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I was sexually abused by my step-father, and I'm pretty sure I was 7. Because that*s when I decided to be a lawyer and put all the bad people in jail. And I was going to be a lawyer right up until I was 16 years of age, by then, I knew that there was no real justice in the world. My first memory of it happening was sitting on his knee in the lounge. Watching television. We had always sat close, but this was the first time he had gotten me to sit on his knee. I remember that it really wasn*t very comfortable, but since he had a temper, I wasn*t going to say anything. For a while, sitting on his knee on the couch, became the foreplay. That*s when I knew that it was going to happen. I became an absolute expert at avoiding eye contact....because that was how he got me over to him. He couldn*t voice that he wanted me over there as that would have been too obvious to my brothers and sister (the kids), and he had already started to become sneaky. If I came into a room, I*d never make eye contact with him, I*d pretend to be absorbed in thought, or purposefully heading somewhere. If I was already in the lounge. I was totally engrossed in the television, aware that he was just sitting there watching me, waiting for my eyes to meet his. To this day, I can always tell when someone is watching me. The sitting on his knee eventually led, before too long, to touching and caressing. Just arms and legs and back....but caressing nevertheless. But it*s the bathroom that became a battleground. The place to avoid. He used to sit me on top of the bathroom cabinet, next to the taps....that was where he used to have sex with me. He*d put a towel underneath me - probably 2 reasons, because the surface was cold, and to stop any mess. I guess. I look back now at just how narrow that surface was, and it brings home to me, just how small I would have been. He used to use vaseline to make penetration more easier. I can*t remember the first time. But I do remember that he was so big that he used to split the top of my vagina. I constantly had that part trying to heal, and then the next time it would just split again. It was easily visible as I had no pubic hair, too young for it. I remember too when I was about 9, that I got thrush from the rubbing. I itched for ages before telling my mother, scared that she might figure out how I got it. I*d do a lot of things in my head with the bathroom thing...I*d zone out to somewhere different, or play games in my head. Once I even tried to time him to see, out of interest, just how long it took. But he saw me doing that via the mirror behind me....so I didn*t try that one again. So the games in my head were easier. I don*t think he took very long, a practised art I guess. It seemed not to last too long. He*d wipe me out afterwards, very gently, maybe he saw that sometimes my skin had split. I wonder if he ever felt bad about that? I guess now that I think about it, he had to make sure that he wiped me out properly because Mum did the washing, and would wonder what the mess was in my pants. The bathroom thing happened so often that I could not begin to count. It seemed as though it was every day. But surely it can*t have been? I tried every means possible to avoid being with him. The eye contact thing, coming home late from school, bringing people home even though I knew I wasn*t allowed, keeping busy away from areas where he would be, not sitting near him...all those things. Not that they really worked often. But I remember on a couple of occasions, by avoiding his eyes, I managed to get out of it. He only had a certain amount of time before Mum came home from work, so I knew that I had a time span to avoid him in. Didn*t work often though. It was a real period of control. I was taught at an early age by him, to respect authority. To not do so was risking being beaten. For many, many years, any adult, any at all, immediately got my subservience just for being an adult. Too bad if anyone else had wanted to try, they would have gotten away with it pretty easily, as I was taught not to question, because that was seen as answering back. And the result would have been a beating. If you've seen the New Zealand movie "Once Were Warriors" you'd know what I meant. The beatings were awful. So violent, so out of control. It was worse to watch. My beatings lasted until I was 12. I don*t know why I remembered that, but that was when I finally found some inner strength. My brothers were being terrorised. My youngest brother was nearly beside himself. My stepfather made the older brother of the two sit on the floor of his room with his arms and legs crossed. I don*t remember what it was over, but they were terrified. They was almost hysterical, but controlling it, just. I remember they were only little, small boys in their train/car pajamas, whatever they were. The older one didn*t cry, but he was terrified, I could see it on his face, and he keep flinching. I came down the passage to see what was going on. I knew he was mad, but again, I can*t remember