The icing, part 1

In order to follow some kind of sequence in my life, I'll tell you about the icing on the cake, or if you will, the straw that broke the camels back. When I was 14, we went back to see my mom's family in Newfoundland, and I stayed cautious around my cousin. He tried to get me alone several times, but I made sure to always be around other family members. I remember we took a picture of the whole family one day, and he stood a little bit behind me and put his arm around my shoulder, making a "joke" of "pretending" to squeeze one of my breasts. Everyone just laughed, like they were brushing it off as nothing more than harmless fun. I knew it was a reminder, and an invitation for more. I smiled for the photo, and walked away. My other cousin introduced me to yahoo messenger (I'm showing my age a bit, I know) and I started talking to this British guy, we'll call him Greg here. We hit it off right away, and soon that's all I wanted to do was talk to him on the computer. I'm pretty sure my grandparents were getting annoyed and frustrated at me, because I wasn't visiting with them, but I was a teen, and I was interested in this guy who lived halfway around the world (sorry Nanny and Poppy). When we went back home, I begged and pleaded to have a computer in the house, with internet, so I could talk to Greg again. It took a while, but my parents eventually gave in and we got a computer and a dial up connection. I still remember the sound that stupid thing would make every time you turned it on. Forget about going online in the middle of the night, that shit will wake anyone up. Pretty soon, I was wandering onto yahoo messenger out of sheer boredom because of the time difference between myself and Greg, and guys were messaging me all over the place. I could literally be on there for 10 minutes and have 10 guys saying the same thing; a/s/l. (Age/Sex/Location). I would tell them my real age and sex, but not the location, until I knew them a little better. I had some good conversations with a lot of people, but I was also getting the wrong sort of attention. Surprise dick pics were common, of course, but that will come as no surprise to anyone who goes online in chat rooms. I was vulnerable to anyone who told me I looked good, or any variation on that. Compliments made me flustered, and happy. I sort of brushed them off in public, but really, I relished and treasured them. They were my worth, the only thing good about me. I suppose it was a few weeks in when I started giving in to requests for pictures. At first, it was just regular pictures, me smiling into the webcam (that I had also begged and pleaded to have to be able to talk to Greg). I got more compliments, more requests. I may have hesitated at first, but I thought there was no harm in it, so I took a few topless pictures, stored them on the computer, and gave them out to guys I knew for a while online. The compliments kept coming, and I started to feel numb about the pics I was sending out. Hell, I had sent them out to 4-5 guys already, what was another 10? I still to this day have no idea how many of my pictures I sent out, and I worry every time I go online that I'll see them because someone posted them to a website. Some of these guys (4, I believe) I met in person. I've prided myself on being completely honest so far, and I won't stop now, even though this is embarrassing. I was babysitting one night, and I invited one guy over to the house. I let him rub himself between my ass cheeks to orgasm (his, of course. Mine was not even attempted). I went out with another guy to the movies, and he made me give him a hand job in the theater. (I make the distinction between "let" and "make" here because I didn't pull away from the first, but did for the second, constantly. It doesn't make the first any less harmful). The third guy picked me up at home and drove me around until we found a wooded area not too far from my house, where I gave my first blow job ever. The last one I saw a few times, and we went to a motel (where I paid, because he had no cash) and gave more blow jobs, hand jobs, and once, sex. The age ranges from the first to the last were 25-ish to 45. I was 15. It makes me angry now, to think about it, because they manipulated me to be a one-time prostitute without having to pay me. I look at the girls on the websites now, and wonder how many started out like me, giving their photos out to a chosen few, then not really caring who got them. To be continued...

Back to it, shall we?

