Anonymous Story: Broken

I’m not going to share EVERY memory of abuse with you… I would be here for a very long time writing… It is just an estimate (but I’m definitely “low balling” the number of times instead of over reaching) I was ATLEAST hit/beat 500 times and raped 1,000+ times in the 15+ years this abuse has been going on. All by the same monster and live ruiner!! My own father. So you can see how it is just IMPOSSIBLE both time wise and mentally that I just can not share “every” instance of abuse.

I was born in Brooklyn, NY in July of 1995. My first “definitive” memory of the abuse was when I was 5 years old. I never even saw it coming it was like any other day…
After dad got home from work he always sat in “his chair”…now when we lived in NY he worked at a truck driver so sometimes he was gone for quite a bit of time. Anyway, when he got home he followed his pattern. Tossed his work boots in the corner, took his work shirt off, got a beer, sat in his chair, and put on his favorite tv show “Mad Money” (which to this day triggers flashbacks in me. Doesn’t matter if it’s on for 2 minutes or 2 hours, as soon as I near it I’m triggered). So… “that night” dad got home…I was playing in the living room, dad said “Hey my Jenny Benny, come give daddy a huggie” so I happily bounced over to his lap. I sat on his lap just embracing his muscles and strength. He wrapped his arm around my waist. It wasn’t long at all before he just was rubbing my one thigh and moved up to rubbing me on top of my underwear. I remember freezing and it not feeling right. I felt frightened. After a few moments of doing this he stopped, gently placed me on the floor and patted my bottom and pushed me along to go and play as he usually did once he got up for his shower.

That memory was day one of what was to begin of a hellish lifetime of abuse.

The first time he ever hit me I was 6. It was not long after we had moved into our new home in Pennsylvania. We were out shopping for new appliance for the house in Home Depot. I remember being bored and walking off. After some time I saw my mother running up to me crying, I now understand it was because she had thought someone too me and she was frightened. The whole ride home dad was very very quiet (unlike him). That was… until we got home. He barked his first order at my mother “go run a bath for her, now” she got right to it. He gripped my arm, very firm and harder then necessary and led me upstairs to my new bedroom, or as I see it the hellhole used for numerous beatings and sexual abuse to come in the future years. Anyway… he sat on my bed. He barked his second command, that I take off my pants and underwear. I stood their bewildered, dad has never asked this of me before. So he grabbed my arm and pulled me close to him. He roughly yanked off both my pants and underwear all at once. And he said “What you put your mother through today was a very very naught and bad thing to do! You know better! Just know this is going to hurt me a lot more than it’s going to hurt you” (yeah, no FUCKING WAY. The pain was excruciating!!) so he yanked my body forward over his raised knee and began open hand FORCEFULLY* hitting my bare bottom. He had taken off his belt as well which I had not seen or notice until he wrapped it around his hand and raised it and brought it down, also hitting my bare bottom. I cried and screamed “Please daddy, no I love you, please stop you’re hurting me, please please” but he didn’t stop until HE felt the punishment was sufficient. But what came after was much more painful. After he was finished he told my mother to put me into the bath…. that water and soap against my raw, and in some places bleeding bottom and legs was so painful, the stinging and just sheer pain. The whole experience was a true nightmare. He just walked downstairs and again got his beer and pretended it never happened.

