Survivors United

My mother met my father when she was 15 years old and he was 18 years old. He was her first boyfriend and they were very much in love. My grandmother was/is an evil woman and she didn’t approve of their relationship. My grandmother physically and emotionally abused my mother; she also isolated her from friends, family, etc. My mother was forced to break up with my father. Five years later my mother and my father found each other again and spent the weekend together. Unfortunately, my mother had a fiancé and my father was married. A twist of fate however, had them meet again. This time, my mother was single and my father was separated. They spent the night together and my mother conceived; I was the product of a one-night stand. My parents didn’t remain together because my father decided to try and work things out with his wife for the sake of his two children. Neither of my parents knew I was on the way. My mom didn’t let my father know he had a daughter; she didn’t want him to know because she didn’t want to break up my dad’s marriage. Little did she know, that his marriage was over even without his knowledge of my existence. My mother gave her cousin a picture of me, her cousin knew my paternal grandparents and noticed that I looked like my father, so she gave my grandparents my picture. My grandparents then showed the picture to my father who later contacted my mother. My dad wanted to meet me, so my mother set up a time for him to come and visit.

I was 3½ years old when I first met my father. When I think back to my earliest memory, what I remember is the day I met my dad for the first time. I remember he was deafly pale and fit. He gave me a white stuffed teddy bear and a navy blue baseball cap. He sat me on his lap and gave me a long hug. After spending some time with me, he gave me a wallet sized photo of himself and left. My parents decided to give their relationship another go and they have been together ever since.

I don’t have many early childhood memories, but the ones I do have, are really detailed. When I was 4 years old, I remember seeing my father leave for hours at a time. He would come home dazed with a paranoid look on his face. He would be high on crack. My father would close all the blinds and frequently look out the window. He would hide the knives under his mattress and constantly pace the room back and forth. When I was 5 years old, my mother was pregnant with a baby girl. My dad came home angry one day. He didn’t have enough money to a buy a rock, so he was arguing with my mother, demanding that she give him some money. She didn’t have any and he was furious, so he pushed her and she fell on the bathroom floor near the toilet. He continued to kick her while she was holding her belly. He ended up breaking her pinky finger. This particular incident happened when we were living in Puerto Rico. That was the first of many instances in which I witnessed my father hit my mother. I would soon become a victim of physical violence, but until then I had just been an onlooker.

My father would always call me names. He called me the following: Fat, ugly, big ears, squeaky, stupid, whiny, cry baby, etc. He would tell me to fuck off. He would call me dumb ass, bitch, retard, asshole, motherfucker, son of a bitch and other obscenities.

He would always tell me that I was good for nothing, that I was smart in school only and nowhere else, that he didn’t like me, that he wished I wasn’t a girl, that a guy would never like me because guys only liked pretty, skinny girls and that my opinions didn’t matter. He would say that I was a piece of shit, that I was useless and lazy.

He made fun of my voice, he made fun of the way I spoke, the way I walked, the way I styled my hair, the way I wrote, the way I grabbed my pen and pencil, the way I grabbed my fork and spoon and the way I held my cup. I had to grab it the way he wanted me to or else I would be yelled at or hit. He didn’t care when I showed him my certificates or my homework with good grades on it. He never accepted any of my homemade cards and every time I gave him a store bought card, he would throw it away. Every time I tried to have a personal conversation

with him and tell him how bad he made me feel, I would inevitably start to cry. As soon as I started to cry he would say I was stupid for crying and brush me off. He would always act as if my problems were unimportant. He used to tell me that all of the arguments he had with my mother were my fault. He argued with my mom for the way she treated me. He always told her she was too nice to me and that she thought I was made of gold. He told her that she might as well put me inside her ass.

My dad used to shove me, push me, pull my hair, slap me in the face, punch me, kick me, bite me, hit me with various objects, throw things at me, and lock me in the closet. He used belts, broomsticks, spoons, and the TV remote to hit me. Sometimes he hit me for no reason just because I was simply in his way.

