Abuse

I don't even know where to begin.  Past doctors and therapists have suggested that sexual abuse for me began while I was still in the crib.  There is no way to prove this of course.  I have been told that as an infant I threw bottles and refused anything that was put into my mouth.  I have a memory from a very early age.  My mother told me that I could not possibly remember *that* because I wasn't even quite 2 years old at the time.   But, I do remember.  I was standing at a window in an empty house and I was with my dad.  When I looked up, what I saw was a red haired long necked monster.  It scared me.  I described to my mother the scene of being in that house and left out the part about the monster.  She told me that I was describing the house we moved into before I was two.  She confirmed that my father had taken me with him to sign the papers for the house.  What I know now, and honestly, really wished that I didn't, was the red haired long necked monster I was looking up at was my father's erect penis.  When my therapist had asked me if I could draw the monster that I saw, I was pretty sure I could.  Then, I was shocked as hell at what I was staring at on the paper.  There was no doubt what that little girl me was looking up at.

For elementary school, I attended a special school of the arts.  I had my share of scraped knees and bruises like everyone else.  I also had more than my share of the sides of my mouth being split open.  Nothing about me is very big, including my mouth.  I was not physically able to do what was forced on me without coming away with my mouth split open.

How do we process things like this?  For myself, talking with a therapist helped some, when I was finally able to speak.  Writing helped me a lot more.  As soon as I knew what writing was, I took off with it.  I wrote my feelings, hopes and dreams, stories and poems.  Fear that someone would find them made me destroy everything after a few days.  Writing was a survival tool for me back then and morphed into a healing tool as well.

What I have learned over time is that abuse or abused does not define who I am.  Those things happened to me.  They may have tore up my body trying to pleasure themselves, but you know what?  They did not tear up my soul.  The very core of me somehow stayed together and I am proud of that.