I Don't Believe In Fairy Tales: My Story
If you are a survivor, I suggest that you not read my story all in one sitting. It is, as I said, a rough story, and you might be triggered. I get plenty of emails from survivors telling me they could relate deeply to one part of my story, or another. Anyway, take care as you read this. Take breaks if you must. And most of all, I hope that you take note that I AM A SURVIVOR! I could have, and perhaps should have died many times over. But I haven't. I have a purpose in life, that I am just beginning to discover, and I am healing, gradually. You can too. That is my most sincere and earnest prayer for you. Now I leave you to my story.
Like it is for a lot of you, I don't really remember my earliest years. I mostly only know what I know from my family telling me. Both my parents struggled with alcohol dependency. Alcoholism runs very rampant in my family. My mother has been sober since 1980, when she found out that she was pregnant with me. She is at the point now where she can have a beer or two, and then STOP without going overboard. I'm quite proud of her for that. My father was another story. His alcoholism was terribly severe, and terribly destructive. As you will later read, he got sober when it was virtually too late.
It all started around the age of 2. Was it the chicken, or the egg? I don't know. Either it was my father striking me for the first time (hard enough to knock me to the floor, I've been told), or it was the first sexual assault by someone close to the family. Either away the sexual assaults continued until I was 4, and we moved away. Sometime after the move, the sleep disturbances began. I had terrible night terrors, and nightmares. Sometimes I'd have up to 3 memorable nightmares a night.I was unusually fearful about many things. I knew that there was evil in the world.
[Me in 1983.]
When I was between the ages of 4-6, my father's drinking really took off. He regularly physically, psychologically, and emotionally abused my mother and I. At "best" the most danger was simply my father saying he wished I'd never been born. At worst, my father was threatening to kill my mother. My father was a true study in contraction, I must point out. At the same time while all this crap was going on, when he was sober (or sometimes even when he was drunk!), and I was having a night terror and could be heard screaming, my father would scoop me up out of bed, carry me to another bed on that floor of the house, and lie down and hold me there in his arms till I was no longer disturbed. It was these occasional outpourings of love that left me really confused about our father-daughter relationship for many years.
One thing my father did quite a bit, was drive drunk with me in the car. It was a very dangerous time in my life, and by 6 years old, I routinely started my day by pondering whether I would be alive to see the next one. I knew the consquences of drunk driving, even at that age, and I knew that as a helpless child, I didn't stand that much of a chance. Twice in my life I would have this lesson hammered home. On April 30, 1987, my father was very drunk, and wanted to go fishing. This was a pasttime I enjoyed being with my dad often. This time however, I didn't want to go. My father was going to make me. My mom then told him that if he did, she would report him to the police as having kidnapped me. He left in a rage. Somewhere around the Sacremento River, near the town of Isleton, his truck experienced problems, and he got out to check on it. He was so drunk he forgot to set the parking brake. As he was checking it out, the truck went into the river, taking an occupied car with it. Luckily the man who was in that car was saved. Here is where it frightens me. I know that had I gone along, my father (again, a study of contradiction), would have made sure I was properly buckled in. The chances are good that I would have gone into that river, with that truck, and probably drowned. I try not to think about it much, but when I do, I try to think of it terms of this being one of the many times that God was present, and saved myself and my family from a much worse fate.
The second time this hit home was the spring of 1988. I'd known a little girl named Katie since kindergarten. She was a victim of neglect (always coming to school with matted hair, and dirty clothes...and hungry), and the daughter of an alcoholic mom. One spring day, she, her mother, and her sister Jessica were driving along the Sacremento River, while Katie's mom was drunk. The mom hit a pole, which led to the back door of the car opening, and Katie literally fell into the Sacremento River where she drowned. Jessica was seriously hurt, but alive. And in one of those twists in life that I'll never understand, Katie's mother was physically ok! My 1st grade class was to sign a condolence card, which I did. We were also supposed to hug Katie's mother, but I didn't. I hated her for murdering her daughter. So when she tearfully hugged me, I was stiff as a board.
