The Jealous Brat In Us Survivors

   Coming from abuse often makes you feel a lot like a child, especially if you were abused when you WERE a child. You feel vulnerable, unsure, and unsafe. I can't speak for everyone else, but I know that I've carried that into my adult life, hence the title "Feeling Young and Being Grown." When I get scared or I'm placed in a situation that makes me feel like I did when I was a kid, I turn into a child. I talk like one, I cry like one, I cuddle my stuffed animal, Peanut, and I curl up in a ball. 



   Last night, while I was writing my piece about sexual abuse and where I come from, I felt pretty good. It felt cathartic to get it out. When I finished, it was four in the morning- my boyfriend was fast asleep in bed next to me. The quiet made it real and I started to tear up. I nudged Ethan awake and he rolled out of bed to do what he always does in these situations: he went down and made me a mug of warm milk with sugar, came back and handed me Peanut, and put on a family guy and snuggled me to sleep. He's good to me that way. 


   It wasn't just remembering my own experiences that made me cry. It was hearing all of yours. To know that so many people suffer and feel, in many ways, exactly the same way I do can be overwhelming. It's a good-overwhelming, but I was honestly so shocked. Then it hit.....the insecurities....The jealous brat in me. 

   I don't know how many of you get this way, but I've talked it over with several of my sparkly-survivor friends and the feeling seems mutual: we don't like to hear when someone has gone through something we perceive as worse than what we've been through. It hurts! We think: "My pain can't possibly be valid now. What I went through was nothing. No one will believe my pain is pain, now that they've heard this person's story. Where does this leave me?" I'm going to call this part of us "the jealous brat."


   Sometimes we get stuck identifying ourselves by our abuse and it's all we feel like we have. We feel like there couldn't possibly be something inside of us, besides our pain and our past, that's worth knowing about....that's interesting. 


    Sometimes, I find myself trying to "one up" people when it comes to the abuse. I know. Totally terrible of me, right?! But we all do it. It's really just our insecurities telling us our lives and our own experiences must not matter. 


   I had someone tell me today that they wanted to share their story about their childhood, but after reading my story- they felt their experience paled in comparison. I'm sorry, but bullshit! Pain is pain and if you felt it, I care. We all care. I think we all can agree the "I was only raped once" or "it was by a woman so it doesn't count" or the "I think it may have all been in my head" cards cannot be used....it's just not cool with me anymore. I don't want to hear another person tell me one person's past was more or less painful than another's. It's time to stop being a jealous brat and recognize everyone's feelings are valid. Including yours. 

Sex+Sexual Abuse: A Survivor's Story-Anonymous (Female)

This was a story sent into me. To send your story, email me at stargee@me.com


To most people I come across cool, calm, and collected; I’m a top student, a hard worker, and a responsible young adult who seems to have everything together. I’m finally getting to a place in my life where I can say that much of that is true, but I’ve fought so hard to get where I am that success is hard for me to accept.

         There are several generations of sexual and physical abuse on my mom’s family tree, and several generations of manipulative emotional abuse on my dad’s side. Surprisingly enough, I consider both of my parents wonderfully amazing; they fought hard to overcome far more strife than most people ever know and somehow became successful human beings.

When my stepmother came into my life, the little relationship I had forged with my father transformed into a battlefield, a veritable stomping ground for manipulation and mind games. I grew up in a household where dissonance was the status quo, and though neither my father nor stepmother ever laid a hand on me, the emotional stress, turmoil, and absence of nurturing only grew worse over the years. By the time I reached middle and high school I was devoid of any self-esteem or confidence, worn down since the age of seven by the constant fear of never being good enough for either of them. I spent a sizeable amount of time in suicidal depression, cutting and starving myself because the agony I was feeling, completely alone.