So far, I have discussed the abuse that I have suffered at the hands of my father and cousin. The two intersected at a crucial point in my development, and really cemented the way I felt about myself. I really felt like I was nothing more than an object. I was used at the other person's whim, and sometimes I got love in return. I had a love/hate relationship; with my dad, certainly, but with myself as well. I hated him for what he was doing, but I hated myself more for allowing it to happen. Was I that starved for attention? What confused me, though, more than anything else, was that his sexual interactions with me were always very subtle and nonchalant. It made me feel super guilty for putting up a fuss. Kisses were one, as I mentioned in another post. So were the jokes and looks. I never felt at home in my own body because I felt like he trapped me in it. Everything he said or did was about my body. You're so beautiful. You could stand to lose a few pounds. You look so much like your mom. Don't ever let strangers near you, they'll want to touch you. Do you have any boyfriends? Do they touch you? Do you touch your genitals (pork, as he called it) yet? You're growing up nicely. Makes my skin crawl just typing those, and the comments were unrelenting. If you can picture a so-called "dirty old man" who tells crappy, off-color jokes all the time, you've got my dad. Even now, if I answer the phone and it's him, he'll somehow manage to squeeze a few in. I always tried to brush them off in the past, and I do think I came out on the other side a much stronger person. I developed my own sense of humor early on, and interestingly enough, it often seemed to disarm him and make him laugh. He sometimes left me alone later that night, but not often. That's not to say that he visited me every night. At least I don't think he did. Memories are fleeting of that time, so you'll have to excuse the somewhat here-and-there nature of the posts when I discuss this part of my past. Like I said in my very first post, it wasn't a horrible childhood all the way around. I mostly got along well with my brother, and I love my mom, despite troubles in my teens (which I'll get into, don't worry. P.S. I kind of go down the rabbit hole and have to dig my way out). I honestly think that everything I've been through has made me a better person. Here are a few things I like about ME! I am compassionate I am friendly to pretty much everyone (unless I get a weird knot in my stomach, sign to back away quickly) I am loving I am very dependable I am a hard worker I am a good mom, and know that I have always tried to do what was best for my kids, even though it means not having them full time for a while I am a good listener I have a quick wit that makes people laugh out loud and choke on their soup I could probably go on and on but I should really be getting ready for my man to come home. By that, I mean I need to catch a few ZZZs because I wake up at 5 for work, and he works until 9pm tonight. I do want to spend time with him at some point today.

Taking a step forward

So, this is a big step for me, and though I may have lost the readers I had gained in the past 2 weeks, I feel like it's time. I'm posting this under my own blogs' umbrella. Where it's possible to search for it using my actual name. Certainly, I blocked a few people who I felt would hinder my posting capabilities, and cause me trouble in my day to day, but I was getting tired using a pseudonym, and even more tired of having to log in and out of another account every time I wanted to check the blog or my email. For now, that's all I wanted to say. Every post prior to this was written for my other blog, with a similar name, and I simply imported it.

Branching off

I don't know if I mentioned it in my previous posts, but there were three people who really broke my heart, in ways I would not wish on my worst enemy.  The first was my dad, which comes as no surprise if you've been reading up to here.  The second was my cousin.  This is his story.

My mom has family in Newfoundland, and so every other year or so, we would go and visit them.  We would sleep over at her mom and stepdad's house.  We always spent at least 3 weeks there, to make it worth the trip, because it was kind of pricey for my mom, brother and I to go. (My dad never went, because he had an argument with my mom's brother, as I recall).  My brother and I hung out with our cousins, T and S.  T was a girl, older than I by a year, but younger in mental capacity because of childhood illness.  S was a boy, my own age, maybe a few months younger, and was somehow very attached to me, and hyper-sexual.

On this particular visit, I was 9 (a big year for me, as I had just started my period in the months preceding).  We went over to my Aunt's house to play with our cousins. I didn't really like playing with them, but they were the only kids we knew there, so that's where we went.  We always played weird games, though. Weird for our age, I mean.  And familial relations, of course.  Stuff like spin the bottle and 7 minutes in heaven.  (I'm assuming here that everyone knows what those games are, and can google if they don't, I suppose).  I should mention here that S had a Swiss army knife that he had gotten as a gift, and loved to fool around with it, flipping it open and closed and such.

