My Story - My Childhood - Dad's Side of the Family
When my first memories of life begin, I was about 3, and abuse of all kinds was already a well established pattern in my life. I suspect that it began in infancy.
DAD'S SIDE OF THE FAMILY:
When I was about 4 months old, I was kidnapped by my Paternal Grandparents. They somehow convinced my babysitter that they were supposed to pick me up during the hour my mom was out, and so the babysitter left and they took me, leaving a note that said my parents needed a "Break" and to spend more time together, and to not come looking for the baby, they would return her in a "few days". "We are taking her to a place that you don't know, you can't find her on your own, so don't even try.". (Side note: These people, my grandparents, they aren't "nice" people. They don't have a single empathic bone in their bodies, and they have NEVER, to my knowledge done anything for anyone altruistically, so this note was very concerning to my parents... well, obviously. Their baby was gone. but you get my point.)
Anyway, my dad figured out where they had taken me from interrogating his sister for hours, and I believe they went and rescued me and also alerted the police that they may need legal intervention with the situation, but did not want to make a huge deal out of it because it was family. I had been a missing child for over 12 hours. My grandparents hadn't realized that I was "so far behind" in my development and still not eating solid foods (At 4 months...). They hadn't had any bottles or baby food and were very angry at me, yelling at me when my parents arrived because I wasn't eating the salad and sliced radishes they were trying to feed me. I hadn't eaten in all that time, so was obviously very hungry, but my parents tell me that I was fussy, crying and did not sleep at all for more than 5 minutes at a time for about 5 days after I was returned home.
I have say, before I get too far in to this, that my Parents were good people. Both of them were abused in many different ways, but also sexually by their parents. My mom and dad didn't ever abuse me. I think though, that because of their histories of abuse, they didn't see the signs and signals that their child was going through the same thing, because they were so determined that I would be raised differently. Both of them had amazing grandparents (to their recollection) and I think that they somehow thought that becoming a grandparent would magically transform their parents into good people. It didn't work that way, and I suffered. But I think that my parents did the best they could with their own personal limitations.
I don't have many memories of abuse in my childhood. Well, I don't have many memories of my childhood at all, actually - which is telling!
I know that my Dad's parents were always just horrible. I don't remember either of them saying a single nice thing to me through my life. Their feelings about me were indifferent at best and hateful at worst... Both of them were very strongly chauvinistic, and I was the first grandchild, of their first-born son. I was a girl. How disappointing. They also despised my mother, for reasons unknown to me, they have just always hated her. So they, behind my parents backs would call me names like; whore, bitch, slut, demon spawn, etc. I remember those first being applied to me at about 3 years old.
When I was between 4 and 5, my parents couldn't stand how his parents were treating me anymore so we didn't see my grandparents on that side for 2 or 3 years. I still saw my aunt and uncle from that side, though. During that time between the ages of 5 and 8, there were times that my aunt would come up and tickle me, and she would wind up "tickling" and touching my breasts, which were already well defined by the time I was 6. If she did this intentionally or innocently I will never know, she has some major mental handicaps, but at that time it felt very wrong and I hated it.
My uncle would "rough-house" with me, he’d hit me and try to get me to fight back, and then, when we were on the floor, basically wrestling, he would touch me, usually through my clothes, but he loved it when I wore a dress, but he would do it discreetly out in the open at family gatherings, and pass it off as “playing” Yeah. Right. He was the hardest to deal with, because he was so violent about it, I would hurt and have bruises for days, but thankfully we didn’t see him that often when I was very young.
One of the proudest days of my life was when I was 11, and I’d been taking martial arts and he was - in front of the entire family - teasing me about how I was just a girl, I still couldn’t protect myself, etc. etc. etc. and then he came at me like he was going to hit me and I grabbed that f**ker’s arm and threw him on the ground. He looked up at me with the most amazing expression of shock and disbelief while his entire family laughed at him, and I just stood above him, staring, until I walked away and left him on his @$$. He never touched me again.
After we started to see my grandparents on that side of the family again when I was around 7. Everything they had done back when I was younger still happened, they just did it more discreetly. When I would go to their house, if I did something “wrong”, which was basically everything I could do or say, I would be “punished”. That involved anything from getting hit and beaten or spanked excessively with a hand or wooden spoon, to being verbally abused in a horrible way, told I was worthless, horrible, the whole bit… The worst though, was that they had this closet under the stairs. And when I was “very” bad, my grandfather would lock me inside it for however long he pleased. Sometimes 10 minutes – sometimes many hours. I remember just being completely terrified in there. Sometimes he would turn the light off (Which was controlled from the outside) and I would have to sit in the dark. Then when he would let me out, he would sometimes take me upstairs and tell me how bad I was and make me kneel on his bed, or into his office. I know he touched me, I know he put things inside me, I just can’t remember visuals, or specifics, I just have the body memories. I guess that’s when I learned to dissociate.
Then, when my parents would be there with me, like at Christmas or other visits, I was the only child in the family until I was 7, and so they would put all the toys they had for me to play with in the closet under the stairs and tell me to get in a play. But at least they would leave the door open a crack instead of closed and locked. But they wanted me “Out of the way of the adults” because I “just get in the way” and “bother everyone”.
On my 12th birthday, they insisted on throwing my party. To the party, they invited my two younger cousins (both boys would have been ages... maybe 6 and 5?) and their friends. They set up a few "Contests" and different activities. It might have been fun, I suppose, except that I was taken aside by my grandmother and told that I was to intentionally loose every contest, or I would be punished. I asked why and she said that all the boys (I was the only girl at my party) were younger, and they were boys so I had to give them the advantage. "Boys have to be taught from a young age that they have the advantage over girls and that they are bigger, better, faster, and superior. It was my responsibility as a girl to teach them that they are better than me and to do what they want, when they want it, how they want it and like it." that was my job in life. I sat far away from the activity, alone in a little forest grove above their house. I was looking down at the party. I wasn't missed. I wasn't wanted.
The number of times I have seen any member of that family in the 11 years since that day could be counted on one hand with a few fingers left over. I was done, forever. I finally said enough was enough. But those scars of having my grandmother tell me my only purpose was to allow "boys to be boys" at my expense are everlasting.