I have a few sketchy memories of my life before turning six, but for the most part, I don’t really remember much of anything from those earliest years of my life. I used to think that was normal, and that no one really remembers much of their first 5 or 6 years of life. After I became an adult, I learned from others that they had memories of those early years.

My early years of grade school blur together in my mind. I remember feeling sad and lonely much of the time. My older sister and I shared a bedroom, and while that helped some, the nine-year age difference between us created a barrier. The tension in our home was stifling. It felt like my dad was always angry, especially at my older brother. I learned what to avoid doing by listening to what Dad berated my brother over. He berated all of us.

I cried the day my sister left for college, but it wasn’t until I had a room to myself that I learned pure fear. I don’t even remember the first time my dad came to my bedroom telling me he was going to “teach me about sex.” I do remember crying because it hurt, and I hated the way it made me feel. I hated the way he made me feel. He told me not to tell anyone, and that no one would believe me. Every night after that, I would lie in bed, afraid he would come. I would pretend to be asleep hoping he would just go away, but he never went away; he always forced me to wake up. Thankfully, he did not come every night, but he came to my room often. I felt helpless and ashamed. I felt dirty, and like something was wrong with me. I felt trapped! So I never told anyone.

I don’t remember how long I endured the torture of my dad sexually abusing me in my bed at night. Instead of feeling safe in my bedroom, I was haunted by the fear of him slinking into my room to fulfill his own twisted pleasure. When he came, I just wanted it to get over as fast as possible so he would go away. I remember how much I wanted to tell my mother in hopes that she would make it stop. I thought it was as bad as it could get…but I was wrong. A day came that rocked the foundations of my world and left me with nothing solid to hold onto.

The day my dad informed me that he had talked with my mom and that they were now going to teach me together brought more pain and confusion into my young life than I can even begin to describe. While I had never tried to tell my mom what my dad was doing to me, I had always thought she would believe it to be wrong. The day she became involved left me feeling more helpless, alone, and dirty than I had previously.

Forty years would pass before I would learn that my mother had been abused as a child, and then had been living in an abusive marriage since 19 years of age. While I recognize that she always had the choice to get out, I honestly don’t think she thought so. As a result, she was forced into the role of an abuser.

My dad became bolder and more twisted in his demented attempts to educate us as I silently endured sexual abuse for almost 4 years. Then, one day, my older brother came with strange instructions. He told me to get into his car because he was taking me to the store to buy a record. I was puzzled and asked why. He told me he just wanted to buy me a gift and that he had already told our parents about his plan. Once we were in the car though, he informed me that my sister needed to talk with me and that we were going to stop briefly at the store for me to choose a 45, but for me to hurry, and not take more than a couple of minutes.

To say I was puzzled is an understatement, but I did what he said, and soon found myself standing at the door of my sister’s apartment. When she opened the door, my brother told her he would be back for me and left.

Once inside my sister’s apartment, it didn’t take long before I understood what was going on. My dad was a very controlling man and always demanded to know where we had been and what we had been doing when we left the property. If we took longer than he thought we should have, he would question us endlessly. My older brother and sister knew that they didn’t have much time, but they had become suspicious that my dad might be abusing me sexually because it had happened to my sister when she was younger.

Opening up and telling my sister was one of the hardest things I had to do at that point in my life. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I also simply didn’t know how to explain what was going on. She was shocked to learn that our mother was also involved. My sister was 13 when our dad sexually abused her, and when she told her brother (my older brother), he wanted to help her, so he went to our mom. At that time, our mother contacted the authorities who came and arrested Dad. He didn’t stay locked up very long, though. He somehow convinced the authorities that my sister and mother were lying.

My sister told me a little of what had happened to her, but mostly she concentrated on instructing me. She formulated a plan as to how to make Dad stop. I was terrified, but she told me that his “bark was worse than his bite,” and that she believed that if I firmly told him “No” that he would back off. As an adult looking back on it now, I realize how that was a lot to expect of a 12-year old, but my sister and brother honestly didn’t know any other way to help me. As far as they were concerned, the authorities had failed my sister.

One night, not long after that, as I was putting dishes away, my dad came into the kitchen. I was facing the utensil drawer when he spoke to me from about 6-8 feet behind me. I remember I had a knife in my hand, so as I turned, I held onto the knife behind my back. Thankfully, my sister had been right. I told my dad, “No, I’m not doing that anymore!” At first, he took a step towards me with rage written all over his face, and then suddenly he stopped, looked at me, and turned away swearing that I would regret it.

That night the sexual abuse of me stopped, but the verbal, emotional, and psychological abuse went on into my adulthood.