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Monday 30 November 2015

I am the 1 in 5

Submitted anonymously

[TW: Child abuse, Sexual abuse, Abusive parent, mention of religion]

I am the 1 in 5.

Some nights, as I lay awake in my bed, I can still smell his breath. It’s intoxicating. The smell scares me half to death, and yet in a fucked up way, it’s comforting. It’s a smell I have memorized. It’s a smell that reminds me of childhood, and not in a good way. I could smell it when he walked by my room. I could smell it when he was in my bed. I could smell it as he sat laughing in the living room while he watched TV.

I am the 1 in 5.

I remember what it was like. How he was kinder when he was drunk, how he was meaner when he was sober. I remember the sound of his footsteps shuffling down the hall. I remember how it felt to hold my breath, praying he wouldn’t stop by my room.

I am the 1 in 5.

I remember clinging to my baby blanket, the one that still sits on my bed. I remember fighting back tears, because if he heard me cry, it would happen. If I dared make a sound, it would happen. I remember trying to lie perfectly still as he passed my room, hoping he would go away. I remember being afraid to be relived when he walked by, because that sometimes wasn’t the final answer of the night.

I am the 1 in 5.

And yes, I remember the nights he entered my room. Some details are crystal clear, other details are fuzzy. I was little then. He was bigger. I was scared. I never knew if I would live or die. Even as a child, some nights I would pray to die. Pray for it to end. Anything that would make it end. I was so scared. I never knew when it would end. When it wound happen again - if it would happen again that night or if it would be safe to sleep. And those were just the nights I was in my own room. We’re not even talking about the nights I was in bed with him.

I am the 1 in 5.

I remember getting older. I remember growing up. I remember being a pigtailed tomboy who just wanted to make her father proud, despite the fact he was her rapist. I played my violin for him, I did well in school, I played video games. I fetched his beer cans from the fridge. I showed him my newest dance moves. I craved his love and affection more than anything in the world. I’d sing in church and I’d memorize the Bible verses and I’d try so hard to just be a fucking good girl for once in my goddamn life.

I am the 1 in 5.

Everyone told him how proud he should be of me. Of his smart, compassionate, friendly, bubbly daughter. He would find a reason to insult me. He’d lay it out as a joke and people would laugh, but I would struggle not to cry. I knew if I said anything, I’d be told I take things too seriously and I needed to learn to take a joke. And then I’d see the flicker in his cold eyes. I’d see the look that I knew too well, and I would go back into his submissive, obedient daughter.

I am the 1 in 5.

Everyone thought we were close. Everyone thought we had the perfect father and daughter relationship. No one knew that I knew by the pressure of his hand on my shoulder, by the way he gripped me, that I had somehow displeased him. No one knew that I was covered in bruises not only because I was a klutz. He used to joke about those bruises, you know. He would say “I need to beat you where it doesn’t show.” He would say that to people, they would believe him, and they all would laugh. Everyone but me would laugh.

I am the 1 in 5.

He was my father. He was supposed to love me. Protect me. One of my clearest memories is being around fifteen years old and asked by my then psychiatrist to name one good trait about my father. I just stared at him. I couldn’t. I still can’t. There are very people who I can’t think of at least ONE good trait about, but my father is one of them. Right now, that one good trait is that he’s dead.

I am the 1 in 5.

At one point in time, I was silent. At one point in time, I couldn’t speak. At one point in time, I was voiceless. But I have nothing to be ashamed of. I have nothing to hide. My childhood innocence may have been stolen, but there’s not a thing I did to deserve it. My father raped me. My father molested me. I was a child, I was a young teenager. I am an adult. I am whole. I am worthy of love. Being the 1 in 5 is a big part of my identity, but it doesn’t mean that I’m merely a victim. I’ve come a long way and I’ve got a long way to go, but I’m in for the ride. Come, walk in my shoes. Don’t you dare tell me that my father loved me. Don’t you dare justice his rapist behavior . Because it is not, was not, and will never be acceptable.

1 in 5 girls and 1 in 20 boys are victims are child sexual abuse victims. The stats for disabled children are also alarmingly high and underreported, because we are so vulnerable. I am told to take a walk in the shoes of my abuser. I am told to take a walk in the shoes of those who murder their autistic children. No more. Walk in my shoes. Take a walk alongside with me. See what the man who loved me did. And then tell me that it’s okay for him to hurt me, because I’m lesser than.