what for. I was so scared of what he was going to do to them, I remembered my own beatings, so I knew they were in for a lot of pain. I felt so helpless, what to do? Risk getting a beating myself? What? I couldn*t stand it, they couldn*t go through that. I turned to him and told him quietly but with much hatred, to stop, or I was calling the police. He looked at me for a long time, and must have seen how much I meant it in my eyes. For I did mean it... I would have called the Police.....the anger was racing through me. He looked and looked at me....and then dropped his eyes. The unspoken thought from him (I now realise) was that he thought that I was insinuating about the sexual abuse. But that was furtherest from my mind. My priority was to stop him from hitting the boys. He looked at me again, and it was almost like an unwritten pact, that I didn*t call the police, the sexual stuff continued - and payment was that he would leave them alone. I was finally able to control. I was able to barter myself for the kids. I was used goods anyway, so it didn*t matter, nothing mattered as long as he left them alone. That day I felt that I prostituted myself...I had sold my body for my brothers and sister, and through no fault of their own, I began to hate them. I guess I abused them for that in my own way, I would smack them if they misbaved, an excuse to hurt them. After that, if he hit them, it wasn't around me - yet the sexual abuse continuted. I still have visions of my sister being hysterical and god, so afraid. You see people on television trying to get away from murderers with guns and knives, she was far worse than any movie character. She would be sobbing so hard that her chest would heave, and it would take quite some time for her to be able to calm down. Such a pretty child, she would be ugly from the tear stains on her cheeks, the bright red face from the exertion of so much energy crying, red puffy eyes. I can hear the terror of her screaming *no* as he used to hit her, and I wanted to kill him. Over the years the hatred built up. For him for doing this to us. For me, for not being able to stop it. I thought that it would stop if I only had the courage to say *no*...but of course, it*s never quite that easy. Not when the fear was long instilled. I will never forget the day that he split my head open. I was whining to Mum about something, and he came home in the middle of it. He went crazy. He hit me to the ground and started to kick me....and he then kicked me from the lounge, down the passage. At the bathroom (god I hate that room), I banged my head on the sharp bit where the door closes. I never felt a thing...but he stopped hitting me because blood was everywhere. My head had split open. Mum put me on her bed, sprayed some stuff on my head and tried to keep me calm. I don*t remember that it even hurt. I just remember the terror. The sheer *scaredness* that someone could be so violent. Mum told me that I wasn*t to tell what happened. I had to say that I was running down the passage, playing, when I fell and hit my head. That was fine by me, I didn*t want to share my humiliation with anyone else by telling them the truth. We went to the doctor, it was sown up, I told my lies, and it was all over. I was cosseted for a day, and that didn*t seem such a bad thing at the time. I remember that I got a lot of lollies out of it, so it seemed that I got rewarded, so there was no big deal. And I was a hero at school because everyone wanted to see my stitches. I still have the scar. Meantime, abuse continued. No wonder I didn*t fight it, the thought of the consequences was just too great. I remember lots of snippets of things. One is riding around in the front of the car, the three kids were asleep in the back. He was driving along masturbating. I tried to pretend that I hadn*t noticed anything, I didn*t want to have to get involved in that. But he saw me looking (I guess) and grabbed my hand and put it on his penis. He made me stroke him until we got to where ever we were going. Another time was when he and I had been out together somewhere, and he wanted to stop off somewhere and do it. This time it was *an uncle's* who is not even an uncle. He had a place in a street just around the corner from home basically. I remember that he had a key, and that the uncle was away, so we went there. I remember there wasn*t much time, so that was some consolation. The uncle had a waterbed, first time I had experienced that. I didn*t like it, but he did, so it didn*t take very long. Thank god for small mercies. I hated the uncle after that. For not being home. For giving him a key. For having a house that we could go to. We only ever went once that I remember - that was something I suppose. I've since found out that my stepfather also took my mother there, to try some kinky sex on the waterbed, a novelty back then. At night he used to sneak into my room. I shared with my sister until I was 18, so she was always there. I find it hard to believe she slept through each and every episode since there were so many, and that would