Revisiting my father

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Once I got into middle school, I had a lot more homework. Because I was always doing something after school, I left the schoolwork for after dinner. I would try and stay up as late as I could. He would stay downstairs watching television sometimes as late as one in the morning. If I was awake and working, he usually left me alone. But he would “check” on me three, four, sometimes even five times a night. I fought so hard to stay awake until he finally went to bed.

I was getting between four and five hours a sleep a night. I was always tired. My mother drug me to the doctor. All he did was tell me not to work so hard, and to get some more sleep. I couldn’t tell him the truth. I was terrified of him and I was terrified what would happen to me.

She threatened to call the school for giving so many hour of homework. I begged her not to. She would have found out that there was maybe two hours of work, not five or six. My teachers noticed how tired I always was. I learned very quickly that I needed to hide it. Mr. V, my eighth grade science teacher sent me to Mrs. M, the school counselor once. She kept wanting to know if everything was all right at home. I lied to her too. I just told her that I had to work really hard in my algebra class to maintain my grade. I wonder how many people I’ve lied to over the years?

I wasn’t always able to stay awake . Those nights were the worst. The lights would be on because I was working. He’d come in and turn them off. That usually woke me up because I was a very light sleeper. When the lights went off, I just tried to separate myself from what he was doing. I had some kind of mental fantasy land, but I don’t really remember much about it. I do remember it being very calm and a very beautiful place to live.

There wasn’t very much penetration by this point in time. As best as I can remember (and it’s all very unclear now), it happened maybe once or twice a week. His favorite activity was to spread my legs apart and lay his head down there. He would move a little later, and put his head on my stomach and his hands down there. He would stroke, gently at first. And then harder and harder. It hurt so bad. I was never able to stay in my fantasy world for very long. The pain brought me back to reality. He moved from outside to inside. His fingers would probe, just like when I was little. My muscles would tighten making it hurt even more.
I never knew how long he was there until I looked at the clock after he left. Sometimes it was just ten minutes. Other times, it was much, much longer. The whole time, I had to lay there. I was so afraid. I wanted to scream. But I was too afraid to. I was too scared to even open my eyes.
He would talk sometimes. I can hear him so clearly saying how much I wanted this. I didn’t do anything to stop it. That much has sent a clear message to him. I could have stopped it. Or I could have tried harder to stay awake. That would have prevented it from happening in the first place. It was my fault, plain and simple.

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About katm

I'm just your typical depressed donkey. I'm an abuse survivor. I deal with the pain and stiffness and other fun stuff that goes with fibromyalgia. I used to teach English for a living but because of my health, that isn't any option anymore. I love to cook and feel most in my element when I'm in the kitchen tinkering around.

One response »

  1. Sometimes I feel like wrapping myself up into a little ball and disappearing into nothingness. Just to escape the cruel, harsh world. I wish I could do that with you now. We aren’t perfect, and we never will be. Never. No matter how hard we try.
    Oh, how I wish I could wrap you up in a little blanket and cradle your hurt away. How I wish the world would stop its most painful spins… Your words are so painfully beautiful. You speak from the heart, and not many can do that.
    Your words are just beautiful.

    The world can be a crooked, fucked up place,
    and that will never be your fault.
    Love,
    -Tom Dandy

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