I have talked about this in moments and pieces because its breaks my heart. It makes me want to crawl to hell and hide there, where no one would think to look for me. I have gone over this in my head a million and one times a million trying to make it anything other than what it is. I was 13. I started to write all the ways that I am the one responsible and I am going to try really hard not to do that. Because once again I was only 13. Just thirteen, sometimes that takes the breath out of me, to realize those were the things that I survived, that was my life and I believed those were just the things that happened. This is what I was good for. I often call the things that I suffered the "it" if I can just lump all the things, all the abuse together it takes away just how awful that each and every thing that happened to me was. This was just another day in my life, and I look back and hold my heart. I had to do everything on my own, take care of everything and pretend that all was well in the world. But nothing was ok. I don't think that I can be factual and feeling at the same time. I am going to be factual then try the feeling. Maybe they will come together, I don't know. Another level of pain of sadness. I can already feel the heaviness. The sinking feeling, the ache that I didn't have good things. These things are not supposed to happen. Fathers don't make their daughters do this. Daughters don't climb on their own beds to make their fathers happy.
Here is how I got my scar, the 2 inch long scar that is on the right side of my right knee.
My mother was on a trip to the beach with her mother. She always made a big deal out of it, how she needed to get away. How tired that she was and she needed a break. I always knew what that meant for me. I was basically a little wife when she was home it got worse when she wasn't if that was even possible. Every single time that she went away there was some kind of drama with my father, and this trip was no different. His back went out. Something that happened all the time, but he played the victim well. He was a complete drama queen and made sure that everyone knew just how hurt that he as. All the focus always had to be on him. I called bullshit even back then. He just wanted, attention. He wanted others to be at his becking call. That included my brother and I. Back then people had water beds. Since his back was so bad, he had to sleep in my bed with a normal mattress. It made me sick, I didn't want him in my bed in my room. I didn't have a choice either. He wasn't even getting up to use the restroom. He was using a urinal that you get from the hospital. I can remember him using it, then he wanted my brother or I to take care of it. My father laughed like it was a joke.We kind of laughed, like how gross no way! It felt like some kind of test. My brother and I soon realized that he wasn't kidding. My brother disappeared, and that left me alone with him. Those eyes, I can still see his beady eyes. All of the sudden, the last thing that mattered was his used urinal. Things had happened to me for so long, that many many things were unspoken. I was expected to know what he needed when he needed it and make sure that it happened. I had to do things just like he wanted, the right way. I wish that I could remember, his words. But I don't remember a single one. There was a knowing what he wanted and I hated it. I can remember thinking, no, no please no and putting my head down but also knowing this was my job. So in my room with bright yellow walls, with shar-pei posters and stuffed animals all around, I did the unthinkable. I remember the curtains in shades of yellow, orange and green. A little girl watering the grass, wearing a bonnet. There was a goose, almost her height. I was expected to climb into my own bed and perform oral sex on my father. That was my job, that was how things went in my life.
So I was at the foot of the bed, where a little nightstand was. The knob had fallen off the drawer, there was just a nail, and I caught my knee while I was climbing on the bed. It created a really big gash, I can remember being worried about getting the blood on my bed and making a mess. That obviously didn't matter. So with my bleeding knee, I had to give him oral sex. He laid there and moaned, pushing my head and he didn't care. I couldn't breathe he didn't care. As always when he was done, he would push me away and I was expected to clean up the mess. I would usually leave and get sick, then just lay down pretending that the world was different that the world was safe and I had a dad that loved and cared for me. I got a band aid and cleaned up my knee. I guess his back wasn't that bad was it. I felt like his little whore. I thought for sure that something I did was wrong the way that he would always push me away when he was done. I knew that he hated me with out a doubt. I always knew what I was good for.
I hate that I climbed up on my own bed in my own room. There is a guilt in that; that is indescribable. His back was out, what was he going to do come after me? Always the one who listened and did what she was told. I hate that about her. It's painful to know that at 13 I knew was expected of me. I knew what he wanted how everything worked, and I knew what to do. I hated every single second. I hated him, I hated myself and I hated that stupid nail for sticking out and hurting my leg. I hated the feeling that I wasn't able to breath. He would just pretend that nothing happened, inside I just wanted to die. I had no one. I still have no idea where my brother was during this time.
I can still see those yellow walls, the curtains, my stuffed animals. I can remember the conversations that I would have with them telling them it was ok that things would be done soon. No child should ever have to have that kind of conversation ever. The conversations with my animals were the only ones I ever had, they were the only things that were concerned about me. I knew they weren't real, but a part of me had to believe that someone cared even if it was a stuffed animal.
I am sure most of the week my mother was gone went like this. Then she comes home and I can remember her bringing me a jean jacket. I wanted to be excited, I know that I really wanted one, but all I could think was I wish that she just stayed home and kept me safe. She went on and on about how wonderful it was and how amazing the ocean was. I wanted to scream at her . I can still see us all sitting in the living room as she unpacked her suit case, talking about her wonderful trip. While she was looking out across the ocean her husband was doing terrible awful things to me. How does a 13 year old's brain make sense of that? They don't; I can promise you that they don't. My heart still hurts, the memories haven't faded and I am left being afraid of words that tell you exactly what was done. I am ashamed that I knew what to do, that I knew what was happening. I am ashamed that I climbed into my own bed to make him happy. We were always told in my house just make him happy. Make him happy at any cost. The cost to me was everything and no one really cared.
And that is how I got that scar on my knee.
I heart your heart.
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