have been a terrible burden for her. Sometimes at night I would have these terrible nightmares that a big black undetermined shape was trying to get into the door way of my room, and if it ever got in, and filled the room up, then I would die. The shape used to make it in quite a way, and it was so terrifying, so suffocating I used to feel ill. The shape, I know now, was my own emotions, threatening to overcome me. But I was too strong to allow that, and it never made it all the way in. I used to dream though, that I could float above the world, that up in the sky, nothing could get to me. And when I couldn*t fly much, I used to swim in the air to give me the motion I needed.....I could do anything, I could be anybody. Nothing could hurt me up there. The motion was so smooth and fluid, the flying so effortless, and the freedom, oh the freedom. Whenever I had dreams like that, I would feel great for the whole day afterward.....nothing quite like it. The abuse became part of my life, was just a normal part of the day. To go without it over a day or so, was bliss. He got sneakier as the kids got older, had to really not to arouse suspicion. Once he even did it to me in the toilet. Sometimes it was in the shower. I hated showers after the first time he did it there......especially as it was mostly just fondling which I really detested. All other times, it was full intercourse, always. Sometimes he would bring me down to his bedroom and have my head hard up against the door of the bedroom, in case someone came in. There were no locks on the doors. Once I remember one of the kids coming to the door while he was molesting me, and he never missed a beat. Carried on, and talked to them normally. I think they knew what was going on, but never wanted to fully realise it themselves. Sometimes he used to show me magazines and made me read the stories, so I did, took my mind off what he was doing.....a little. In particular he pointed out a story to me of a stepfather and stepdaughter who were having a relationship. He told me that that was just like *us* and that that was the sort of relationship we had. I didn*t believe him in my heart, but I wondered maybe if I was an active, willing (by not saying no) participant. And maybe we really were having an affair. I went out of my way to make sure Mum never found out....and why did I do that? I know now that it was because I knew how upset she would be. At the time, I thought it was my fault and she would hate me. Mum sat me down one time and taught me all about *the birds and the bees*. I cringed the whole way through it, and she thought it was because I was embarrassed. It was actually because I was humiliated by it all mostly. I already knew more than I should. Already had done all of that stuff. When I got my period I thought it was very exciting in a way, because it meant that I could have babies. To me, that meant that he would now have to stop or I would get pregnant. It was perfect. I wonder still if he read my mind as he told me one time soon after, that he had had an operation and that there was no way he could make me pregnant. I was devastated. And I was 12. It was about then that I started hating my mother as she never saw what went on.....I wanted so much for it to stop, but there was no way I could tell anyone. I went to such lengths to hide it, the fear of a beating was still so great....there was no way the secret could be out. I told a friend at school about the beatings. She told her mother, who in turn rang my primary school. My teacher pulled me aside and questioned me, asking if I had been telling lies. Finally, someone to at least maybe stop the beatings. She told me that she was going to talk to him when they came for parent/teacher interviews. Because I was afraid of adults, I couldn*t ask her not to. It was frightening. The night of the interviews I was really, really scared. But they came home, and everything was normal, and the teacher had obviously chickened out, or decided that he was just so nice, that I must have made it all up. Who knows? She could have stopped it. She could have. After that, I realised that I was pretty much on my own and that there really was no-one to help me. And that I may as well keep things quiet then, because otherwise it would just lead to trouble. So the next few years were spent just surviving what was happening, because it never really stopped, and in a way, I got used to it, it was just part of normal life. I learnt more tricks though -for avoiding. I used to say that I had my period all the time, but I guess he clicked on that one, and sometimes even, would molest me in the last stage/few days of my period. The time that he did that was like having another door slammed in my face. The other trick that I learnt was one that made him finish quicker. That was by pretending to enjoy what he did. I made the noises that I had read about in books and seen on television. It worked. Made him finish a lot quicker. But then the abuse seemed to increase and he wanted it more and more often. During my last year of high