June 15, 2006
Blog Carnival Child Sexual Abuse Survivor Story--Mine
I know it's hard to share the details of your personal survivor story. I'm finding it difficult myself, so I believe I will just share a couple of abuse accounts that I already have up on my dot com website, www.survivorscanthrive.com.
Please be careful! **TRIGGER WARNING for the FOLLOWING**
If you have DID, or some other type of dissociative disorder as I do (or PTSD), I recommend you read these accounts only while under the guidance of a trained mental health professional.
The Pink Towel
My twin sister and I had just finished taking our bedtime baths. I'm sitting on my bed, carefully smoothing down the pink towel that will protect my pillow from my wet hair during the night. But, there is no one to protect me from the night's inevitable sexual abuse.
I turn to see who has just entered the room. It's my father and he's already unzipped his trousers. He grabs me by the shoulders, turning me toward him and guiding my mouth over his penis. As my father begins to thrust, I close my eyes and my body vanishes. Only my ears remain; they are calmly listening to my sister and mother continuing the bedtime routine in the bathroom just across the hall. Mommy turns on the water in the bathroom sink. Sister brushes her teeth.
By the time my twin spits out the toothpaste, our father is finished. It has been quiet and "uneventful," this routine act of bedtime oral abuse. Tonight I have complied quietly and Daddy is happy. Only a small drop of semen has escaped from my mouth. My father smiles and wipes the little trickle from my cheek. He offers me his finger and I automatically, dutifully, lick it clean. It takes just a moment more for Daddy to slip the towel from my pillow, wipe himself off, zip up his pants and exit the room.
A split second later, my mother glides into the room like June Cleaver. Her cheerful, sing-song voice jolts me out of my dissociated stupor. "What did you do with your towel?" Mommy chides. She doesn't wait for an answer. "C'mon, hurry up and brush your teeth for bed." Unfortunately, my mother follows me into the bathroom. I brush my teeth with a sharp eye on the white porcelain of the sink. I hope I that I can be quick if I spit out a dark, curly hair, so I can flush it down the sink before Mommy sees.
"Please," I pray inside my head. "Don't let Mommy find out what I did with Daddy tonight. Please, God, don't let Mommy tell me what a bad, dirty, evil girl I am."
Copyright 2005 by Marj McCabe. All Rights Reserved.
A Fear of Plastic Shower Curtains
"I'm cold, Daddy," I whine. I'm standing, naked, on the little throw rug in the middle of the bathroom floor. "Come on in, then," says the voice behind the shower curtain. "The water's warm," my father informs.
I hate being cold. Cold equals fear. Showers mean fear, too. What should I do? I dread having to join my father in the shower, but I know I must delay no longer. If I don't hurry, Daddy will get mad, or at least jump out of the shower and twist my cold, hard little nipples.
I move forward and gingerly pull back the shower curtain as if it's made out of rotting flesh. As I step into the tub, my eyes dart around. Everything in here scares me: the smell of the plastic shower curtain liner; the feel of the cold, hard porcelain bathtub and metal plumbing fixtures; and most of all, the sight of my naked father, with his dripping wet penis and icky, matted pubic hair. I know he wants oral sex; I especially hate it in the shower. Daddy always stays right under the shower head. Between the water in my nose and his penis in my mouth, I'm always afraid I'm going to smother.
As soon as Daddy directs my head under the coursing water and toward his privates, I start to flail. My hair gets wet immediately, streaming into my eyes. Daddy pulls too hard and my nose plunges into the wet, sticky mass of hair around his penis. I start to panic and blindly grab for support to ensure my footing and help me get away. Even in my terror, I can remember how painful it can be to hit my head, arm or knee on the faucet, so I stay clear of that obstacle. But, the tub is slick and I'm going down. I remember this pain as well--red, stinging knees battered against the tub. I grope for the shower curtain to pull myself back up to standing. I hear a couple of the curtain's fasteners snap and fly off.
Up to this point, I've no idea what my father's reaction is to my panic. He has probably been simply regarding me with mild amusement. He is often amused by my terror. This time--I guess it is because I've damaged the shower curtain--Daddy is enraged. He grabs me by the throat and pulls me up to his face. His eyes are hot and bulging. "You think that's going to save you?" he demands. "You think this is safe, do you?" He drops me back down to the porcelain and snatches a handful of plastic curtain.
Daddy yanks me up by the throat again and thrusts my little body between the waterproof curtain liner and the outside fabric of the shower curtain. He takes a hand and pushes the plastic against my face. The water provides a seal and the waterproof fabric stays in place. I don't dare attempt to remove it. "There. How do you like that?" my father goads. He gathers the air-tight material close around my neck for further effect.
I do not respond or react in any way to his question; I don't even hear him anymore. Through the translucent fabric, my eyes fix on the bathroom window. A voice in my mind tells me, "Go to the light." And I am gone.
Copyright 2005 by Marj McCabe. All Rights Reserved.
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