Edited to add: this post is about to hit 6,000 views. If you are looking for pornography, please keep looking. Heck, you can even look around this blog. I write pornography sometimes. This post is not about pornography. This is my life. I was a brutalized child. Please don’t beat off thinking about my father raping me. I don’t mind in the slightest if you kind of imagine that kind of thing in abstract, please have enough respect not to use my actual trauma.

If you are a rape survivor there are much better posts here for you than this one. This one just makes you sad.
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Oh fuck.  I remember.  I remember how it happened.  After he gave me the milkshake that tasted funny, I’m sure it was spiked, and after he took me to bed and made me sleep naked and fingered me and after I got up to throw up in the bathroom…

I remember and I wish I didn’t.  He came to get me.  He asked me why I was sniveling in the bathroom.  I told him I had been sick.  He made me clean up.  Then he told me I needed to apologize for making a mess.  He walked over and sat down on the couch.  He sat down and then I noticed a gun in his hand.  He set it down pretty obviously on the seat next to him.  He told me to crawl to him.  I did.  He told me to apologize while I was sucking his cock.  And I did.

And I’m not allowed to feel anything about this memory right now.

But now I am because it is 2:30 am and I just sent Noah to bed.  I forced him to hammer out with me what memory was surfacing right now, why is it triggering me so hard, and how can I get through it a bit faster, damnit.  I am now re-reading The Courage to Heal and mocking myself for how very classic my pattern is. Yes this is a spiral, and yes I am in recovery, Chris.  I am the survivor of incest.  Tonight I said out loud to my husband that my father raped me.  I am pretty sure that is the very first time in my life I have ever said that out loud.  And oh my fucking god now I feel about it.

This feels overwhelming and horrifying and awful.  I am drowning.  This hurts so much.  My father held a gun to my head and told me to suck his cock.  And I was supposed to get up the next day and go to the amusement park with him.  I asked him to take me home instead because I was sick from the alcohol poisoning he had given me.  I couldn’t tell him that.  And that is why my stomach hurts so bad if I have much alcohol.  The sensation scares the ever loving shit out of me.  When I was 18 years old I was given a date rape drug by someone I was out to have a one night stand with.  I intended to have sex with him anyway but I doubt he knew that.  I sincerely doubt he knew I was a sure thing.  I’m pretty sure he thought I was the normal sort of stupid 18 year old who invites a guy up to a drinking party in a secluded mountain house and intends to say no.  You know, one of those stupid women who have never been repeatedly raped from toddlerhood.

Right.  You can see the problem there.  And you can see how I can get away from this feeling.  There are a lot of fucking valid reasons I want to derail from going where my head is heading right now.  That’s a god damn terrifying place to be.  I am trying to talk myself into releasing into the horrible body memories of my father raping me.  And maybe I will have to pause and I will have to tell Puff about it.  Maybe if I quiet my fingers I can find my voice.

Oh my fucking god.  My mother told me that she breastfed me longer than any of her other children because, “It was the only way to keep them off of me.”  I think she means my father.  I think my father started actually raping my sister after I was born and that is why she resents me so much.  But that’s a story I’m making up and I have no reason to think it is true.  That’s trying to explain her actions with motives that make her actions justified.  No.  No.  No.  I am not to blame for my father molesting my sister.  It is not my fault that my mother stayed as long as she did.  Women in domestic violence situations often have to try leaving several times before they manage to get out.  Even once they get out there is a ridiculous legacy of guilt and shame to deal with around allowing your FUCKING HUSBAND TO RAPE YOUR DAUGHTERS YOU PIECE OF SHIT CUNT.  I don’t have to be diplomatic here about my mother.  I don’t need to find a way to excuse the fact that she is the most disgusting, pathetic, worthless example of mothering I have ever fucking seen and I think that if she dies in a lot of pain it is exactly what she fucking deserves.

I called her on the fucking phone and begged her to come pick me up.  She told me that I made my bed so now I have to lie in it.  That was a consistent theme, sadly.  I was often left with my father in a way that was phrased as me deserving him because I was a little kid and I asked to see my daddy.  When I asked to see him she dropped me on his lap and said, “Fine!  You want the bastard!  Fuck you then you little bitch!”  No really.  My mother said that to me, verbatim.  That was how she sent me to my father’s house.  And then he molested me.  And I called her and asked her to intervene because I was a god damn outrageously precocious child and I knew that what was happening to me was wrong and my mother told me that I made my bed now I have to lie in it.

Then my father raped me.  And then he wanted me to get in the car the next day and go to the amusement park with him so he could show the world what a good dad he was.  I’ve told the story about him insisting on me wearing short dresses with zippers so he could molest me in public, right?  Yeah.  And on the car ride home he screamed at me for being an ungrateful, pathetic, useless bitch because he already had the theme park tickets and he fucking wanted to go and now I’ve ruined everything and it is all my fault for being such a horrible, selfish, stupid bitch.

That is my story.  That is the tape I hear in my head.  I want to start listing off when… but I’ll only list the times that make my story seem better.  But it’s totally fucking random.  Sometimes it’s at times when it’s convenient and sometimes it is a nightmare.  To continue setting the stage, it is now 3:00am.  I took ~5 minutes off to visit the restroom, find carrots for mindless eating that will allow me to focus without contributing to my negative self esteem issues, lots of water, and I’m now out of excuses for not going down the rabbit hole.  I’m sitting in my little corner under the cave next to the flowers.  It’s not ready yet… but I’ll post a picture tomorrow.  I hadn’t even realized what I was building until I typed it in this paragraph right now.  I have a pretty sledgehammer like subconscious, don’t you think?