My father went to jail for the accident. He spent several months there. I never visited him...I'm not sure if that was because little kids weren't allowed, or because mom didn't think it was any place for a little girl to be. Either way, I'm glad I never went. I was deeply depressed at this time. This is quite horrible, and I am still sorting out what all this means to me and my life in general, but; when I was 6 years old, I was convinced I didn't have much longer to live. I had decided that if by some remote chance I happened to make it to my 16th birthday, I would kill myself on that day. I think I was inspired by all those fairy tales...like Snow White and Sleeping Beauty...where the ulitmate action, and peak of your frail, delicate beauty is reached at age 16. My father was released eventually. I still remember dad coming home...cleaned up, new Volkswagen van...and an apology pizza. My dad was known fro his "apology stuff", which was basically stuff he brought home in hopes of making up for whatever he'd done the night before. It wasn't much longer after that, that mom decided to legally separate from my dad.
[Drawning I did of my father in 1987.]
In August of 1989, the month that I turned 8, my parents decided to get back together. My dad had promised that he'd gotten his act together, but you know what? He was still struggling with booze. He was homeless for about a year. He drifted, and at one time his called his van (parked on my uncle's property) home. He called often...often in tears, saying that he missed us so much, and was lonely. So mom agreed to reunite with him. We moved back to my hometown. It was hard. I didn't fit in with the kids really, and as I said, my dad still struggled.
One summer, while I was 8, almost 9, my grandmother and 11 year old cousin came to visit us. There was one day when I was feeling tired and weak, and had gone to lay down. My cousin was there with me, and we were talking. Then my dad came in. He was quite drunk, but he was in "happy drunk" mode at the moment, so I wasn't worried. But then went to sit down on my bed, and sat on my abdomen. Given that I was about 65 pounds, and he was about 150, I was in pain, and suffocating. I remember saying to him over and over, "Daddy, you're hurting me." Eventually I was rapidly running out of oxygen, and couldn't speak anymore. I began scratching his leg...trying to get his attention. But he was wearing jeans, and he was drunk, so he felt nothing, and just kept on taking to me. Things started fading...I began to see colors. I also saw my cousin. I will never forget the fear in her eyes. When I looked at her, I saw her face as confimation that I was dying. I didn't know what to do or think. I didn't have the grounding to say my goodbyes, or to pray. I was fading fast. And then I passed out. When I woke up, I was alone. It was several minutes before I could really breathe again, and at least 30 minutes before I could move or get up from the bed. I told my mom, but as usual she strove to preserve the fascade of the happy family, and did/said nothing to my dad.
When I was 9 years old, one of my worst nightmares started. It would continue till I was 14, and in some ways, continues to this day. My mom and I frequently visited with a side of her family. That is when her uncle began to molest me. It never escalated beyond kissing and fondling, but it still affected me deeply, and continues to affect me to this day, in my relationships with men, and how I see myself, and my body. It's because of him that I grew up thinking that sex is something that is done to you, instead of done with you. I think some of my other cousins were molested. One in particular was very promiscuous, at age 11! I am sure she was molested. When I realized this, it was high school.. it made me so sick... I wanted to throw up, literally.
[This certificate was presented to me sometime during 1990 for completing a one day good touch/bad touch program. Oh the irony.]
My dad's insanity continued. He still threatened my mom's life, and one day this took a desprate turn, when he bought another gun. Let me tell you, I was so afraid that he was going to kill both my mom and I. He'd be messing with the gun late at night, obviously drunk, and I would lay awake in bed, and just cry. I remember one night this was happening, and he came to me, and said "Don't worry, daddy's not going to get hurt." and I felt such rage wash over me then. I did nothing though, because I felt helpless.
When I was 11, almost 12, the unthinkable happened. My life actually took a turn for the worse! It was a deeply frightening and confusing them. My dad was diagnosed with terminal throat cancer, from years of smoking. He would quit drinking immidately, because he was forced to. He was also forced to face much of the destruction he'd caused his life, and to those he loved. I never saw a man cry with such...well, words cannot describe it. Grief, maybe? I don't know. But he would be red in the face from sobbing as he faced some new thing that he'd done. At this time I was experiencing what some people call peer abuse. Many days, in fact most of the time, it felt like I was the most hated girl in school. Some people chalk up the other girls' cruelty to jealousy, but I don't know. I can't see much for them to have been jealous of. I spent my recesses swinging on the swings, it made dissasociating from everything easier. If someone was on another one of the swings, I'd go stand at the fence and dissociate there. It was a hell I wouldn't wish on ANYONE.
