Anne's Story
First a note of Caution: This story is pretty detailed. If you
are not in a safe place and/or if you get triggered easily, I
suggest that you do not read this! I have changed the names to protect
the innocent.
According to certain members of my family, my mom made a lot of huge mistakes and I was her biggest mistake.
My family is highly religious on the surface. I reasoned
that if it was so hard for my family to love me, why would
someone as important as God love me?
Because of this, I was absolutely terrified of God. I imagined
that He was up there throwing lightening bolts down on anyone
that He didn't like. I just knew that I was one of them, because
why else would He let such bad things happen to me? I felt that
God agreed that I was bad and that I was a mistake.
My biological father is Doug. My mom and Doug got married right about the time I was born. When I was about three months old, my uncle was visiting. Doug was yelling and slapping me around, because I was crying. He was seen throwing me across the room and into the side of the crib. I never remember breaking my nose, but my doctor says it obviously has been. I also have a dent in my forehead, that I believe he caused. My uncle went home and told my grandma, so she made my mom leave him. She did not leave on her own.
When I was almost three, my sister, Cathy, was born.
Two weeks later, my mom married Jason (my main perpetrator).
She waited a whole two weeks after my sister was born, so
it wouldn't look like she had to get married.
We moved when I was about 3 1/2, and I feel that Jason
had already started to molest me in some way, but I'm not
sure how much. I can "see" myself standing outside the old
house on moving day. I was dissociating already. Everything
was going on around me, but I was invisible. I wasn't really
there -- emotionally. In the vision, I'm this little, frail,
blonde girl. But when I look into my eyes, I'm cold, unfeeling,
and much older.
When I was about 4 1/2, I was hiding behind my parents'
bed. My mom was gone and I was hiding from Jason. I had my
sister with me, because she found me and I told her that she
could hide with me. My mom got home and Jason told her that we
were hiding and we wouldn't come out. She found us almost
immediately. I was beat with the paddle. I learned that day
that it wasn't worth it to protect myself.
When I was five and in kindergarten, we went to court for
Jason to adopt us. The four of us stood there in front of this
mean-looking judge. Jason was beside me. The judge asked me
if I wanted Jason to be my daddy. I remember that I didn't
answer right away and both of my parents and the judge looked
at me really mad. So, I said, "yes". The court just wanted
to get to the next case; they didn't care. I know that by
this time, Jason was having full-intercourse with me, but I
don't understand how - physically.
When I was about seven, my sister got her tonsils taken out.
My mom stayed at the hospital overnight with her. I had to go
home with Jason. He made me stay in his bed all night. He took
my clothes away from me and I couldn't have any blankets to
cover-up with. He raped me all night. I remember him saying
something like that I could be the mommy tonight. My mom
always took Cathy with her and left me with Jason, because that
is what he wanted. She protected Cathy from him, but not me.
When I was in the second grade, we went vacationing. We went to the drive-in movies. All of us kids (some friends were with us), would sit on the hump. We were all asleep. The owner of the drive-in was drunk and had a car full of eight people. He swerved up onto the hump we were on. He ran over both of my feet and ankles. When he heard screaming, he stopped - on my feet. I woke up to everyone screaming, a car on my feet, and in a lot of pain. My mom got him to move and pulled me back before he could run over me with the back wheels, too. His doctor was the one that checked me out. He said
that no bones were broken and just to stay off my feet. A few years ago, I had x-rays and they show that I had several broken bones.
My parents always had a lock on their door up at the top on
the inside. When my mom was gone and Cathy was left there, he
would tell her that I had to help him clean his room. She was
supposed to watch for Mom and knock as soon as she drove up.
Other times, he would take me into the bathroom and lock
the door. As I got older, he made me go up into the attic.
It was just a crawl space with insulation all over and just planks of boards to walk on. He put down a sheet of wood with a sleeping bag and a pillow on it. He knew that my mom and sister refused to go up there. For awhile, he took me up there at least every other day. In the middle of the night, he would come across the hall and I would wake up to him molesting me. My mom never came in. He was usually in my room at least an hour.
