which I will but as time went on the need to do this faded. I just glad I was strong enough to resist that sickly desire. That I didn’t turn into the monster that hurt me…
Around May of last year was when I lost track of who I was and what I wanted for myself. I didn’t care about anything or anybody. I would spend days at hotel room with random guys for money, beer and cigarettes. At first I wasn’t really concerned about catching an STD or anything of its nature, but as time went on and I met someone who I started to care about I began scared. I didn’t want to have an STD or anything. I didn’t stop at first, but I started being more careful about it, using condoms. I don’t know how to explain the feeling I got when a stranger would buy me something I want, when I gave them my body to do as they please. I felt like I was in control but as I look back now I realized I wasn’t. If I refused, they could have easily over-powered me. They could have killed me if they wanted. I’m lucky in so many different ways.
I’m just glad, that my boyfriend took an interest in me and wasn’t afraid to help me through that. Though this. If it wasn’t for him loving me and accepting me for things I wasn’t even able to accept about me, but he changed me. He made me realize that I was worth so much more than a cheap pack of beer or a 5 dollar pack of cigarettes. He taught me how to love, and what it was like to be loved, really loved. Ironically we started out as a one night stand, but he feel in love with me and didn’t want to watch me walk down the road I was going, I remember a week or two after he gave me his old phone, I ended up in a hotel room, with this Mexican guy, and I guess the whole night he kept calling me, freaking out. But I guess when I woke up enough to shut the phone off, he knew I wasn’t dead and was finally able to sleep, but I felt like s*** for the next week because of it. If it wasn’t for him, caring about me, for loving me I guess I’d probably be in a cheap hotel room right now, or dead.
I’m 17 now, pregnant with my own child and I can’t help but look back and wonder what makes a person do that to their little girl? I still don’t see it and I doubt I'll ever will but at least I came out of it alive. I know this might sound strange but I don’t have any hatred towards my father regarding the sexual and physical or even emotional abuse he caused me, since it’s possible he suffered from abuse at a young age to, but I do hate him for hurting my younger siblings. It’s one thing if he ruined my childhood, but they’re innocent still or have a chance to come out of this stronger than I could have ever had. I plan to start counseling as soon as I can, and I’m currently trying to charge my father with this. I’m not doing this for me though; I’m doing this to get my siblings out of his custody and to prevent him from hurting them farther with the abuse. And I hope in the long run they’ll see that all I’m trying to do is help them, and not hurt them.
Thank you for reading this.

The author's comments:
This is a short version of my life and what I've had to deal with, and i hope that it'll with help others whose dealing or has delt with abuse...

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