Oh my god.  Why is that the first thing I say when I think of my father raping me.  Why do I cry out to god to save me?  Am I searching for that higher power?  My therapist clearly thinks so and she’s pushing me loudly towards Wicca.  (I saw what you did there, Sharon.)  Which is a very clear choice.  I was systematically told throughout my childhood that I was evil and bad by every one around me and I didn’t realize how blatant it was until Noah listed it off tonight.  I don’t realize it until people express shock and horror that I don’t just know that my childhood was off the charts brutal.

My father gave me an alcoholic milkshake then penetrated me vaginally while rubbing himself vigorously against me.  And right now I have the most overwhelming urge to masturbate it isn’t funny.  I feel like I cannot continue telling this story because I have to go masturbate because it is so fucking hot that he did that to me.

That is why I am a disgusting piece of shit.  That is why Femme Car does her stuff.  Ha.  Enh, Or maybe that’s me projecting my story onto other people I don’t know.  That’s the annoying part of this introspection stuff.  I am realizing that I don’t even know my friends.  Most of the people I have been bonding with lately are big, physically intimidating men who were themselves hurt as children.  I am solely interacting with people who identify as survivors.  I am testing people out, slowly, one by one, seeing if they understand my language.  Because only other survivors know what I’m talking about.  And I’m text book.  And that bothers me.

I feel offended by the fact that I am a text book incest survivor.  God damnit don’t I think I am more special than that?  Oh shit now I’m trying to get nasty with myself rather than feel this.  See how this goes?

I’m going round and round in circles because I don’t know if I am actually breaking cycles or if I just moved them somewhere else.  I’m desperately looking for proof that I am not like my family.  I have to trot out these long list of examples of horrible exchanges.  They aren’t horrible (uhm, mostly) in and of themselves if any of them had been one thing in my entire childhood.  But it’s kind of a …  wait.  What the fuck am I saying.  No.  They were god damn horrible.  I was heinously abused.  I was horrifically, over the top, ridiculously abused.  I was blamed for events that happened before my fucking birth.  I have confirmation of this from my brother.  He said it once, I can never ask him for that validation again.  Now I have to just go on with my life believing my side of the story.

But first I have to hate my mother for a while and that’s hard.  I love my mother a lot.  I desperately wish that I got to be in a relationship with her right now.  I want support desperately.  No, let me rephrase this.  Right now I am in a period of intense stress.  Culturally I was brought up to believe that when you are in periods of intense stress and you need to ask for help you should first ask your family.  Only my family would respond to my response for help by bringing the Titanic over and dropping it around my neck.  And saying it that way makes it sound like I don’t care about their suffering, and I do.  But nothing I do can fix their suffering and standing near them will allow them to hurt my children.  So they can fuck off and die.

Earlier this week I was losing it with the kids.  I was not in control of my emotions anymore.  As the book calls it, I was in the emergency phase and I needed to call in as much help and childcare as I could. And I did.  Before I picked up the book even, go me.  And by losing it with the kids I mean that I got a bit ranty when Shanna was standing in the door way screaming at me because she wanted me to stop working but I was trying to paint.  You can see how the conflict of needs here could feel intense.  Maybe.  Or maybe you think I am fucking nuts.  But you are going to be in one of three camps.  Either you will understand because you have also seen something hard and you have that monster somewhere inside of you and you are afraid of it, or you do not understand and you think that having that kind of monster inside of me makes *me* a monster, or you are a fairly empathetic person and you extrapolate from your own childhood (which was whatever it was) and you then react to how extreme my life was compared to your own life.  I think most people are in the third category.

And that means that no matter what, forever, my discussion of my abuse has to be a private journey.  Because it doesn’t matter where someone is in that trifecta of approaches, they can’t help me.  Only I can.  And my mom and my sister have to help themselves.  And this is the 12 step talk stuff that I pick up in the water living in California.  It’s just here.  People talk about them as if they are things that everybody just knows.  What does it say about me and my friends and my life that absolutely all of them know the 12 step language?  All of us are in abuse cycles.

And I’m getting off topic and I’m getting tired.  But this is something.  This is a start.  My father raped me.  I don’t seem to be ready to feel it yet, but I will get there.  And I feel in this moment like I have no choice but to recover the body memory of that.  Why do I feel like I must go through intense personal discomfort (I was planning to stay up ALL NIGHT) in order to force myself into a weak enough physical state where I could no longer fight off the terror of feeling abused.  My throat closed while I was typing.

And I had to pause right there to go check facebook and see for myself that the person who said he would come back and help me paint tomorrow responded and yes he really will be coming back.  And the friend whose birthday party I am skipping said she understands.  And I believe her.  I don’t think she is lying and secretly fuming.  I think she is probably sad for me that I am in a place where I am hurting like this.  Why do I want to think she is mad at me?  Because I want to start the cycle where I am begging people for reassurance.  I feel like it is ok for me to ask for small amounts of reassurance constantly from the people I live with (We say “I love you!” multiple times a day and that counts), but not big displays.  I need to keep that to a minimum.  I seem to feel like it is ok for me to ask for help from the community in a big open way where anyone who wants to come shows up and does whatever kind of help they kind of halfheartedly get done because I feel bad directing them.  I feel like I shouldn’t be bossy.

I get to the point of having panic attacks when I think about directing people right now.  Dude.  I taught high school.  If anyone can direct large groups of people it’s me.  Only I can’t.  And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I am sitting at home feeling upset that my friends are out at a dance event, or rather just getting home, and I’m sitting here obsessively writing on the internet about how broken I am.  My father raped me.  Not saying that out loud is ruining my life.  I guess I need to start saying it then.  After I go to sleep.