Anonymous Story: Childhood Trauma

Anonymous Story: Childhood Trauma

This is going to be long and rambly, but I am only 16 and want to explain my whole life. Not just the worst bits. All names have been changed
The earliest memory I have is from when I was 3. I was inside a couch, in my comfort area. It always felt like you were being hugged all around. I had unzipped the cushion and was inside so I was surrounded by the cushion. As I listened in on my mommy’s conversation, i became hungry and sad that my mommy was upset. I could hear her yelling on the phone in the other room. I guessed another person had decided not to babysit. I knew that I would be alone tonight. I just wanted some dinner. I gave up and decided to go to sleep. with tears streaming down my face, I fell asleep.

Throughout my childhood, I had this fear of being exposed. I would have this recurring dream where I would be wearing a white dress playing in the forest. Then there would be a test in a field to see if I was able to keep playing. I would always make it to level 4 and then my dress would be too dirty. When I failed the test, my heart would thunder in my ears and I was left alone in the field. Alone and vulnerable. I would wake and still feel my heart in my ears and I needed to go to the smallest bathroom in our house or pace my room to calm myself down. I would return to my room and throw my stuffies on the floor so there was no room for anyone to get me. I don’t remember why or how this fear started, but it became so much worse later.

Before drifting off to sleep,I would play a game of pretend. I would be a superspy, or a cop, or a mom. I would always be the good guy, but I would die. I would get shot, or drown in the ocean,or be poisoned. I sometimes end up happy, but usually ended up dead or paralyzed from the waist down. I never imagined a happy ending.

I was a tiny, starved, beaten kid who wasn’t allowed to go to school. All there ever was to eat was bread and sour milk and a box of chocolate puff cereal. My biological mom had bipolar and was self-medicated for depression, anxiety and paranoia. She seemed to always be dating and living with a new guy. Some of these guys were ok and left me (the ~3-4 year old) alone. i would be by myself for a couple days on end with noone coming home, and when they did arrive they were so drunk they couldn’t function.
Some of the others were drug dealers who would beat me, but then my mom would have to find a new spot for me to live. we never lived on the streets. this meant that I would stay with Mr. BeataKid for potentially a month before my mom could move. I always had a bruised and bleeding body, which made it hard to sleep when I was already starved. I would want to leave my door open so monsters couldn’t get me, but I would want to close it so that the scary bad man we lived with wouldn’t come in either. It gave me a reason to check under my own bed to see which threat is more real.

When I was 5 I moved into my half sister’s-dad’s-grandmother’s basement. There was about 8 kids there at any given time as well as one 70 year old grandparent. Later this year I went to 3 different kindergartens, my sister was put into foster care, I moved 4 times and finished in June of the next year, in my only foster home.

S–female parent
J —-male parent
A —older foster boy

I was put in the foster family in charge of all the parties, celebrations and the one that was literally on the fostering pamphlet. From day one, my best friend was the other foster kid, who was 3 years older than me (A). All of the bio kids were bullies, saying that I wasn’t wanted and they didn’t like the ‘charity cases’ the ministry brought to them (even though they were clearly favored by their bio family). The female parental figure in this house, who would not allow us foster kids to call her mom, S, ignored us as much as she could without dropping the appearance of being the best foster home in the province.

Just to give the place some credit; I was fed, clothed, bathed, had a bed to sleep in, had blankets and was able to go to school, but I feel like this is what they were getting paid to do.

The only time I felt special was when I got attention from J, the male parental figure in the house. He would sometimes tuck me into bed and tickle me. Me, being a sweet, innocent 6 year old, would try and tickle him back. I remember how much I needed to be loved and how much I wanted to please. I remember his sick smile in the dimly lit room when he told me where his ‘tickle spot’ was. I looked up at his face, wondering if I was doing something wrong by following his instructions to tickle him there. I asked “your not laughing…” and he replied “But I’m smiling”

J would give me something at the beginning of the day and tell me to hide it from S. That this was a special toy that he needed back by the end of the day, when he would tuck me in. I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be, but I was so happy he asked me to something different. I felt so proud at the end of the day when I could say I did it. He would say he trusted me, and I was special and the best foster girl ever. He even said I was almost as good has his kids.

One time, he told me to reach inside his pocket. I reached in and felt something that was like a ‘toy’ but it wasn’t coming out. I realized what it was and pulled my hand out as if I had touched something hot. I looked at his face with confusion and shock, and he nodded and told me to try again. I tentatively put my hand back in, this time I felt the hole in the pocket on my way to it. I reach it with my fingertips as I glance at his face. His eyes are cautious, watching and making sure I am not going to break. His mouth is in a slightly upturned curve, like he is trying not to smile, when I glance at his face he raises his eyebrows. A silent “go on then”. I feel some ungroomed hair, and excess skin. As i tentatively move my hand down the shaft, I feel the ribs shift. he smiles and whispers. “look, you’ve made me a bit happier. Thank you”.he then kisses my forehead and leave me alone.