school, I started keeping a diary. A first I was too afraid to put anything into it, especially about what was going on, because that would make it seem real. Gradually I learnt to put my thoughts down on paper as I had no other outlet to use. I watched a programme on incest and the sudden realisation hit me. This was it. This was what was happening. This happened to other people. This had a name. This was me. Finding this out, was like being hit by a 10 tonne truck, and I felt my first wave of depression hit. So this was not normal after all. So then I had to make it stop even more. And I couldn*t. I didn*t know how to find the words to tell him, I was too scared of what might just happen. I might get beaten up, even though that hadn*t happened for a few years by this stage. And each time he touched me, the revulsion would stir in my stomach and I would want to be physically sick. Most times the most difficult part was not crying. Not letting on that I knew what it was. What he knew all along. I started hurting myself then. Cutting my arms. Cutting my wrists a little. The pain felt good, it made if feel that I actually was alive. The blood was scary, but it was a different scary from the abuse, so that made it alright. I told school counsellors. They took me to Rape Crisis. That did nothing but scare me more. They wanted to confront him. God no! No way! I would rather die first. Suicide became an option early on. I couldn*t live through all of this. Desperation was setting in, there was nowhere to turn, no-one who understood. All through this, the abuse continued like clockwork. Eventually, I fought with Mum and ran away to a woman*s shelter. I had to leave so that I could commit suicide. I couldn*t do that at home, that was wrong. I had carried around a bottle of pills with me for a long time. He had told me that soon I was old enough to leave home, and that when I did, he would be able to come and visit me in my flat too. That finished me. That broke me, finally. I has always assumed that once I left home - I would have escaped him. But nowhere was safe, nowhere at all. It was never, ever going to end. So I had to die to get away from it. Telling was out of the question. Putting up with it any longer was completely out of the question. So I took the pills, was found, had my stomach pumped, and was put into hospital. First the general ward, then the psychiatric ward. Sessions with Mum and him and a social worker and a doctor started. All focused on me. All not listening to me. Not asking the right questions. All with him in the room. Still no-one listened to me. I*m sure they thought that I had totally exaggerated things. He was too nice to have done all that stuff. Plus, he convinced them that it was the *M*ori* way (my stepfather is Maori, a native New Zealander), because that*s what he was taught. It was up to the father or stepfather to teach the ways to the daughter. They brought it. They were gullible. Once I was realised from hospital, the sessions continued, but I had had enough, I couldn*t stand them anymore, they were making me feel suicidal. I wrote to them saying that I was a lot happier and that things were working out, and that I no longer needed counselling. They brought that too, and so, I was *let off the hook*. Because I was, I think he was too, and the sessions only carried on for another 3 times. He never touched me again, it was hardly referred to by any of us. The kids didn*t know what had happened. Eventually, at the age of 24/25 I got counselling. It took 3 years to come to terms with a lot of what happened. To forgive people - those that didn*t see; myself, for *letting* it happen; the kids for it not being them. Not that I would wish this on anyone, but for a long time, I struggled with the question *why me*? Many times suicide became an option, but I just couldn*t do it to my mother, because her and I finally found the closeness that had been missing all that time. Now she knew - she was able to be there for me. In fact, we were able to be there for each other since we both were the injured parties. I have now pressed charges, and he is up on two counts, with a maximum penalty of 14 years. He won't get that, but it's a scarey amount of time. And here, they hate child abusers in prison. Within the next three months it will all be over in terms of his sentencing if he is found guilty, which I know he will be, as we have very strong evidence. I wonder though, will it ever really be over?? Sometimes it can be so hard to live with, because it's as if the abuse is something that is part of you, like your functioning body parts. To shed my abuse would be like walking around naked in public. Only time will tell I guess. I hope many people are strong enough to at least try to take their abusers to court...so that the world can see who they are. Here in New Zealand, abusers are published in a handbook for all the country to see. I want my stepfathers face to be in the handbook. I know there are more people than me out there that he is abused, I can't believe that I would be the only one.