Have you ever held on to a secret your whole life and tried to ignore its existence?  Has it ever eaten at you to the point where you have nightmares about it even years later?  I live this life and I deal with the nightmares, the horrible flashbacks, and the memories I can never erase from my memory every day.  I’ve always been afraid to talk about it, and this is a downer post compared to my other posts, but this needs to come out.  I need to write about it to feel better on the inside for me, and me alone.

I was eight years old and my parents had just gotten a divorce.  They separated and my birth father lived in the house I’d grown up in from the moment I was brought home.  He was a horrible person.  He still is a horrible person.  He did things to me that a parent should never do to a child they claim to love.  I didn’t know what happened at the time and I thought that nothing had happened.  He would have me sleep in the bed with him, sometimes with just my panties on, and I didn’t think anything was wrong.  He’d snuggle with me, and I didn’t think that was wrong.  Until one morning I woke up with bloody panties.  I asked him why my panties were bloody and he told me that I must have put them on by mistake and that his girlfriend had started her period.  That’s why they were bloody and I had to pay attention to what I was putting on my body.

They weren’t stained from his girlfriend.  They were stained with my blood.  My father raped me at eight years old.

I didn’t put the pieces of the puzzle together until I was about eighteen years old and by that point it was too late for the doctors to see if there was any trauma to my vagina.  I began to think about why he would do such a thing to me and I remembered the night he threw me down the stairs when I was three years old.  He had tried to kill me then and when he and my mother brought me to the hospital so that I didn’t hemorrhage, my birth father wouldn’t let any doctor see me until they could tell him how much it would cost.  His pocket book was more important than me.

His hatred of me goes even further past that.  He hated me from the day I was born because I was born with a vagina.  He wanted a boy and he got a girl.  He raped me because he hated what I was and he wanted to hurt my mother.  I’ve tried, to this day to get past that part of my life.  I have tried to make peace with it with him, but when I told him I knew what happened he proceeded to turn ugly and grew violent and upset with me.  He even denied when he tried to do it again to me when I was sixteen.  He seemed to forget that I stabbed him in the leg that night when he was on top of me pulling his disgusting prick out.  I should have stabbed him there, but that would have been too cruel.

I don’t laugh when rape is brought up nor do I like any form of rape play or talk.  He wasn’t the only one to rape me.  I was raped again at sixteen, but this time it was by someone I thought I could trust.

My mom and step dad took me on a trip for Spring Break with their friends and their son.  Their son and I had been friends for a while before that and we had dated for a short while when we were thirteen.  One night they left us alone and to our own devices.  He decided to pounce and I had no defense whatsoever.  In an instant, I was walking out of the bathroom in the camper we were all staying in and he forced me to the bed in the back of the camper.  He threw me down on the bed, ripped my pajama pants off, and began to ram into my ass with ten hard thrusts.  He used no lube and I screamed in pain.  He threw his hand over my mouth and nose and cut off my air.  Right before I nearly passed out, he released inside of me and let me go.  He went about his business as if nothing had happened and I felt like a dirty whore after it was all said and done.

I remained friends with him up until a few days ago.  I never told my mother.  I never told anyone to be honest.  I didn’t want to be the one to ruin someone’s life because I let it happen.  I stayed quiet because I was scared and defenseless.  I felt as though everyone would turn against me and think me to be disgusting if I said anything.  The truth is that I should have said something, about my friend and about my birth father.  I never did tell my mother and I never will.  It would kill her too much inside to know what happened to me.

I live with a lot of baggage, but I try to trudge through it as best as I can.  Rape is no laughing matter.  I am a survivor and I continue to survive every day I am alive.