When I was 5 years old, my dad was in the living room and yelled at me for something (I can’t remember exactly what I did) and I talked back. He proceeded to walk towards me with the intention of slapping me in the face. My mom stepped in the way and pulled me back. As we were making our way to my bedroom, my dad picked up his size 13 dress shoe and threw it at me. The shoe landed on my face and broke my lip. My mom tried to prevent the shoe from hitting me and she hurt her hand in the process. My mom then took me to the bathroom to clean me up while my dad continued to yell in the background. When I saw my reflection in the mirror, I noticed that my lip was really swollen.

When I was 7 years old, I got out of school and my parents weren’t outside. I waited by the school entrance for a long time. My mom’s friend, who was also our neighbor and a fellow church member had a daughter that was my age. She saw that no one had come to pick me up and decided to wait a while with me. After some time, she offered me a ride. My parents knew and trusted her and so did I. I figured it would be okay to accept the ride, since we waited almost an hour for my parents and no one had arrived. I later found out that the reason why no one went to pick me up was that my parents had gone grocery shopping and were running late. So they called my grandmother and asked her to pick me

up. When she arrived at the school, she got lost and didn’t know at what entrance to get me. By the time she found the right entrance, I was already on my way home. When I got home my grandma was crying in a corner because she thought I was lost. My mom hugged me and kissed me while my dad was yelling at me. My dad was really angry and began to hit me with the belt over and over again.

This happened when I was 7 years old as well. I had a habit of biting my nails whenever I got nervous. My dad hated it and he was tired of seeing me bite my nails. He would constantly yell at me to stop; he would even hold my hands flat on the table, while he punched my fingers. One day he caught me biting my nails and he finally had it. He told me that there was only one thing he could do to make me stop. That’s when he grabbed my hands and cut my nails so far in, the tips of my fingers were red, raw and stinging. He then rubbed my fingertips with hot peppers and poured hot sauce all over my hand. My hands got red, swollen and started to burn. My hands were burning so much that I couldn’t stand it. So, my dad told me to put my hands in cold water. He brought over a pot full of cold water and raw chicken. He then had me submerge my hands in the pot. I remained with my hands under water for a couple of hours.

Once, I complained about my dad’s cooking; I didn’t like the taste of it. He got mad and served me an extra-large portion on purpose. He said I had to eat it the whole thing or else he would hit me. I ate more than half of the food on my plate, but I started feeling sick and I couldn’t eat anymore. I threw up on the kitchen floor because I didn’t make it to the bathroom in time. My dad was furious with me and started yelling and cursing at me. He told me to clean up the mess with my tongue. I didn’t think he was being serious; I figured he was saying a bunch of nonsense because he was mad. I was wrong. I went to the cabinet and grabbed the bottle of Pine Sol along with some paper towels. When he saw me coming with the stuff in my hands he said, “What are you doing? Didn’t I tell

you to clean it up with your tongue? Hurry up and clean it!” I began to cry and kneeled down near my mess. As I was about to scoop it up, my mom walked in and yelled at my dad. She told me to go to my room. While I was walking away, I saw him push my mother and he told her to never butt in when he was correcting me. She ended up cleaning my mess.

Once, my dad tied my mom and I together with a string and we had to remain like that for about an hour. He put a string around her waist and around mine. Then he tied a string of about 2 feet long and connected us together. My mom turned it into a game so that I wouldn’t feel bad. I sure didn’t find it fun, but mom did her best.

I was 13 years old. One day my dad was making fun of me for kicks. I was walking by the kitchen to go to my parents’ room and my dad took a dirty, smelly sock and put it on my face. He pushed it inside my mouth and started to ridicule me. At that time, my father was also molesting me and I thought in my head…

I didn’t think beyond that; I looked up at my father’s face and he was laughing loudly. I was filled with rage; I walked up to him and punched him with all of my might right on his face. He looked stunned; he had a delayed reaction, but then he charged at me ready to strike me. I stood there motionless, willing to receive whatever punishment he deemed reasonable. I knew I had done something terribly wrong and I felt I deserved to get hit. I flinched getting ready for the pain, but my mom stepped in front of me. He slapped her in the face; I pushed her out of the way. With my mom out of the way, he punched me on my head. My mom moved in front of me again and pushed him away. He pushed her back and then slapped me in the face. He was going to hit me one more time, but my mom yelled, “That’s enough!” He hit her instead, then walked away. My nose got red and swollen and my head was tender for days. I thought the pain was worth it though, it felt real good to finally hit him back for once. My mom was angry at me for hitting him, she said what had just happened was my fault for disrespecting him. I explained to her that it wasn’t my intention to hit him; I just felt this overwhelming rage and I didn’t think. I shocked myself that day; I didn’t think I had that in me.

