January 9, 2010
Category: New Secrets
Tags: abuse, childhood
Me too, hon. Me too.
Been there. I’m the youngest in a family of nine, and it was my eldest brother. i ran away before he got too far, but i still hate him for how he betrayed my trust. i’m so sorry for you. its been so many years, and i’m married now, with kids of my own, but i’m still so angry at him. he has two daughters, and i’m affraid for them. i want to tell him so bad how he hurt me, what i think of him, but i don’t know why i can’t. try to forgive and forget, as hard as it is. otherwise it’ll eat you up alive like it is me.
Been there, done that. You aren’t sick, you aren’t imagining it nor do you have some sick perversion. It happened, people who have never been abused don’t have these thoughts. Only those of us that have had it happen.
I don’t know how to talk about it, where to begin. I want to forgive. As much as I really wish she were dead, that she were suffering in the most excruciating way right now because of what she did, that none of it ever happened…it did happen. It’s real. It’s real…and we must forgive.
I know how you feel. I don’t remember anything before the age of 11, and last year I had a disturbing dream about my father doing things to me. I don’t doubt for a second that it’s my repressed memories coming to light.
I know it’s terrifying, but it’s something that affects a large majority of people, men and women alike. Your not alone. I encourage you to confront him, although don’t expect that to stop him from hurting his daugters.
I told myself (and very much believed), I had made up a story about being molested by a family friend just to get attention, even though I never actually told anyone. I felt pretty dedicated to the story to the point were I would go to my room and secretly cry when he came to visit. I was terrified of him. I hated him. I even remember when I had sex as a teenager (by choice), I was so thankful that I bled, because I thought it meant I was a virgin; he could have only touched me nothing worse.
A few months ago, I found out the person who was the perpetrator in my story went to jail for having access to child pornography. He got the most mild punishment, simply because they couldn’t get him on possession; the pictures were stored on the internet. I believe myself now. Every time I think about him, I remember more of what happened. My parents don’t know, and I can never tell them. It happened over 20 years ago, and I’m still afraid my parents wouldn’t believe me.
I recently saw him. When he caught my stare, there was so much fear in his eyes. For a moment, I felt so powerful that I actually smirked. I hope his fear was that I might finally tell.
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