, , , , , , , , ,


So it didn’t take long for the groping and fondling to turn into my would be stepfather taking off my clothes and putting his hands all over me and eventually inside of me. He frequently (read that almost nightly) woke me up at night out of my sleep by lying next to me and pulling up my nightgown, sliding his fingers into my vagina and masturbating over me. He would tell me, “This is what people do when they love each other. It feels good doesn’t it?”

I was frozen. My throat filled with a lump of fear and confusion. I didn’t know what I was feeling, I just knew that no one ever told me about this and no one else ever did anything like this to me. Is this what all of my friends did? Is this what a daddy does because this man was going to become my daddy and did that mean this was how it was supposed to be? I was 8 years old. Up until now I had explored my nether regions on my own but got no feelings from them that would have ever lead me to believe that this was okay. This couldn’t be okay. Something told me this wasn’t okay. I pushed his hand away and whined, as usual. And as usual, he forced himself on and into me harder jerking off until he came over my nightgown.

What.Was.That.Stuff? He would actually cuddle with me afterwards and tell me that this was love and love feels good and soon he will get me to show him how much I love him. I was so preoccupied with the stuff he got all over my nightgown that after he left my room and I ran into the bathroom and washed it off, sick to my stomach at how bad this felt.

They weren’t even married yet. He wasn’t even living with us yet. He just stayed over all of the time. Then one day my mum told me we were moving to a house to live with him. I cried. A lot. I didn’t want to be in his house. This was our house and as long as I was here, this was ours and not his. Now it felt like this would be his house. This new house that he would probably pay for was his house. Not ours. Not mine. He tried to get me excited about moving by telling me how great it would be to have my own big bedroom. Up until this point we were living in the projects and my bedroom was small. I didn’t care. It wasn’t my house. My house was where me and my mum lived, not me, my mum and some guy who makes me sick and confuses me. And hurts me. He kept telling me how good it felt but it hurt. He told me if I didn’t fight him it wouldn’t hurt. Around this time he started to make threats.

“You can’t tell anyone about this, not even your mommy okay?”

“If you tell anyone they will take you away from your mommy and you’ll never see her again.”

Then one day I told him that I knew my real dad. (I did but not well, I maybe at this point spent 4 days total in my life with him) He told me, “You know why your real dad left right? Because you are ugly and he didn’t want an ugly daughter. But I think you’re pretty, okay? I wouldn’t do that to you. I like to make you feel good, okay? So don’t tell anyone.”

Then we moved into that fucking house in that tiny village which was far away from my friends and family. Cumbola. I fucking hate that place. If I could I would burn that fucking village to the ground and the village never did anything to me. It is what he did to me in that village that made me hate it. And it got worse when we moved there. Much worse.

There is a photo of me from the first year that we lived there. I’m wearing a white shirt with a rainbow on it. I was 8 or 9 (yes, that is how soon they decided we should move in with him) and I should have been happy. Rainbow happy. My face looks blank and emotionless. I look like I already hate life. It was already too late for me emotionally and psychologically. And there were about ten years left to go for him to abuse me emotionally and psychologically. Let’s just imagine how much worse it is going to get. This was also about the time that it got harder for me to make friends because I started to isolate myself. 9 years old and I was withdrawing from the world. And I would be blamed by all of the adults for the rest of my life for being a loner, not wanting to participate, being miserable, holing myself up in my room, not wanting to get along with other kids, being negative and not knowing how to have a good time.

“Why can’t you play and have fun like the other kids!?”