Jason would never spank us or even yell much. My mom would
just go berserk over the littlest things. Then she would make
whomever was in trouble find the paddle. The paddle was about
3/8 inch thick by 2 to 2 1/2 inches wide and about 1 1/2 feet long. It was wood and as she put it "just made for her hand". It had a notch that she said was for her thumb and helped her get a "good solid grip". The paddle was always lost. It was usually under and behind big piles of clothes or boxes. It was never in the same place and never anywhere we would think it would be. She must have thought that we hid it. My sister and I discovered
(a few years ago) that it must have been Jason. I guess just
to get Mom madder. It worked. She kept reminding us (and kept
her word) that the longer it took us to get the paddle, the longer and harder the spanking would be. Now that I think about it - that probably has something to do with why I get so stressed out if I can't find something. I get all panicky and feel real sick.
When I was twelve, I was looking through the family photo
album. I decided to look at the backs of some of the pictures to
see who some people were. I saw that it said my last name was
something else. There was a picture with some man holding me
and another child. I asked my mom who it was. She grabbed the
picture from my hand, ripped it into three pieces, and back-handed me across the room. I never saw the picture again until after my mom passed away. It was taped back together (minus his head). She apparently slipped it back into my baby book just before she died, That man was Doug, my biological father. She never told me anything. I wasn't supposed to know that Jason wasn't my biological father. Jason still doesn't know that I know.
When I was about eight and Cathy was about five, our mom was
spanking us for something. I told her that I didn't do it and so
did Cathy. So, we both got it. Later, my mom found out that Cathy had done it. She made me spank Cathy with the belt. She always left the buckle on. I wouldn't do it, so she took my arm and swung it for me. I cried more than Cathy did, and she cried a lot. I believe that is why I even have trouble hitting things in therapy to release anger. I can yell, throw things, etc., but I can never hit something that represents someone else.
On Thanksgiving Day when I was 13 1/2, I had a miscarriage. I hadn't had any intercourse with anyone else. For almost two months,I hadn't had a period and I was usually better than a calendar. We were celebrating at my aunt's house. She had two bathrooms. I had a lot of pain all morning. At almost lunch-time, I went into the bathroom and spent a lot of time in there. I said that I was sick and had diarrhea. I thought I was dying and that I was going to bleed to death. Nobody was
even concerned that I was so sick. I bled bad for a couple more days. I then realized that I was no longer pregnant. But, it wasn't until I was 28, that I realized and acknowledged that I had had a miscarriage. With the encouragement of a dear friend in my former therapy group, I named her and went to a memorial service for her (and my other miscarried babies). At Parents' United, we had a memorial service for anyone who lost a
child due to miscarriage, abortion, or other causes. It was very therapeutic. I cried my eyes out the whole time! I was afraid that I would miss something, because I was crying so hard and not paying complete attention. But letting it all out was the best thing I could do. I got so much out of the service and follow-up session. I actually hadn't missed anything. I just somehow
absorbed it, and processed the details later. I named her Bethany Renae'. She died Thanksgiving 1981 and would have been born around June 29, 1982. Absolutely nobody ever knew about it until I told people in my former therapy group at the age of 28.
My perpetrator told me that if I ever told about the abuse,
my mom would leave me with him. He said that she wouldn't want
something as nasty as me. I believed him. He also paid me to
keep me quite, but I was too afraid to tell anyway.
In the fifth grade, my music teacher told my mom that I
had the desire and potentially the talent to play an instrument.
My mom found an instrument for $50. She said if I wanted to be in band, that was what I was going to play. It is normally a boy's instrument and I did not like it, but I wanted to be in band real bad. I couldn't play very well and my teacher sent home a note suggesting that I quit band, because I was not good enough. I did not want to quit, so I forged my step-dad's name. A couple of weeks later she told me to try playing someone else's horn. I did and all of a sudden, I could play. My step-dad went and bought me a good used instrument. Within a month, I was "first chair". My old horn had rusted pin holes all up and down it.
It was a good thing that it all worked out, because I strongly believe that music is the only reason I survived as well as I did. I always had to be in the living room when I was at home. The only time I could be in my room alone and with the door closed was when I was practicing. My senior year, I got a trophy for most hours practiced for baton twirling. I practiced over 300 hours, because that meant that I could be outside.
Music and baton gave me self-confidence and a way to be somewhere else. I got out to go to practices and performances. I also got out of the house - emotionally even when I was there physically. I was somewhere that felt safe (in my mind). Eventually, my music got me out of the house and into college. My mom said that the only way I was going to college was if it did not cost her anything. Luckily, I received a four-year, full-ride.
I would practice one instrument until I would blow my lip and then switch to a different instrument. I kept doing this each night, so I could keep practicing for hours. I usually played four instruments per night.