One day, I knocked on the master bedroom door to say goodnight. we had to tell the adult when we went to bed. He was on his desktop. He invited me onto his lap to help him decide which pictures were good or bad. He showed me a picture of a blond lady dropping a towel. the first two pictures have her privates covered by the towel or her hair. I say that the nakey lady in the last picture is bad. he acknowledges this and continues to the next three.
As a dumbass, It takes me about twenty of these sets for it to click, he likes those better. I just want to be loved. he asks about the next one. I lean into him and tell him what he wants to hear.
From that day on I would do the opposite, and only keep the naked ones. I would look for confirmation and he would nod silently, or quietly say “good choice”.

I have a very logical mind, so I make patterns. I don’t remember the first time, but my brain sorted these things together into this order for a baseline, and the stories after this one are crystal because they deviated from this baseline.
I would go downstairs to tucked into bed, J would be in the kitchen. He would smile, and check the time.
As soon as I saw that, I would leave my brain so that B, my imaginary other self, could deal with that. It never worked, and I can still remember every little detail. he would take my hand into his. his calloused hand around my tiny 6-year old delicate one . I was told to undress and leave my clothes in the bathroom and use the toilet. He would go into the closet to lube himself up, and come back to check and see I was clean. He would then either bend me over the bed, or sit me on his … his… his lap, bouncing me up and down with his left knee.I could barely make out his whispers over my own mind and his breathing. He would be holding my sides and gradually forcing himself into me more and more until he pulled out and blew his load into a cloth. Occasionally he wouldn’t take it out and he pushed in further. I could feel it drip out for the next hour, which I would typically spend on the toilet, waiting for it all to come out.
Then he would stop, quite abruptly, and tell me to go to the bathroom and clean myself up. He would wipe his junk off with a tissue and then make sure I had nothing left on me. He would help me put my pants back on, lead me to my room and put me in bed, reminding me how special I was one last time before closing my door

One time, he was in his room and asked me to bring the toy to him. He took it, and put it on the bed, and sat down at the computer. We flipped through some pictures until I could feel him ready, then I scootched a little closer to him and wiggled by butt like a good girl. He picked me up and put me on the bed. He opened his closet and brought down a white bin. He took a large vibrator out of the bin, and showed it to me. He asks if I wanted to see what the were for, to which I responded yes, because I couldn’t say no

He told me to go to the bathroom. He helped me wipe so the toy could stay pretty clean and he led me to the end of the bed. I realised what was happening, and I said “I don’t think that is going to fit” he reassured me that it was and despite my protests, he lent me over the edge of the bed. I still kept telling him to stop. to not do this. that it isn’t going to work. that it won’t fit.
It hurt so much. I tried to keep quiet but I started crying. I bit the blanket to keep from screaming. When it was fully in, he turned it on.the vibrating shook my entire body. It felt like forever, me convulsing from the motion, the pain, the vibration, but it was only a second or two. I felt like it was tearing my ass into shreds. I started uncontrollably sobbing loudly. He shoved my head into the blankets as he pulled it out. It felt like a skinned knee was torn apart and then salted.
He lay, almost on top of my back, whispering how brave I was and how good I did. his weight was pinning me down, I couldn’t move. He apologised profusely and whispered what a good girl I was and how special that was. He said that the first time always was the worst, but he would be more careful. I tried to run away, go to bed, do anything but this. he pickd me up and held me, and bottomless kid, in his lap while i sobbed. He eventually tucked me into his bed with him until I stopped crying. He then carried me up to my room, onto my bed and tucked me in.

We had a dog. A big black lab that was named Java. One day, when all the babies are in bed and I come down looking to say goodnight, J asks me if I want to see a new trick Java learned. He led me to the garage, which was super cool because foster kids weren’t allowed in there, and he told me to take my pants off. I got a sick feeling but I did it. He then told me to sit on the floor with my legs open. J then called Java in, and said “lick”.

I felt gross. It was so gross. I can’t even stand dogs tongues now. I don’t like dogs. I felt gross. It was the worst thing in my life. I felt dirty. It broke me.

He then called the dog back, told me to stand up and pull up my pants, and took me to my room. I didn’t say a word. He said if I left my room that night, I’d be sorry. I didn’t even get to wipe the slobber out. He told me I was special and brave. And he left.
And I cried myself to sleep silently.

The next time, S and the bios went to the states to go clothes shopping for a weekend. The people who were home were the babies, J, A, and me. A was tucked into bed and the babies were asleep, and I was about to go to bed when J said that I needed a bath. He said I was going to use the cool bathtub ensuite from his room. It had the cool water jets that they have in hot tubs. He lead me to his bathroom and started the tub,telling me to undress. I let B take over, and I just did whatever he wanted. I remember that he had me on his lap, his hand creeping over my leg. He felt me all over. Inside and out. The slipperiness of the soap made his hands glide wherever he wanted to go. It also made it sting where I had been stretched, but I didn’t make a noise.

I was only in this foster home for two years, and eventually I told my 10 year old friend that “I had sex”. I went through court for four years because he kept trying to drag it on and on. He never said he did it and I wasn’t the only kid.
He did stuff to A too. But I was the first to say anything.

Now my thoughts and dreams just consist of flashbacks and sensations through my body. I don’t know how long I can keep going with this so much on my mind. He would have been in jail for one year in june except that he got out on probation two months ago. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to keep going now that I have moved to his city again. I don’t know what to do, but going on like this doesn’t seem like the best option.
Please Help.
please

Author

WYR

WYR

When You're Ready.org is a community for survivors of sexual violence to share their stories.

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