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.
