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SURVIVORS STORIES

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Here is the story of my life. When I was thirteen years old I had a baby-sitting job for these people who had originally lived across the street, but later moved to a townhouse complex not too far away. Everyday I took the kids to the park behind the complex where the neighbourhood kids hung out. The kids I was looking after were five and seven, while the kids I hung out with ranged in age from 13 to 18. When the parents came home I would go and hang out with these other kids until I went home for dinner. When I had finished the dishes I would tell my parents I was going for an hour-long bike ride and go play football, baseball or just hang out with the people in the park behind the townhouse complex. One day we were all just sitting under the trees enjoying the shade when someone said something about the paintings in Allan's house. I asked what they were talking about and someone else was shocked that I'd never heard about the paintings Allan's parents did in their spare time. It was even more shocking that I'd never actually seen these supposed great works of art. Allan said I would definitely have to come over sometime to see them and that it would have to be soon because their house was up for sale. About a week later the people I was baby-sitting for came home two hours earlier than usual, so I took this opportunity to go over to Allan's and view the artwork. His older brother was supposed to be home, but a note on the kitchen table stated that he'd gone out and wouldn't be back until later that night. I didn't think anything of this and Allan gave me the "grand tour". (His parents were at work. They did not paint full-time and sell their work because they wanted to enjoy it and felt that if they were dependent upon it as a means of living it would become too much like work; that it would become a sort of resentment.) The paintings were nice, although there is no particular one which really sticks in my mind. After I'd seen the pictures Allan and I sat on the couch and just talked. About what I don't remember, we just talked. I remember looking at my watch and noticing it was sort of getting late -- it was almost four o'clock -- and I thought I should get home and help with dinner; maybe get on mom's good side for a change. So I told Allan exactly that and started to get up, but he grabbed my left wrist and asked me where I thought I was going. I again told him that I really needed to get home. He then told me that I wasn't going anywhere just yet because we weren't finished. My right wrist was also suddenly grabbed and before I knew what was happening Allan had me on the floor and was forcing himself on me; in me. Oh god! Why is he doing this? I'm only thirteen years old. Wouldn't he prefer to be with someone closer to his age -- seventeen or eighteen??? When it was all over I got dressed and went home. It was almost impossible to ride my bike because it hurt so much, but somehow I did; somehow I made it home. I never said anything to anyone, however, until a few months later when something, I don't remember what, happened to bring it all back up again. I ended up telling a couple of friends of mine who in turn went and told the guidance counsellor. She called me down to talk to her the next day (this was in grade eight) and then told me to leave it with her and she'd get back to me the next day. When I spoke with her again she told me that she'd talked to the principal and they both agreed that my mom needed to be called. I immediately had a really bad feeling about this, but had no say in the matter because I was so young. So my mom was called and came in from work to sit and talk with the counsellor and I. After a little while both the counsellor and my mom thought it would be a good idea if I went home with my mom so we could talk before my sisters came home from school. Once again I had a horrible feeling about this and said I wanted to stay and go to math class because I was having trouble with the current concept we were covering. Unfortunately, because of young age I had no choice but to go home with my mother. When we got home my mom closed the front door and then proceeded to close the curtains in the living room before she started yelling at me, telling me that I had wanted what had happened all along, but that I now regretted my actions and was making up this horrible lie. She told me what a whore, slut and tramp I was and that this probably wasn't the first time I'd done this. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I mean I don't remember ever being close with my mom, but what was she saying?!? I finally yelled at her that he didn't even get my clothes off. She stopped and told me that was "a start" and that I was only grounded for two weeks because I had wanted to, but came to my senses at the last minute and that was good. I was also grounded for another two weeks because she had to leave work early to deal with this nonsense. She ended our conversation by saying that she would tell my father about this and that if he wanted to speak to me about it he would, otherwise the subject was permanently closed; I was never to speak of it again. I have never felt so alone and betrayed in my life. This almost felt worse than what Allan himself did to me. Why was I being punished? What did I do that was so wrong? Anyway, I thought this would be the end of this whole situation, but it turned out to be only the beginning. The assault happened in August and my mom was brought into it all near the end of November. The following February I received a "Valentine" note in the mail from Allan. It totally freaked me out. How did he know where I lived? How did he know my last name? I had never told him any of this stuff. I can't recall exactly what the note said other than the fact that Allan was looking forward to seeing me again, because he missed all the "fun" we'd had together, especially since he'd moved to Toronto. I regret it now, but I burned the note and every other one he ever sent me. I should have kept a sample of his handwriting, but I didn't. The Saturday after I received his note The Bay was having one of their "don't pay the taxes before ten" events, so my mom, my sisters and possibly my dad (I can't remember if he went with them or if he had to work that day), all went. I didn't want to have to get up that early in the morning, especially on a Saturday, so I didn't go with them. A little after nine that morning I was coming down the stairs from the bedrooms when the doorbell rang. I just figured it was the woman across the street looking for a babysitter or something, so I unlocked and opened the front door without checking first to see who it was. What a mistake! As I opened the door I was confronted with Allan and these two other guys I had never seen before in my life. I tried to slam and lock the door on them, but they were too strong and forced their way in; and in broad daylight too! Anyone could have seen them, but no one did. One of them put the dog in the bathroom, while Allan and the third guy forced me into the living room. