A 17 year old girl sits in a chair, plastic coke bottle in hand, giving an officer her statement. She had been molested by her step-father over the course of a few years before running away from home to protect herself. The officer was making her ill at ease with his questions, but after all, they needed as many details as possible to put in their statement. The more questions they asked, the more uncomfortable she felt, especially trying to tell a strange man she didn’t know. The more uncomfortable she felt, the more shredded the label on her Coke became and the tears of embarrassment streamed down her face. Some of the details the officer was asking her, had been blocked from her mind in an attempt at self preservation of sanity. She finally could take the embarrassment no more, for he was making her feel guilty like it was her fault and that he didn’t believe her, so she got up to leave without finishing her statement. The officer assured her that no further action would be taken until she finished her statement. She was fine with that, she just wanted to forget the nightmare that had been her childhood, and get on with her adulthood, with those memories far behind her.
That 17 year old was me, many many moons ago. I had suffered from abuse from this so called man from the time I was 4 when he got together with my egg donor (I refuse to call her my Mom, she doesn’t deserve that loving term) that started out as physical abuse, masked as “discipline”. I remember being that young, and him beating me with a belt on my bare ass for “misbehaving” (i.e. being a CHILD) My egg donor was well aware of this abuse, as she was witness to it, but never stepped in to help me and stop him. This went on throughout my childhood.
One summer, when I was 8 years old, I tried to run away. I had enough of the abuse and feeling unwanted and unloved. I threw my mattress out of my second story window onto the cement below, and jumped. I didn’t go far, I went to my neighbor’s house, The Mays, whom I adored. I was best friends with their grandson, Jonathan that lived with them. Mrs. May called my “parents” to tell them I was there. My step-father came to retrieve me from their house, taking his belt off in their yard, and proceeding to beat me with it all the way home into our house, up the stairs and back to my bedroom.
I was left cowering on my bed, bloodied and black and blue, drowning in my tears. I felt unwanted, scared, hopeless and very alone. I felt worthless, I wanted to die if it meant that I could escape the hell I was being forced to live. That spark that a child is supposed to have had long been snuffed. I was an empty shell of a human being.
My egg donor came into my room a little later and simply asked, “Why did you do that?” I felt like telling her to take a good look at my bloodied face from the nosebleed I had, and the welts all over my body, but even if she could see, she was blind. I sat there sobbing and didn’t say a word. It should have been glaringly obvious to her, standing in front of her sobbing and battered 8 year old daughter, but she was oblivious to my pain apparently.
The beatings turned into molestation when I was about the age of 14 and this abuse was secret, only happening when my egg donor was not home. I was afraid to tell anyone about it. I was scared that no one would believe me. I felt like I had no one to tell, because I didn’t really. Sometimes I would wish that I would get pregnant, just so there would have been proof of what he had been doing to me. I was trapped in my own head, in my own hell, that I had no capability of escaping. I just wanted out, one way or another. I was even deader inside than my 8 year old self. My egg donor was always threatening me that when I turned 18 that I was going to be out of the house. Ya, that threat really scared me, as if I didn’t look forward to my escape from that hellhole! I always told her that as soon as I turned 18 in November of my senior year, I was outta there, to which she would retort, “Not until you graduate!” I wasn’t going to wait that long, and I didn’t!
A week before my 17th birthday, I went to school one Friday and never returned home. Thankfully I had a friend to stay with, who’s family was very kind to me, eventhough they had not known yet what I had been through. My egg donor had tried to call the police on me to make them take me home, but they pretty much told her that they couldn’t do anything about it as long as I was safe. Thank God for that, for my nightmare was finally over and I could leave it behind me…so I thought.
I worked at a restaurant at the time and my creepy old Greek boss was trying to hit on me all the time, trying to get me in to do oddball work when the restaurant was closed, and he had started trying to grope me. I was certainly not going to put up with that, so I just quit one day. My friend’s younger sister asked me why I was not at work that day and I answered, “You know that song, Janie’s Got a Gun by Aerosmith?” That’s all I needed to say for her to understand, and I could tell that she had put 2 and 2 together as to why I had run away from home. She told me that I needed to tell her parents, because they would be wondering why I quit my job.
My friend’s parents were appalled at what I told them, and encouraged me to go make a statement with the police so that he would be arrested for what he had done to me over the years.
Well guess what? The police lied to me about not pursuing my statement more until I finished it, because the next day, they went to school where my 3 younger half sisters attended to questions them about things. That’s how my egg donor found out what I had been through, and instead of being the mother she should have been, she denied my claims and outright said I was lying and that she didn’t want to talk to me until I told her the truth about what had happened. I told her that I will not ever lie and tell her what she wants to hear, because what happened, DID happen!
I have not talked to her in about 30 years now, nor my 3 half sisters, because they all think that I am a liar, that their Dad would have never done anything like that. Secretly, I had hoped that he would have molested them, so that they too would believe what I went through. But, he never beat them or abused them like he did to me, because they were his own children.
In February of 2012, my step-father finally died. I didn’t find out until a few months later when I was visiting my parents and my Dad had told me he read the obituary. As horrible of a human being that this may sound, I rejoiced that he died! I was sincerely happy to learn that he had finally been buried 6 feet under to rot! I celebrated with a bottle of tequila. Do I feel guilty? Absolutely NOT! I feel relieved, that I can actually bury my past now, knowing that he will never be able to hurt another human ever again! I’ll celebrate the same when my egg donor kicks the bucket and another cause of my childhood hell is rotting 6 feet under!