My dad showed me pornographic movies and told me intimate details of his sexual life. He asked me several personal questions, here’s an example:

He kissed me on the lips, he showed me his penis and his anus. He made me touch his penis, he fondled my breast and my vaginal area. He also had dry sex with me, although he never penetrated me.

When I was 5, my mom went to the grocery store and left me with my dad. He was sitting on the couch when he called me over. He picked me up, sat me on his lap facing him, he gave me a kiss on each cheek, and then kissed me on the lips. It wasn’t just a peck, it was longer than that and I felt his tongue on my lips. He then told me not to tell my mom and until this day I haven’t told her.

When I was 8 years old, my mom worked at a pizza shop as a cashier until 2:00am. It was Friday night and I didn’t have to go to sleep early so my dad told me to go to his room and sit down next to him. He had ordered a porn movie from the Spice channel on Cable TV and we watched two scenes. Those two scenes are as vivid in my mind today as they were the day I originally saw them.

A blond female and a brunette male couple were making out in the front seat of a blue convertible. They started to perform oral sex on each other and then continued to have intercourse.

A group of women of different ethnicities were naked inside a Jacuzzi. A Caucasian female started to perform oral sex on an African American female. The scene wasn’t done when my dad told me to lie down…

…I did as I was told not knowing what was going to happen next. I remember I was wearing a white blouse with thin blue vertical lines and snap on buttons. He began to unbutton each button one by one and then started to stroke my

nipples with the middle finger of his right hand. I told him to stop, but he didn’t. I told him to stop again, this time a little louder, he still didn’t. I yelled at him a third time and this time he stopped. He got up from the bed and went outside to smoke a cigarette.

While he was outside, I sat up and buttoned up my shirt. I remained sitting on the bed; I was confused. When my dad came back in, he told me not tell my mom because then he’d have to move away. “You don’t want me to move away, right?” He asked. I didn’t want him to move away; I loved him. So, I didn’t tell anyone until I was 10 years old.

I was 10 years old. I was confused, I didn’t know if what my dad had done to me 2 years ago was considered molestation or not. I thought of asking my mom a theoretical question, but I decided against it. Then I thought about making up a fictional story on the news, I figured that wouldn’t work either. Ultimately, I just told her that a friend at school told me what happened to her and I wanted to know if that was considered molestation or not. Then I asked her the following:

(Silence)

And that is exactly what I did.

When I was 12 years old, my dad began fondling my breasts on a regular basis. Every time I walked by my dad---if my mom wasn’t looking---he’d pin me to the wall and touch my breasts. Other times, he would just sneak into my room.

One night, the house was really hot, so we gathered all of our quilts and threw them on the living room floor. We put all of the fans in the living room and we all slept together on the floor. My mom was sleeping to the right of me and my younger brother was sleeping to the left of me. My dad was sleeping above us. When he noticed everyone was sleeping, he began to fondle my breasts with his feet. That’s the first time I remember dissociating. I remember seeing what was happening as if I were floating on the ceiling. I didn’t feel any emotions and I pretended as if nothing were happening. I was thinking about how hot it was and about what I was going to do the next day.

My mom had gone out earlier that morning and I was home alone with my dad. I was lying on the couch---I remember I was wearing black shorts and a white T-shirt---and my dad walked towards me with two blue wet sponges and threw them at my breasts. I wasn’t wearing a bra so naturally, my nipples were visible. I tried to sit up, but my dad lay down on top of me. He started stroking my breasts and he put his hands on my buttocks, all while he was laughing. All of a sudden he just got off and went back to the kitchen.

