The Abuse Started in Adolescence

My dad had a workshop in the basement where he had pin up girls on the wall. He had playboy and Penthouse magazines in the cupboard that my brother and his friends would look at.

Around the time I was between 8-10, I walked down the stairs and found my dad watching a pornographic movie while having a meal. I was horrified. My father was so disrespectful to women and he constantly joked in a demeaning way in front of my mom and other women.

Dad would drink every day. And every Friday night he cashed his check and came home with his weekend alcohol supply. Dad would always be in a good mood. He would take a shower and his friends would start rolling in. He always smelled so good. In the beginning, it was exciting for me to see who would stop by; I liked having company. But as the weekend parties continued it became evident that my dad’s friends wanted to do inappropriate things to me.

My mom would usually stay upstairs and lose herself in her books, trying to ignore everything around her. I would hang downstairs trying to get my dad’s attention over his friends and his drinking. When I was between 8 and 9, I recall one of his friends pinning me down, laughing and holding my arms down while he tried to kiss me. I was kicking and screaming, telling him to stop as my parents watched. I couldn’t believe they weren’t helping me! Felling vulnerable, I spent many years pushing the bed across my bedroom door, afraid someone would come and hurt me. Because of my parents’ and my brother’s behavior towards me, I learned that I had no value. My mom never wanted me and I wasn’t worth being protected by my dad; I felt so unloved.

During middle school, my brother and I always came home to an empty house. The two neighbor boys would come over and try and kiss me, pin me down and they would force me to do inappropriate things with them. I was told not to tell or I would get beat up. I never told.

So, I would race home, grab all the hangers and pens in the house (my brother could open the door with a metal hanger or the ink stick of the pen), lock the bathroom door before by brother got home so he couldn’t beat me up. I would wait in fear as he banged on the door telling me to open it. Eventually he always found a way in. I would run through the house and try to get away as he threw knives at me. If I made it back to the bathroom the knives would be stuck in the door. He would beat me up! I didn’t tell because nobody stopped the other bad things that were happening to me. My mother always justified and made excuses for my brother’s behavior because he was her favorite; my dad was hard on my brother; I was dad’s favorite so I got the brunt of that from my mother.

 

Rhonda’s Blog

From Shame to Victory (PART 1)

Read PART 3 (My Broken Teens) HERE