This was also the first time I'd tried to get help. Well, actually, I did talk to a volunteer some years earlier who was there educating 8 year olds about sexual abuse. I told her what was going on with my dad. (the sexual abuse that I remember hadn't started yet), and she listened, but that's all she'd done. At age 11 I'd gone to a counselor who'd given me a religious lecture in the place of real help. He said to me that the abuse was God's will for me, and he didn't report it. I'd decided I couldn't take it anymore. I tried hanging myself. Thank God I didn't know to make a proper noose. I survived, obviously. I needed an escape desprately, but it would have to wait. I didn't think of the consquences of my attempt till afterwards. Now, I cannot imagine what horror and guilt would have been upon my father's head if his little girl had ended her life at age 11 because of things he'd done, and because of the incest she wasn't allowed to tell him about. After that I retreated into silence. I had to be harrassed and cajoled to saying anything to anyone, if then. I just had nothing to say.
In junior high I started to recover a little. I'd forgiven my father. I threw myself emotionally into loving him, instead of fearing him. I also began to make friends by accident. Because of what'd gone through with the kids in 6th grade, I started out not trusting kids who talked to me, especially the ones who picked on me. But I met some kids through G.A.T.E (Gifted and Talented Education), that became my friends. In May of '94, my father's condititon was rapidly deteriorating. If my dad wanted to talk to me for any reason, everything was stopped, and I was made to come home from whatever I was doing, and go to him. On May 2nd, a Monday, I'd gone to a G.A.T.E meeting. Then I went to the park with a couple of friends, and their father. Now, to back up a bit, they were our neighbors during some of the worst of the stuff. I looked at their father as a father figure. Well, anyway... we were on the swings, and I began to feel things I hadn't felt before. First I felt "Gee I have a father figure in Mr. ________!" and then as I swung higher, higher, and higher...I felt free! I couldn't explain it, but I felt like I was soaring. Free. Finally. I got home in the afternoon. My mom told me that dad was in a coma, and this was probably it. I dissociated heavily. I couldn't take it. Then, at 9:34 PM, my mom walked out of their bedroom, and said "He's gone." I reluctantly let her hold me. One of the very next things she said was "He can't hurt you anymore." I don't know if I'll ever truly understand what she meant by that, but at the same time, I already do. I then remember waiting outside with Duke, our pitbull, as the morticians removed dad's body. I said goodbye as their van pulled away, with my dad. About a month after my father's passing, I spoke out about the type of fear and pain his disease had inflicted. In June '94, I performed a monologue called "Daddy Drinks Too Much" in local competitions, and at a G.A.T.E expo. I took second place in the northern part of the county for serious interpretation. I got all sorts of compliments on my performing skills, and the "way you think". But that's not the good/important part. The important part is that I hopefully made an impression on someone.
Fast forward a few months to late '94. I had turned 13. I want to write an essay detailing this time in my life, sometime later. Music and literature literally turned the tides in my life at this time for me. The first, earth shattering thing I would encounter, was the book I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by the wonderful poet/author/human being, Maya Angelou. Her story, which included a terrible rape at age 8, would change me forever. We were reading excerpts from this book in my Language Arts class. Mr. ________ showed us the film version of the rape. The reaction was marked. The girls sat in stunned, fearful, possibly triggered silence. The boys LAUGHED. The rage I felt at the moment would eventually propel me to become an anti-abuse/rape activist. This website would not exist without that rage. Also, I began to discover music. I had been liking R&B stuff, like Aaliyah, and Mary J. Blige, but later on I would discover metal, and I would discover stuff considered "progressive" music. Two songs in particular, Family Tree by Megadeth and Silent All These Years by Tori Amos, would have a positive impact on my life. The book, and those songs, showed me that I'd been hurt badly. That I deserved to heal. That I couldn't wait for someone to just come rescue me. I had to do something. There wasn't much I could do since I was only 13, and still too afraid to rock boats, but I did start reading books on recovery from sexual abuse.
When I was 14, I began to have terrible conflicts with my mother over my depression. She didn't understand what was going on, and her coping mechanism was to be verbally abusive. Telling me I'd go no where in life. And mind you, things hadn't gotten at their worst with the depression yet. I was an active student at that time. I was on Yearbook staff, I was in German class, I was in mostly honor classes. I got all sorts of compliments. At 15 I was very involved with drama club. That was some of the best times of my life. Yet there were still problems then too. There was a boy I liked. He kind of had a crush on me. But he was evil. When people weren't around, he hit me. Choked me. The single worst disrespect of my humanity & body and boundaries, outside of the worser stuff he did, was force a safety pin into my wrist. Just to hear me scream. Because my screams were "cute". At 14, I'd attempted suicide again, by drinking nail polish remover.