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. All three of them took turns forcing themselves on me. It was what is now called a gang rape. I just remember lying there hoping someone would help me or, more importantly, that it would all be over right then. Instead, it was only over when all three of them had had enough; or were "finished". Unfortunately, it took them each twice to be "fully satisfied" and that took forty-five minutes! What did I ever do to deserve this? What did I do that was so wrong? I just remember being relieved and in shock when they finally left. What was I supposed to do now? I couldn't tell my mom or anyone else in which it could all get back to her. In the end I ended up not telling anyone. I just kept it all to myself and made myself believe that nothing had happened; that my life was completely normal; that nothing bad or unthinkable had ever happened to me. I put on a constant happy face and began living a lie. In total there were twelve separate occasions on which Allan forced himself on me. Two of which I have already mentioned. Unfortunately, or should I say fortunately, most of the others have all kind of blended together, except for the time my family was away on vacation and I woke up one morning to find Allan standing over me -- He would somehow break into the house once in a while and when I came home from school some days for lunch he would be there, waiting for me. This went on until the summer of 1995. I would never know when he may show up and it got to the point where I wasn't even afraid of him anymore. I knew what would happen when I was faced with him, as well as what would happen once he was finished -- Once I realized he we really there and I wasn't just imagining it, Allan pulled his hands from behind his back and produced a ball of string and some scissors. He cut a few strands and tied my wrists to the headboard of my bed before he proceeded to assault me. The worst part was that he didn't untie me before he left. He just left me like that; tied up and violated. Thank goodness there is a phone by my bed! I managed to manoeuvre myself around enough to get it off the hook and dial it with my feet. I called my friend Bryan to see if he could help me -- this was during the summer of 1992, going into grade ten. I had finally worked up enough courage to tell this girl I had met in Junior Achievement, Kim. Unfortunately, she went to France on an exchange for the month of July, which meant there would be no one for me to turn to if I was desperate for help. Now, Bryan was also becoming a good friend and I felt comfortable and felt I could trust him enough to tell him about what was going on in my life -- When I did call him that morning his brother told me he was out and wouldn't be back until five or so. So I just laid in my bed trying not to notice how slowly the numbers on the digital clock were changing, waiting for the time I could call Bryan, tell him what had happened and he would come and help me. Well, five o'clock finally did come and I called him and told him what had happened. He totally blew me off and said that he had to go because Josh would be there any minute and he needed to be ready. I couldn't believe it. He was just going to leave me there, tied to the bed and totally helpless?!? How could he betray me like that? His not coming that day hurt me more than anything else which had occurred that day. He was just like my mom. Perhaps there really was something bad about me. Maybe I truly had done something wrong that would warrant what Allan was continually doing to me. But what on earth could it have been? What did I do wrong? In the end I ended up chewing my way through one of the string-holds. Soon after, I wrote a letter to Kim describing everything that had happened that day. I don't remember exactly what I'd written, but I know it was quite detailed. She still has the letter and I remember her reading it to me once. There was also the odd time when one of Allan's assaults happened while my parents were home. Anyone who hears this always asks why I never called out. Maybe if they could see with their own eyes what was really happening they'd have done something to help me. It's taken me a while to finally allow myself to even consider this question. The reason I never screamed for them is that I was, and still am, afraid they would have just stood there watching; laughing; gloating that I was finally getting something that was coming to me; that I deserved what was happening. I realize this may sound crazy, but it's true; it's what I suspected and there was no way I was ever going to have it proven true. I don't remember exactly when, but one day I received a phone call from Allan's older brother. When he told me who it was I was in the process of hanging up when I heard him yell that he was sorry for what Allan had done and that it was truly horrible and wrong. Apparently, Allan had been drunk a few nights before and went around bragging to everyone about what he'd done to me. When Allan was completely sober a couple of days later his brother beat the crap out of him. I was totally stunned. I didn't know what to say or do so I just said thank you and hung up. I never even asked how he had gotten my number or what his was for that matter. How would I ever explain a long-distance phone call to Toronto to my parents? I never expected to hear from Allan's brother again, but in the spring of 1994 he called to say that he didn't know how to tell me what he had to say, so he would just say it. He said he'd overheard Allan talking to their parents, telling them that he'd tested positive for the HIV virus and that I'd better get myself tested because they didn't know how long he'd had it. What else could possibly go wrong? I already felt like Allan had stolen my life away from me and now there was a very real possibility this were physically true?!? Well, fortunately, for that point in time anyway, I was tested anonymously and it came back negative. I can't remember ever feeling so relieved. Unfortunately, this wonderful feeling didn't last. One week after I received the test results Allan was waiting for me when I came home for lunch. I was in total disbelief. How could he force himself on me, all the while knowing he was carrying a fatal disease??? What kind of animal was he? What possible purpose could he serve on this earth other than making my life