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Writing a blog or a book or anything about abuse is kind of strange. I mean I could write it in a linear timeline sort of way but that really is difficult. I don’t remember my abuse in that manner. It remains with me in chunks of events. Time that revisits my memory far too often. I am sure I am not the only one who would do just about anything for those memories to just disappear. So there was this one time, after they were married, and my mother was still working, I believe. Before he made her quit her job and rely on him. (already showing the signs of a classic abuser) She wasn’t home. I was home and he had me upstairs. It didn’t start out that way, I remember being home from school and being in my room playing with something or probably reading. He came in and as usual pulled me with him to the other room to an extra bed. I sat there, brooding and moping, not wanting him to touch me but knowing there was nothing I could do about it. He fondled my chest, which was nothing at this point. He masturbated against my leg. Put my hand on his dick and tried to get me to do it for him, telling me that this was really nice. “Just do that…like that…see? That feels really good.”

I had no fucking idea what was happening. He pushed his fingers up underneath my shorts while he did this. My heart was racing and my brain felt like an explosion. The thoughts were so mixed up and my stomach was in knots and all I wanted was to run back to my room and hide from him and make him go away. These feelings were so confusing. What was this? Why was he doing this? And I still wondered if this was what other girls had to do. Even though my mother had caught him touching me before and I figured that meant it was wrong, he still did it. And since he still did it, I figured, in my little 9 year old brain that “Well I guess he’s allowed to do this, whatever this is.

So this goes on until he ejaculates against my leg. He kisses me. There is tongue. It was the most disgusting thing next to what he kept doing to my leg. He would forcefully hold my head there so he could kiss me like that. Then he slapped my hip and told me to go change my clothes. Of course I did, it was disgusting. What was that stuff all over me and why did it come out of where he pees? Do all boys have that happen? I thought they peed from there? That wasn’t pee.

So I changed and he took my clothes, the ones I just removed, panties and all and strewn them from the front door, through the living room and up the stairs towards the bedroom. He stayed in their room until my mum got home. I was in my room, laying on my bed, hugging this stuffed cat my uncle had got me. I heard her come in and I heard her gasp a little and say to herself, “What the….” as she followed the discarded clothing up the steps. When she got upstairs he started laughing. She asked him what was going on and he said, “Ha! You thought I was fucking her didn’t you?” And he laughed and laughed. My mum picked up the clothes and angrily started to yell at him, “This has to stop! This isn’t right!” As she threw the clothes into the hamper.

She checked on me in my room and of course I wasn’t saying anything, just lying there. She asked me if I was alright and I said yes. What else would I say? I had no idea what was happening. I was so confused. So so so so so confused. I don’t remember much more about that night. Eating dinner or brushing my teeth. Did I watch TV or just play in my room? I don’t know. It’s so funny how you remember the bad stuff more than the good or the ordinary.

This was around the time when I started to learn to dislocate myself from the present situation. I started to go elsewhere and turn off any show of emotion or any reaction. By now I’d been trying to fight him off for a year or so and it never worked. So that was it. Go somewhere else in my mind. Not be there. Don’t show him that you’re upset.

Completely surrender.