When I was in the ninth grade, I had a fever of 104 degrees
for about five days. One night it went to 105 degrees. I was
burning and then freezing and back and forth. My mom still would
not take me to the doctor. When I was in the eleventh grade, I had a very bad kidney infection. My mom would not take me to the doctor until I almost passed out in the bathroom and broke the mirror. I thought for sure that I was in big trouble.
My sted-dad is a gunsmith. In the tenth grade, my sister was playing with a gun. He always made a point to unload all guns. She pointed the gun at me and pulled the trigger. Luckily, she was a bad shot then (but she was a sharp shooter in the Army Reserves). The way I remember it, she was aiming for my heart, but missed me completely. The bullet went into the wall. We both were just shaking. Neither of us touched a gun again (while growing up). Our parents never found out.
Because of the incest, I never knew what it was like to lose your virginity. That makes me very angry! I understand that it usually is not that good of an experience, but that does not matter. I was cheated out of a very important event in a young person's life; and I had no control over it. Besides being cheated out of my childhood, I was cheated out of my (in
a sense) becoming a woman. Before I was old enough to know what sex was, I had already lost my virginity. My first time with a boyfriend was no big deal. Yes, it was the first time I had a choice, but I missed the magic of the first time. I had already experienced too much for it to be a new experience.
In high school, my step-dad would walk through the parking lot during football games when we went up to the band room. He said that he was looking for me. He walked around and looked in back seats for me. My mom made him let me go to a few dances. About a half hour before the dance was over, he would show up and walk around the dark corners looking for me. I usually was right out in plain sight. He knew I was not in the back seats or corners. He just wanted me to be scared to have a boyfriend. My mom always told everyone that I did not like boys. She was basically telling me not to.
I was engaged at 16 to a guy who was 20. Sub-consciously I believe, it was to get out of the house. I was engaged for two years. My mom knew he was my boyfriend, but did not like it. My step-dad assumed he was, but I always denied it. Tim, the boyfriend, slapped me at the mall over something extemely small. I know that if I would have stayed with him, he would have physically abused me. I know now that he was also very controlling.
My family always called me "Knucklehead". It basically replaced my name. And in school, I was always teased and called names, mostly because I was over a head taller than the other kids my age.
I met my ex-husband in college. We were friends. We had dated for about three months when my mom passed away. He had already asked me to marry him. I said that I would, but not until after we graduated. I figured by then I would fall in love with him; and if not, I would call it off. During the
seven hour drive home when my mom passed away, I told him that I would marry him, but only if we got married in May of that year, so I wouldn't have to go home.
Six days before my mom passed away, John (my ex-husband) did very hard sex with me. I was crying, but he kept going. When he was done he said, "No, you're not pregnant." I had told him earlier that I thought I was pregnant and was scared. I basically, just put it out of my mind and forgot it. I had been pregnant though. I named the baby that I miscarried Marrissa Rachelle. She died March 14,1987 and would have been born around
November 21, 1987.
Before I went out with John, I went out with a guy named Tom. I broke up with him, but stayed at his fraternity party. I started flirting with a pledge of his fraternity that I knew liked me. I was drinking a lot and Tom got me alone with him and raped me. He then put me into a car with another pledge that was more drunk than I was and told him to take me back to my dorm.
One month after we were married, I was working as a waitress in a lounge. One night after work at about 2:30 a.m., I was grabbed and taken to a house and raped by three
men who I had waited on. They got away with it, because one was a cop's son, one was the star of the minor league baseball team in town, and the other one was from out of state. The first two were allowed to plea bargain (for a slap on the wrist) for testimony on the last one. This was even though they said that they did not know how to find him.
August 24, 1987, I was really sick and John insisted that we have intercourse. He would not leave me alone. I was so sick that I could not even handle any movement. That was the
night I conceived my daughter. She was born during summer vacation, so I did not miss any college. I took her on campus with me. We were both full-time students. I had to graduate
in four years or lose my full-ride. So I finished in four years.
