How effective would it be if I encouraged my readers to speak out about their trauma if I do not demonstrate the same courage…yes courage…because that is what it takes to reveal such difficult stories.

So here it goes……                                                                                                                      I was the middle of five siblings growing up in the 60’s and 70’s. We lived in a middle class cookie cutter community. However, what appeared on the outside of our home was very different that its internal environment.  I was sexually abused by my father from age eight to twelve and then speratickly over the years after that.  It began slow and then it progressed to involve everything leading up to and including rape.   This happened almost everyday after school for years. I was even almost murdered by him.   I will explain more about my experienced  in more detail  in a later post.

Not a single tear could fall on the face of fear. I had no understanding of the path my life would take me. It was a tumultuous journey through nightmares of real life.

There was a question always present in my mind. Did he plan this all from the start? Did he hope for a baby girl? Was my life destined to fail because of the role that I had been given? I had so many questions. Do I now dare face the answers.      Are there answers? Isn’t true that some things can’t ever be answered?

My childhood was like a ride on a roller coaster of inconsistency. It seemed that my mother was oblivious to what was going on but was she?  I am not sure the answer that I received from her now is completely honest. With most if not all children who have been abused, trust is a fragile issue.  So do I believe her….? No!  She seemed disconnected to me for the entirety of my childhood and yet maternal protection is what I truly needed the most. In conversations with her resonantly I discovered that she was suffering from her own wounds and even though she was a mother she had become trapped or imprisoned just as I had and could not be the mom I so desperately needed.

This is one of the purposes of my blog to reach to fellow survivors and inspire them to speak so that they do not become imprisoned, like my mom,  by their pain for this will most assuredly steal their joy now and in the future.

How could I blame my mom for she carried around her own pain while trying to raise five children and survive a very difficult marriage.   Perhaps she tried and I do admire her strength  to carry on and yet all the while in those secret places in the heart she felt such deep despair and pain. I used to be so angry with her for a long time but I did not know. How could I ever know. That is damage of bad secrets. It eats away at you day after day. It can seem unrelenting. I do not know the source of her pain for I have dared not asked. Just knowing that she tried to care for me despite her issues was enough. We don’t have to know each others secrets intimately to understand that they exist and can be so devastating. They affect us in different ways but there is a common thread to which we all wish we did not have to know. It binds us as survivor’s in our struggle to move forward.



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