One day, S and I were in the basement of his house, though I can't remember where exactly his sister or my brother were, nor why we were there alone.  I just remember someone telling me to go into the spare bedroom.  I don't think it was S, I think it was T, from upstairs, maybe?  So I went in the spare bedroom.  Right behind me was S, and he closed and locked the door behind him.  I asked him what was going on, but I don't know if he answered.  If he did, I don't remember the words.  He started kissing me all over my face, shoulders, and I kept backing away and trying to get him to knock it off.  I still thought it was a bit of a joke, or even a game.

I backed up until the bed was behind my knees, and he shoved against my shoulders so I would fall onto it. I don't remember the exact sequence of events, but I know he managed to push my top up and move my training bra up as well, and he unzipped my pants and his.  I must have gone numb somewhere in the middle of this, because I didn't move, just turned my head to the side and let it happen.  He unzipped his own pants, and I felt him against my stomach.  That's when I started to struggle, but it didn't last long, because I also felt the edge of a knife on my left side.  With his other hand he held my hands above my head, but he didn't need to, and let go fairly quickly when he realized I wasn't going to struggle.

Then he raped me.  I don't think I could describe the pain even now.  It was such that, when his knife hand slipped and cut me, I didn't feel it.  He left a visible scar, proof that he was there.

It must have only lasted about 10 minutes from beginning to end, but it felt like forever.  Then, in the middle of it, his dad called downstairs to get us to come up for lunch.  He got off me, adjusted his clothing and folded his knife back in his pocket, and looked at me one last time.  I got the message. I wasn't going to say anything.  Not then, anyway.

A few years later (yes, years) I told my mom.  She asked me why I didn't fight and I told her about the knife.  My hand to the bible, she stood up and walked away, and we haven't talked about it since.

I kept my scar on my stomach up until the time my kids came along, and gave me wonderful stretch marks.  I can no longer see the scar, and so my kids healed me just a little bit, by removing that reminder.

Amping it up

I think this is turning out to be a long winded narrative. I feel like I should reiterate my trigger warning in my very first post.  Yes, I do have quite a history, but I promise that once it's all said and done, I can get to the good stuff, because I do have a happy middle (it feels weird to call it an ending).

My childhood wasn't all bad, of course.  My dad was handy with his hands, working with tools, building stuff.  When I was around 10 I won a go-kart racing contest. He had made the kart.  We weren't rich or even very well off, but we saved and expanded on our home, building a basement and renovating. We even got a pool one summer.

I had a lot of fun in that pool and enjoyed swimming immensely (still do), but it also caused a lot of problems for me as I was growing up.  I developed early, having my period at 9 years old, and was rounding out rapidly from there.  That's when the abuse (verbal and sexual) really started getting out of control.

I would get really lewd looks when I was in my swim suit.  I would get comments, get told jokes and slaps on the bottom.  I felt very self-conscious of the way I looked.  I wasn't skinny, in fact I felt fat, but thinking back on it today, I realize that I was just growing into my curves. I remember, more than a few times, him trying to undo the straps of my bathing suit, pulling down the bottoms, pulling up the top, all in good fun, of course.  Always for a laugh.  He even pulled my underwear down once and showed my butt to my brother, and insist that he take a Polaroid picture (for those of you who are too young, it's a camera that prints out the picture right away).  I don't think I had ever felt so humiliated or angry as that moment.  When my brother refused to give it back, I told my mom.  She gave it back to me and I ripped it into a million pieces.

He also started insisting I kiss him on the mouth.  I always said no or turned my face away, but he would make me feel guilty because I wasn't kissing him the way he wanted.  I was perfectly happy kissing him on the cheek, but he put a lot of effort into convincing me that everyone kissed on the lips in families.  (I know some families really do that, when their kids are babies, and there's nothing wrong with that, in my point of view, but I was around 8-9).  I gave in after a while, but stopped again when I tried to kiss my mom on the lips one day, and she let me down gently, saying only adults who loved each other.  Boy did that stop me in my tracks!  I went back to turning my face when he came to kiss me, and he continued to look hurt.