I was 13 when he first started to fondle my genital area. One night, he came into my room in his underwear; he slipped his hands under the covers and began to fondle my breasts. I pretended to be asleep and then started to toss and turn to make him leave. He didn’t leave, instead he placed his hand on my thigh. His hand went inside my shorts, then inside my underwear. With his middle and index finger, he began to stimulate my clitoris. I was shocked, in disbelief and confused. I froze; I tried to move and I couldn’t. I tried to speak, but no voice came out. When he was done and he left, I began to cry. The next day, I didn’t tell anyone and then, night after night, he would do the same thing. I was angry at myself for not telling anyone; after a few nights, I thought it was too late. I

couldn’t tell my mother because I felt it had been my fault since it had happened a few times. I was also disgusted with my body. I became aroused when he touched me and I told myself over and over again, that I didn’t like it. It was no use; I felt betrayed by own body.

One night while my dad was fondling me, I felt pain. I jerked and he removed his hand. I figured he would leave, but he didn’t and he put his fingers back in. The next day I checked my underwear, but there was no blood so I felt relieved; He hadn’t penetrated.

Every time my mother wasn’t home, my father would throw me on the bed face down. He would then lie down on top of me. He would thrust against me and I would feel his erection. That was one of our dry sex sessions.

One time, my father was taking a shower. He called out my name and asked me

to go to the bathroom. I figured he had left his towel in the bedroom, so I took him a towel, but when I walked in he was standing in the bathtub stark naked. He was smiling at me while he had his penis in his hand. He asked me if I wanted to touch it. I said no and left.

One afternoon, my father was sitting on the couch sporting his new black jeans. I was sitting next to him and he grabbed my hand. He placed my hand on top of his crotch, I tried to wiggle it free, but he wouldn’t let go.

Once I was walking out of my room just as my dad was coming in. He pushed me onto my bed. He pinned me to the bed with his body and held my arms above my head. He spread my legs apart and lay on top of me. I tried to get him off me, but he was too strong. I started crying, then he said, “What are you going to do now, huh? Nothing right?” He had a smirk on his face and then he got off the bed. As he was leaving he said, “Don’t get scared, I’m not going to do anything.” Then he laughed.

I started apologizing over and over, so my mom hugged me and told me it wasn’t my fault. After what seemed like an eternity, my mom went to talk with my dad. She asked him why he did what he did and his answer was, “I wanted to know if she had sexual urges. I was stupid; I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to treat girls.” My mom then called me over and asked me if I could forgive him. I said yes and I gave him a hug and a kiss. Then an hour later we all went to bed as if nothing had happened, although my mother slept with me that night and then slept on the couch for the rest of the week.

The next day, my dad and I went outside to throw out some trash and as we were making our way down the stairs he glared at me while saying, “I can’t believe you told your mother I touched your vagina!”

I managed to go on like nothing ever happened because after that night he never touched me again. One day when I was 15, that all changed. My dad was sitting on the couch and as I was walking by him, he tripped me. I fell on his lap and he started tickling me, then he started touching my breasts. I had a flashback of all the things he did; they were like moving pictures in my head. I freaked out and pushed him; I went to my room and locked the door. I started sobbing and shaking uncontrollably. For the next week, I kept remembering things and began to have nightmares. I started having panic attacks at school and I was completely paranoid. I couldn’t take it and I went through a downhill spiral.

I remembered that during the time my father molested me, it got to the point where I purposely instigated the abuse at times. I made it easier for my dad to molest me. I would ask to stay with my dad when my mom went out, I would sleep in my underwear, I would take naps with him and I would leave the door unlocked while I showered. While he was molesting me, he was nicer to me. He wouldn’t hit me and he would rarely yell at me. I thought that having him molest me was worth it because he was acting like the dad I had always wanted. Other times, the fear and the uncertainty were so overwhelming that I wanted him to stop taunting me. If he was going to rape me, I wanted him to do it already; I wanted him to stop playing head games with me. This tore me up inside, part of

me believed I had no choice, but another part believed that I provoked him because I liked it. I felt sick, disgusting, guilty and immoral.

guy. I was discouraged and more depressed than ever. I started wearing baggy jeans and extra large T-shirts. I stopped wearing make-up and I always wore my hair up in a ponytail. I started smoking pot, but I stopped soon after. Not long after my second makeover, guys stayed away from me and I liked it that way.