In September (soon after I became pregnant), John started slapping me around. He would slap me open-handed and back-handed me across the face and on my head. This happened once or twice a week and just got worse. He would also push me around and push me back into walls, sometimes making me hit my head. When I was around four or five months pregnant, he beat me up really bad. He started out back-handing me across the face at least twice and slapping me on the sides of my head several times. It made me dizzy and light-headed. It started in the living room or kitchen. He then started pushing me around, making me almost fall several times. Then he started knocking me against the wall and door-jam trying to get me into the bedroom. I hit my head two or three times. When we got into the bedroom, he shoved me (from three or four feet from the bed) onto the bed on my back. He pushed me hard enough that I bounced a couple of
times after landing. He then jumped on me, strattling me just below my stomach. He held me down by squeezing my wrists and bouncing on me a couple of times. He slapped me several times on my head. He suddenly stopped and started crying. That was the last time he beat me, because I threatened to leave him if he ever hit me again. I kept a packed suitcase by the bed for months.
Now that we are away from John, my daughter is growing up into
an assertive, independent, young lady. I encourage her to make her own decisions (when it is not potentially a problem). And we discuss why the other decisions were made for her and why I came to those decisions. I always consider how something will affect her and try to keep her self-esteem high. When she is in trouble, we discuss what she did wrong and that I am angry with what she did, not with her. In other words, I will always love her, no matter what she does. We talk about a lot of things that I would never have even imagined talking to my mom about. I want her to always know that she can come to me, no matter what the problem is. So many people do not have anyone to turn to. I am there for my daughter, and always will be. You do not have to live the life you were taught! It is hard work to change the pattern, but if you are determined - you can do it. I had to learn how to be a postive parent, and no it is not easy at first, but it is well worth it! I also am now setting a good example for her. She knows that people do not have to put up with abusive partners. She sees how her father behaves and is glad that we no longer live that way.
Starting the night that we were married, John would grab my upper arms and squeeze tightly to restrain me and keep me from leaving where he wanted me to be. This lasted the whole 8 1/2 years that we were together. Shortly after I was raped, he forced me to have sex with him, even though I was not
ready. He said it was because he was my husband and the longer I waited, the harder it would be for me. He never cared how I felt or even if I wanted sex. Even when I would tell him that he was hurting me, he would not stop.
He had me convinced that God had a special plan for the two of us; and if we were not together, that plan would go to someone else. In other words, if I left him, my life would be crap. In the last couple of years of our marriage, he would tell me that if we did not have intercourse when "it was time", that I
would not get pregnant. I was extremely irregular and wanted to be pregnant really bad. He said that God told him when it was time and had me scared into having sex with him. To put it simply, he had me brain-washed. Since shortly after we were married, John threatened that he would commit suicide if I ever left him.
John was convicted and "slapped on the wrist" for sexual assault on four women who are mentally disabled. He still denies that he did anything wrong. He said that he had to plead guilty in order to stay out of prison. He had to "come out of denial" as he put it, in order to get out of the correctional facility. And that if he cried a lot, he would be convincing. He said that he would use the psychology that he knows. Unfortunately, he
is a pretty good actor. He basically got away with it.
After I left him, he tried hard to find me, even though he was in a correctional facility. And his dad would
do anything for him. His dad also molested me the weekend after John went to jail. I woke up to him rubbing my sides
(almost touching my breasts - inside my shirt) and my rear. I jumped up quickly and instantly thought, "like father,
like son".
When I left him I was scared for my daughter and myself, because the only thing that kept him from beating me was
that if he did, I would leave him. I had already left him, so what was going to stop him. Even when he was confined
in jail, he was trying his darndest to find us. He is not stable, but is very intelligent. He uses religion and
psychology to get what he wants.
I had two more miscarriages. I named them William Benjamin and Kayleanna Victoria. They would have been born around July 9, 1991 and April 21, 1994.
I left my ex-husband in October 1995. He went to jail and I had two weeks to get everything packed that I could fit in my van. We went to a shelter. I was planning on being there a couple of days until I decided where I wanted to move. They convinced me to stay in the state that I was in until I got my divorce. I did, but I did not feel safe in that city. His dad was searching for us. I got word that
he was coming to that city to look for us. I got scared and went to another shelter in that state. I picked the new city, because John did not have any friends or family there. But I did not know anyone either, and I had never even been there.
When I was ready to move out of the shelter, John and his father found out where we were through the post office (which is illegal). They tried everything, like detectives. The people at the shelter wanted to move us to another shelter, but I was tired of running. I said, "No". I got a restraining order and hoped for the best. My life seemed like a bad TV movie.
I have realized what kind of men to steer clear of through counselling. In my case: nobody with sexual vibes oozing out, needy, tries to get too close too soon, nor tries to prove his intelligence (to make me feel stupid or inferior). And nobody who reminds me of my step-dad or ex-husband.