Throughout all this, he never let up on the back tickling, even though I had long ago stopped asking for them.

Still working on it

I'm having trouble deciding whether or not I should start from the beginning, or just put bits and pieces as I go along.  It may be easier to do it the latter way, but maybe just keep it one story at a time.

(Weirdly enough, the song "Never No More" from Aaliyah is playing on my list right now)

My earliest memories are of hiding in my bed, with the covers over my face.  Hiding and pretending to be asleep never helped.  My bedroom was moved to the basement once it was built, when I was around 7 years old.  My door faced the landing of the staircase.  Once I moved there, I had some warning of when my dad would come visit for goodnight kisses.  Before that, my room was right next to his, so I never really knew when he would come by.

I don't know which was worse, reflecting back on it now; never knowing, or having a few seconds to wonder and hide?

It all started innocently enough.  Regular kisses and tuck-ins.  Eventually, it morphed into tickling my back, which I enjoyed, until his hands would move further down.  He would push my nightgown up, so he could tickle my back.  Not so bad, right? I wasn't so sure about the underwear being lowered, though.  He was my daddy, and I trusted him, so although I felt uncomfortable, I let it go on.  Remember, we're still just tickling, so I'm in the frame of mind that he's being weird, but still just trying to get better access to my back. 

Sometimes, he wouldn't pull my underwear down, just push it to one side or the other, or just give me a wedgie.  These times I felt even more uncomfortable, because he wasn't just tickling my back anymore.  He would also tickle my exposed buttocks.  I would ask him to stop, and sometimes he would, for a few minutes.  Then he would go back to my butt.  Most times, he would tell me this is how every daddy showed his girl how much he loved her, so I felt a little better.  He said it was normal, and at 7, who was I to disagree, or even think differently?

I was smack dab in the middle of what therapists call the "grooming stage". He was checking to see how far he could get, and making me feel like we were ok, and that every one did this very same thing.

****************************************************************************
Many separate things in these occurrences made it difficult to become adult in my sexuality.  By this, I mean that I was forced into acts that were sexual, before I even had a word for them, and so as an adult, when my butt was tickled as a means of foreplay, I had an immediate sensation of guilt and disgust, followed by imagery flashbacks, then complete shut down and numbness.  Therapy helped with these, by making me taking control of this particular situation with my lover, and staying in the moment.  It was very difficult, but incredibly freeing, because it felt like I was placing the right label on something that had been bothering me for years.

A little about me

I always seem to have trouble starting these things. What to say first, I mean.

I'm almost 29 years old, a divorced woman with 2 kids, boys aged 10 and 7 (nearly).  I grew up in Montreal, Canada, and still live here, in a little town on the island itself.  I finished high school, but not Cegep (college).

My childhood was like many others, I suppose.  Mostly good times, with some really rough times to keep you on your toes.  That's what my blog is about, by the way.  The rough times, and what I've made of them.  Some have blown my world apart in a sudden blast, others have chipped away in the background, as destructive as a gentle water leak can be against concrete, given enough time.

I suppose I should just let the cat out of the bag in this post.  I don't want to be dragging the naming over many posts, that's ridiculous.

My father used to molest me, from before I could form memories, to the time I moved out to go to Cegep, when I was 17 years old.  Through recent contact I've had with him, I know that if I was still living there, I would have to put up with most of the same abuse, especially the verbal and emotional.

My cousin raped me when I was 9 years old, and tried numerous times before and after the one successful attempt.  I haven't seen him since I was 15.

Last, but certainly not least, my (now) ex-husband abused me from about a year after we started going out (so around 17 years old) until he cheated on me when I was 25, and I finally kicked his ass out.

I don't want everyone to think this is going to be a super depressing blog, always full of the bad things that have happened to me.  As I said before, it wasn't all bad, and I'm currently enjoying a huge upswing in my life.

Having said all that, you've had fair warning, and I hope that, even so, you follow me on my journey.