After my memories resurfaced at age 15, I began to take pain killers and sleeping pills to numb myself. I also started mixing the pills with alcohol. I started drinking all types of hard liquor. I battled an addiction to pain killers for 8 months. I was clean for 11 months, then I had a relapse that lasted a week. I had another relapse in October of 2004 and another in October and November of 2005. I have been clean since November 5, 2005.

By the time I was 16, depression had taken its toll on me. I started having frequent crying spells and I was completely isolated. Lack of concentration got in the way of my performance at school and I had a mental breakdown. In the middle of class I started crying, my teacher called my guidance counselor and asked him to take me to the nurse. The nurse then had my parents take me to a psychiatrist. I was given Lexapro and Trazedone; I only took them for a week and I stopped all treatment.

In December of 2004, my dad was incarcerated for Theft II and an assault charge. He was sentenced to 14 months in jail. With him gone; I experienced a peace I had never known. I managed to get better by repressing all of my feelings again. I graduated high school with excellent grades in June of 2005 and I started seeing another psychiatrist in July of 2005 who put me on Zoloft and Seroquel; my diagnostic…Dysthymic Disorder and Severe Depressive Disorder. I started seeing a therapist shortly thereafter.

I started college in the August of 2005. In October of 2005, I had a mental breakdown. It started with nightmares, severe panic attacks and random dissociate episodes. I could no longer concentrate at school and had to withdraw for the semester. I always prided myself in being outstanding in academics. When I couldn’t even do that, I lost it and I broke down. I went to the bathroom and started cutting, then I slipped into a psychotic episode in which I literally felt myself slip from reality. I started hearing sounds and had a warped sense of time. I felt that I was slowly falling down an abyss.

After that, I continued cutting as a means of relief from sadness and anger. I wasn’t ready to face what my dad had done to me yet. In the meantime, my therapist and I worked on getting over my social fear and my panic attacks reduced dramatically. I also learned self soothing techniques and safe alternatives to cutting.

After I disclosed the abuse, a lot of my present behaviors began to make sense. I also began to experience triggers more often and the anxiety returned. I had a very negative view of myself, I would not let myself say “NO” to others, I wasn’t able to accept any criticism, I was full of guilt and I was always jumpy. I now had an additional diagnosis; PTSD. During this time I was really depressed and I tried to commit suicide three times.

A week prior to my dad’s release from prison, I tried to commit suicide a fourth time. I took an entire bottle of Seroquel and drifted off to sleep. My mom found me and called an ambulance. I was given charcoal and admitted to the Psychiatric ER Unit overnight. My mom called my therapist and let her know what I did. My therapist then called OCS (Office of Children Services) and had them call my house. My dad wasn’t allowed to move back in the home, so he moved in with a friend. We were living in Alaska and my mother, brother, and I moved to Tucson, AZ on October 5^th, 2006. On October 30^th, my dad stayed with us to spend Thanksgiving with us. He left back to Alaska on December 1^st.

I am currently on Lexapro and Seroquel. I was on Paxil CR and on Zoloft but they gave me side effects. I was taking 200mg. of Seroquel, I began to taper off until I was only taking 25mg. but I wasn't able to sleep so now I'm back on 50mg. and it's helping. Tapering off my medication shows some improvement. I no longer have nightmares. I no longer have frequent panic attacks. I am able to

approach others and I can go out alone.

I still have days when I get nervous at the thought of having to go out or talk on the phone, but I no longer let it take over. I still experience triggers but not as often as before. After experiencing a trigger, I can go on as normal as opposed to before when I would get a full blown panic attack. I can now identify and minimize my triggers. I still have a very hard time standing up to others, but on a few occasions I have stood up for myself and it felt liberating. I still experience dissociative episodes from time to time. Everyday I find a way to keep myself grounded more often and the episodes last less time than before. I still have low self-esteem, but sometimes, I find myself arguing with the negative voices in my head. I have a few wonderful friends, but when it comes to anything more, I continue to have relationship issues. I can’t trust another person on such an intimate level. I have never been on a date and I yet I don’t

want to remain single. Allowing myself to be liked or loved by a significant other is an immense hurdle I have yet to jump over. I have also been doing some inner child work and have recently found my voice. I find that my voice gets a little louder with each passing day.

By telling my story, it is my wish to show others that they are not alone and that there is hope for a better and brighter future.