The first time things went beyond “just touching” I was also 6 years old. It was October 27th, a Sunday… football was on as it always was every Sunday. The Steelers were playing the Ravens, no shock and as usual they won 31-18. I’ll Never EVER forget that day. My father was happy “his team” won. I was sitting on the floor playing with my Barbie dolls. Dad said “They won! Come celebrate with your daddy”… I was very happy… not because they won or because he was happy but because it meant since he was happy the chances of him hitting me or hurting me were low. That rarely happened when he was in a good mood. Which were far and few in between. But that day was different. I jumped over to him as he asked… he said he wanted to celebrate. And he had the “perfect” idea on how! He led me upstairs to my parents’ bedroom. He told me that he understood I never did this before but I was going to be his “little trooper” at that time he grabbed my hand and put it between his legs. I didn’t understand at the time but now knowing and looking back he was fully “ready” and it makes me sick. I was immediately scared and had no idea what was happening. He made me rub “it” over his pants and then he lifted me onto the bed. He started touching me over my pants and underwear. I remember asking “what are you doing daddy”… and he said “Be quiet don’t talk unless I tell you to” I was so confused so I just did as I was told. He then unzipped his pants and took out his penis. He rubbed himself against me. I started to cry. And I remember him saying “Stop crying you’re ruining this for me.” But I just couldn’t help it. I was terrified. And he said “for Christ sakes… just relax it won’t hurt as bad”… he tried to push himself inside of me.. but as slowly as he went he couldn’t… so he then got either Vaseline or something (I’m not really sure exactly what) and out it on himself. He then tried again… he was able to force himself inside of me that time and the pain was immense. I felt like I was literally going to rip into two. I let out the most horrific scream and yelp ever. He threw his hand over my mouth. I was sobbing and in so much pain. Although he “finished” really quickly it felt like it was forever. After he pulled himself out I remember I was bleeding. That scared me even more. I remember asking him if I was going to die. I remember he laughed at me and said.. “No. not today dear.”
I cried the rest of the night. And the pain lasted what seemed like weeks.

I tried telling my mom what he did to me. But at that age I didn’t really know “WHAT” he did and what it was called. Or even what our body parts were called. So I stopped trying.

These instances of abuse continued. As the years progressed things got worse and worse. But one of the most horrific we’re the times my mom needed to leave for “trainings”. My mom worked in the schools with special needs children. So she was working a lot and also needed specialized trainings for her job position. Sometimes that meant going out of state for a few days. Well those were the worst times. I mean after a while my father didn’t “hide” the abuse. My mom knew. But he certainly saved specific “tortures” for when she was out of the house all together. When she went on these trainings my father would put me through hell. He’d bring me into the basement… he make me take off all of my clothing. Wrap my arms around the “foundation Pilar” in the basement, and he’d handcuff my wrists around this Pilar. He would put an actual dog wee-wee pad down next to me and that was that. I was expected to go to the bathroom in the wee-wee pad. And he would come downstairs whenever he felt like it and either hit me, touch me, or force himself onto me. It depended on what HE wanted to do. A few hours before my mom would be home he’d then let me go upstairs, tell me to shower, and “clean my filthy self up.”

The abuse I suffered continued on and only got so much worse as time went on and is still happening today. I don’t know how to make him stop. I don’t know how to tell someone what’s happening. I feel disgusting, ashamed, and dirty. I feel like I’m letting this happen and no one will believe me or stop it. I don’t think he’ll ever pay for what he did or is doing. He was also a corrections officer then a state trooper as well. I feel so alone. At night before bed I pray to die. In the morning I cry because I’m not dead. I’ve tried ending my life twice, I self harm (cutting), and also suffer with drug addiction (also my fathers fault because when I was 14 I finally tried fighting back and he shot me up with heroin for the first time to make me comply and “go limp” basically). I have been pregnant a total of 6 times. 3 live births (one stillborn), 2 miscarriages, and I am currently pregnant again. My one son and one daughter both were adopted by living families. I knew I could never be the mother they deserved, and raising them would be too much for me to handle. I am so ashamed and hate myself for, what I feel like, letting this continue. I DONT want this to be happening. Every day I cry and feel more and more responsible for it all. I am diagnosed with PTSD, Major Depressive Disorder, Panic Disorder, my psychiatrist knows very little and all I said is I was abused as a child. I overall just hate life. I blame myself for everything. I just wish I knew what I did wrong and what I specifically did to cause all this because maybe I can be the daughter my parents want. Maybe I won’t be a complete disappointment.