a living hell?!? When the window period was finally over I went and got tested again, only to receive an inconclusive, followed by a positive and then two consecutive negative tests. What this means is that I received a false positive result. This was one of the worst periods in my life. I didn't know whether I was going to live or die. How would I ever pay for the drugs I knew an HIV positive person needed to? There was no way I was ever going to tell my parents, but could I not?? I'm just glad I didn't have to worry about this for too long. Currently my HIV status is unknown. You see, I received two positive tests in January of 1996, followed by one negative test in March of 1997. And I want to believe that I am okay, but don't these test results sort of cancel each other out? I'm not quite sure which tests I should believe, so I had yet another blood sample taken and do not yet have the results. If this anonymous test also comes back negative then I will know that I am definitely HIV negative. Well, the results are in. I am officially HIV negative. What a relief! Allan developed full blown AIDS in 1995 and finally died in May of 1996. This should have been one of the happiest days of my life. Unfortunately, it wasn't. This really bothered me. I mean Allan was dead. He could no longer hurt me. He was physically out of my life forever. One week after Allan had died I found out why I had not felt some sort of relief when his brother called and told me Allan was dead. I went to get the mail one morning and in it there was a piece of paper folded in three, sealed with a single piece of tape and addressed to no one. There was no envelope, no nothing. I flipped it over and could see that it started "Dear Dianne", so I opened it. It was a letter that I believe Allan wrote before he died and had someone deliver once he had finally left this world. In it he stated how I would never be rid of him; that his legacy would never die. He said there were two people who would make sure of this and that I knew the two people he was talking about; the two guys who had shown up on the doorstep with him that Saturday morning. One of the strange things is that while Allan was alive I never again saw either one of the two guys. I was shaking like a leaf after reading this letter and wanted to burn it. I wanted this more than anything. But I didn't, because it was a solid piece of evidence. Unfortunately, the letter had been typed on a computer and printed out on a dot matrix printer (you could tell it had had the tractor feed ripped off of it). Nothing that would definitely prove it had come from Allan. Sure enough, a couple of weeks later I came home from a party to find one of the guys I had had the misfortune of meeting waiting for me in my closet. We struggled a bit, but in the end he won and I was assaulted yet again. That made thirteen times. Thirteen times my entire being was subjected to utter and complete violation and humiliation. Thirteen very good reasons to be afraid of the opposite sex; to think them all, even though it's not true, evil, horrible monsters. It was after this time that I decided I would go to the police and put everything on record without them actually doing anything about it. I did not and do not want the cops poking around, trying to find out who these people really are. I mean all I know is Allan's first name, his address before he moved to Toronto, his brother's name, Allan's approximate age (four or five years older than myself) and the date of his death. I don't even know what the other two guys' names are. All I wanted was to be able to tell whoever was keeping Allan's memory alive that I had gone to the police, that it was all on record and it all stops now or else I will have my complaint looked into. I needed for it to be the truth, because I truly believe these people have connections everywhere and would be able to find out whether or not I was messing with them. I don't want to press any charges and take this to court because I honestly believe that if the police start an investigation I will end up dead. I'm not sure how exactly, but somehow I know these people are connected to some kind of gang or cult or something. Unfortunately, I can never receive legal justice in regard to Allan, because he's dead and legal crimes cannot be brought against the deceased. Yes, this seems kind of unfair to me, but I know that if he were still alive I would not be wanting to press charges against him. My ordeal, at least the physically occurring part of it, ended during the long weekend in August of 1996. My parents and youngest sister had gone to my grandparents' for the day and left my other sister and I home. I was in the upstairs bathroom when I heard someone coming up the stairs. It sounded like my father, only I knew it couldn't possibly be him because they'd only left two hours ago. This meant it could only be one person; it had to be him; the one who had taken over for Allan. He banged on the bathroom door and told me to "get out of there before he broke the door down." I immediately blurted out everything I had to say about going to the police and that everything had better stop now. He then told me that if I didn't open the door within the next few seconds he would go around to the back of the house, grab my sister who was out there cleaning off her bike, tie her to a chair and force her to watch the "fun" the two of us would be having. He said he didn't really want to "have" her, because she wasn't his type, but that he wouldn't hesitate to do so if he couldn't "have" me. So I opened the door and was assaulted for the last and final time. After it was over he told me that that was the last time I would ever see him and I believed it. There was something in his eyes, some kind of fear I think you would call it, that said he was, for possibly the first time ever, telling the truth. So the abuse has finally, physically stopped. I am now left with the aftermath of it all. I now have to find some way to deal with it all and go on; to find some sort of peace in order to ever hope to have a future. One thing that is not helping any is the fact that I have never remembered my childhood and have suspected for a while that there is a very good reason for it. A couple of months ago (February of 1997) my worst fears were confirmed. I was brushing my teeth, looking in the mirror and was suddenly taken back to an incident in the past. I saw my uncle molesting me. Will this sort of thing ever be out of my life? I mean it's happened to me forever. Who's to say it won't continue to be the kind of life I'm supposed to lead? Who will be the next person to steal away my identity; my ambitions and dreams; my life?? Well there it is. My story. Now that I've kind of bared my soul I am feeling exhausted.