Category : Blogs

Sub Category : Miscellaneous

I'm sitting here smoking more than I should, but it is all I can do at the moment to avoid going into my mother's apartment and unleashing my rage. I've had countless moments in the last 6 months that have opened my heart, my wounds, but most of all my eyes, to the reality and truth of who I am, who I was and who I want to be. There a days that I feel empowered and proud of myself for taking a stand on something that for generations my family has been unable or unwilling to do. That is to see things for what they are and see people, myself included, for who they are, good, bad, or down right ugly. And then there are days, like today, that I want to scream "FUCK IT ALL". Days like today, where I find myself questioning my livelihood and my right to be Happy. 
I am 31 years old and for 20 years I have lived on the foundation and beliefs my mother and stepfather built for me. Everything I have believed to be right and true has exploded, causing internal chaos in me. You see, we as parents try to teach our children what we believe will make them "good" human beings. We shower them with as much love as possible as a means of returning the love they have given us just from being born. But what happens when that child grows up and discovers that most of what they were told was right, good, honest and done out of love, was really all a lie and the real truth is that people, even our parents, will say and do what they must in order to protect themselves from losing what they want no matter the cost. That is what my mother and stepfather have taught me at the age of 31. 
Before the age of 11, I remember what I was like. I remember being 2 years old, in a hospital waking up to see several people standing in front of me waiting impatiently for their little girl to wake up. I remember being in that same hospital and my Abuela taking me to the play room where I would go immediately to the huge miniature sized kitchen, IV pole and all, and just playing. I was in the hospital having surgery to remove a tumor on my middle finger that I was born with. My mom used to always tell me about the time she came to see me after my surgery and she asked me "Como esta ese dedito?" "How is that little finger?" And I responded "its the same Mami, its still there". And she said "what?!!" And when she looked under my bandages and found that the tumor was still there she went to get the doctor. She says "then the doctor didn't believe me until he looked and saw it and you had to have surgery again". When I think of my mother as she would tell me, I remember how her face looked and I could see how concerned she was and that she would have done whatever she had to do to make sure I was okay. As I sit here recalling that story, I ask myself how a parent or anyone that claims to love and nurture, can care for the wellbeing of their children if someone else is threatening it, but when it is their own selfishness threatening their children's wellbeing, all they can do is make excuses and lies to avoid the truth? Before I was 11 years old I remember wanting my mother when I was sick and how she was the only one capable of taking away my physical pain as soon as she walked in the room. I remember my excitement every Easter, when my mother would make my stepsister and I baskets and hide them for us to find. How happy we were when my mother and stepfather would let us know if we were closer or further from finding it by saying "hot" if we were closer, "cold" if we were far and "warmer" if we were somewhere in between. I remember feeling safe, happy and having no worries. And the only time I felt any anxiety was when there was arguing or a fight broke out during family gatherings, but even then I knew things would be okay once morning came and it was just us again. Then, out of nowhere, my security, trust, happiness and childhood turned into fear, responsibility, shame, hurt, anger and loss of self. 
Before I was 11 I remember thinking of my stepfather as my father. The man that stepped in and cared for me because he loved us all and considered me his child. Treated me as he did his own daughter. I remember driving out to Riverhead every other weekend to pick up my stepsister. Just me and him. Listening to Meatloaf and Guns n Roses. Asking him if Meatloaf was referring to mirrors on a car in the song "objects in the rearview mirror appear closer than they are". Before I was 11 years old I remember feeling so safe. So excited to hear him opening the door when he came home from work and jumping on him to give him a hug. I remember our screaming matches as we watched wrestling and me and my stepsister yelling at him for wanting Macho Man to win instead of Hulk Hogan. Then that excitement, happiness and safety, turned into fear, shame, and loss. 
When I was 11 years old I remember sitting on my couch watching Full House, when my stepfather came home from work. When he sat on the couch I remember smelling the alcohol all over him, along with the smell of sweat and dirt. The sweat and dirt I was used to because he had a job that required a lot of manual labor, but the alcohol was new. I laid my head on his lap like I always did while he said "Anagun time to change the channel". He used to call me " Anagun" all the time and I loved that I had a nickname. As we watched whatever he put on, I remember him rubbing my breasts through my shirt. I immediately felt weird but brushed it off. Then he put his hand under my shirt and that's when I realized that what was happening shouldn't be happening and I got up. Before I got up I remember my mother coming into the living room and I felt the need to cover his arm so that my mother wouldn't see. I wasn't able to cover his arm which made me scared as if i was going to get in trouble if she saw. Till this day I have not allowed myself to ponder the thought that she saw what he was doing but ignored it. When she left to the kitchen I got up and went to take a shower. I remember being in autopilot as I washed my body and quickly returning the the moment when I heard my stepfather knock and before I could say anything, he entered the bathroom. He asked "can you hand me the soap?" But before I could answer, he was opening the shower curtain completely opening it, and reaching around me to grab the soap himself. I don't remember the rest of that night. As a matter of fact, I don't remember much of anything after that other than how much his abuse would continue to become more frequent. 
The first time was the only time my stepfather was drunk when he molested me. He would always choose to get off on me when I was asleep or when he thought I was asleep. If I was laying next to him sleeping while he read a book, I would wake up to his hand on my hip, his body pressed against mine in a sideways position and his pelvis rubbing back and forth against me. I felt his erection and felt so disgusted. But I stayed there pretending to be asleep and then I would squirm to scare him by making him think I was waking up. My memory is full of these moments and nothing else. The last time he molested me was in my bedroom while my mother was asleep in the next room. I think of how ballsy he was to do this when my mothers room was connected to mine with a bathroom. He was watching boxing when he came into my room while I was asleep. I woke up on my stomach and  my lower body raised up and his hands over my underwear rubbing my vagina with so much passion it makes me want to vomit just thinking about it. He rubbed and rubbed until I squirmed enough and he stopped and left. For 2 hours I stayed in bed gathering the strength to get the fuck up and tell my mother. I remember thinking "he has taken it further and if you don't say something now, you won't ever say it".  So I got up and snuck through the bathroom and into my mothers bed. I woke her up and started crying. She said " que pasa mi hija?" And I know she knew it was something bad because my cries alone made her start crying before I could even say anything. I told her what was happening and she asked how long and if he did more than touch. She then told me not to worry and sent me to my room while she spoke to him. Fear is a powerful thing. And I felt it that night as if I was waiting to hear if i would get the death penalty or not. 
I'm going to leave off at this point until I am able to continue. My silence dies tonight along with the shame and guilt that has been embedded into who I became as a result of my abuse. This is my story and I'm going to tell it in the hopes that I save another child from losing their identity in order to protect the identity and emotions of careless and flawed human beings we consider our parents. And I will get hate for it but if you didn't want this story told, you should have written a different one. You will no longer take my right to express what you've done and taken from me.