By age 16, I was out to lunch, big time. I was very depressed, and by this time, I was a full blown manic depressive (bipolar), bulimic, and had been dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder God only knows how many years. The bipolar had psychotic features...I believed crazy things. I heard voices. It was true torture. I was scared to death every night. I was an angry little girl who hated myself, and hated people. I hated to be touched. I didn't even like it when my mom touched me. I had a man who was in his 70's come on to me one day. It was so disgusting to me, so upsetting, that I nearly threw up. I know now that that throwing up instinct is normal for incest survivors. I missed so much school that I acquired the nickname "Mirage". I was also booted from regular high school and sent to alternative school. I would do well there and come back to regular high school, but I would be forced to go back to alternative high school one more time before I finally found enough strength to get my act together long enough to make as many school days as possible, and barely graduate from my regular high school.
At 17, I was sexually assaulted by a group of boys outside a donut shop after school. My friend (who is also a survivor of incest), was there with me (although I was the only one assaulted), and we both screamed for help. There were people in that stinking donut shop, but no one helped...they just watched stunned, as I was passed around and sexually abused.
In September '99, I started college. My experience of struggling my first and second semesters of college, and also deeply introverted and disturbed, following the death of my grandfather. In December '99, I had what can only be described as a nervous breakdown. I didn't get help then. I should have, but I didn't. In March 2000, I got the bravery to go to a mental health clinic and seek help. Things have been up and down since then, but mostly for the better.
In 2001, I had several terrible things happen. Some stuff inflicted by me, some of it very much inflicted by others. I just don't want to talk about that stuff at the moment.
In 2002, desprate from everything, tired, and feeling like I was losing the fight, I nearly attempted suicide again. I am sure that if I had tried, I would have succeeded. Instead I had my mom take me to the hospital, where I was looked over, and calmed down.
In September of that year, I accepted Christ. Here is what I originally wrote about that: "I visited my surrogate mother Daphne's page, Recovery With God, which starts out with tips on how to pray. Going through those pages, I cried. I felt that empty spot, and I knew now that I needed God. I had sinned, I felt empty, I needed His love, so one day lying in bed resting, I confessed my sins and gave my heart to Jesus. It's the best decision I've ever made in my life. On my very first Sunday in church, Pastor Juan told us that the things that go wrong in our lives are not God's doing! Oh did I cry, remembering the waste of space counselor in 6th grade who told me that everything happening to me at that time, everything that was going horribly wrong was GOD's WILL. I thought God hated me. Now I know he doesn't. On my third Sunday in church, nothing short of a miracle happened. Pastor Juan called out illnesses and told us the person with that illness had been cured. Someone with migrane headaches. Then.... he said someone with chronic stomach problems and pains had been cured. And as he said that, I felt a field of warm energy in the pit of my stomach, and it passed all throughout my body. I nearly fell to my knees. I know it was I who was healed. My other surrogate mother and friend, Deirdre, told me that the devil would try to test me by lying to me in the form of stomach pains. She was right. But with God's help I fought it off, and I have had no pains. I have also had no psychois at night. I am sleeping peacefully at night with minimal anti psychotics, for the first time in YEARS. I have truly experienced a miracle."
I have made so much progress, and I continue to make progress. Guess what? I like to be touched now! :D I like being hugged, like being kissed. I have forgiven my father...I am working on forgiving my mother. Maybe one day I can forgive the others. I speak out against violence and abuse. I still have nightmares, I still get triggered, I still have my ups and downs. But God is faithful, and has been faithful to me even when I didn't realize what was going on.
So, that is my story. Long, ain't it? Well, I hope that it has made you feel something. Hopefully anger more than sadness. I want you to be angry about what happened to me, because I want you to join me in the fight to make sure this never happens to anyone else again. Hopefully inspiration, right along with anger. If you are a survivor, I want you to see that it is possible to heal. If you're not a survivor, but have troubles of your own, I want you to know you can overcome them. We can all make it in this life.
Updates:
- August 24, 2005 - The Truth Comes Out (Very Triggering)
- February 7, 2006 - Turning Over A New Leaf (Could trigger for forgiveness issues)
- August 19, 2006 - "King Solomon's Mine, Exit 75, I'm Still Alive, I'm Still Alive"
- May 15, 2007 - Anniversaries, Struggles, and Progress, oh my!
As Waters Passing By > Annaleigh's Story