         I relished the summers I spent with my biological mother, forever and always the most warm and nurturing figure in my life. My best memories were with her, small things that many other kids took for granted were momentous milestones for me; staying up late to watch tv with her, ice cream together on the couch, going shopping for articles of clothing she almost managed to convince me I looked cute in. Things were wonderful for short spans of time, until she left my siblings and I alone with our stepdad. I can say, without a doubt, that the man I knew as Rob was and still is a vile human being: a spiteful drunk, full of malice and resentment, who loved to relax by taking it out on the children while mom was at work. Much of my time around Rob has been repressed or faded away, but there are specific instances in every traumatic relationship that stay with you. One that has always stuck with me was the time when he slammed angrily into a wall, knocking a large picture frame down on my little sister’s head; I reached out to her to pull the glass pieces out of her hair as she cried and he responded by pinning me down and screaming in my face before he took a swing at me. I was 7, she was 4. I spent months each year sporting Robert bruises, and years internalizing the damage he did. To this day, when any male raises his voice or moves angrily I become a puddle of tears and quivering nerves, reacting the way I did when Robert rampaged around our small home. He destroyed my trust in the male gender, just as my stepmother crushed any chance I had at developing positive relationships with anyone female.

         I was lucky enough to avoid sexual abuse until my later years; I’ve come to believe that dealing with all three kinds of abuse while growing up might have destroyed me. When I eventually was able to bond with a guy, I fell in love at 16. When I say love, I don’t mean the kind of high school crush that most people assume kids experience; I feel in true, head-over-heels, “we’re soul mates” kind of love and it was utterly overwhelming. He and I spent nearly two years together, growing up and learning from each other. He taught me what it was like to have a true friend, to feel real affection, and to confide in a partner. At some point he changed. He started wanting me less and began dreaming about another girl, who happened to be my only real female friend. This girl was like a sister to me, she too came from an abusive family and shared many of my feelings and issues, we had bonded since the first time we met and nurtured a five year friendship. He spoke to me about his feelings, described his desire for her, and used guilt to manipulate me into group sex. He tiptoed around the conversation but blatantly inferred the fact that, if I didn’t agree to it, he wouldn’t love me anymore. He made me feel as though, despite my being extremely uncomfortable and ‘not okay’ with the proposition, I would be a shitty girlfriend and an even worse human being if I didn’t ‘at least let him try’. I loved him, he had been my partner and my rock and I wanted him in my life, so I agreed. When I gave my forced acceptance, I honestly prayed that she would know me well enough to see that I was not ok and reject him, but she didn’t. So it happened, a lot happened between the three of us that I'll never get out of my head. I ran to the bathroom afterward and sobbed for half an hour. He loved it, so it happened again. I was destroyed in a way that I am still unable to fully describe. The two people I trusted with my past and bonded with inflicted more damage on me than anyone else has ever done. He left me for her, and I spent the last six months of high school seeing them together every day, in every class.

         For a while I lost my will to live; I didn’t want to die but I saw no reason to not die either. People told me to ‘suck it up’ because they figured it was just high school drama. I was too ashamed to share what had happened in the bedroom between the three of us, so no one I tried to talk to took the situation seriously. I stopped eating because I stopped being hungry, I quit wanting to move or breathe. I no longer cared about looking or doing my best, every interest I ever had became irrelevant, and I spent most of every day choking back silent tears. I reached out to both my friend and my boyfriend, asking them to give me time to heal, for a few weeks of mercy before they became a serious couple, but nothing I said would dissuade them. All I could think was “What are you supposed to do when everyone in your life has hurt or abandoned you, despite how hard you try to make them happy? Why is no sacrifice ever enough? Why am I unlovable, so obviously repulsive and something to be stomped on by those around me?” I was sent to therapy and to group sessions that took a while to affect me: I missed most of the last half of my senior year because I spent it sitting on soft chairs in sterile rooms in a numb daze, with few people taking my pain or suffering seriously.

         It took me another six months to come to terms with what happened, to finally breathe again and share my feelings with my therapist and then my parents. It took some more time for me to stop having nightmares about it, to stop cringing when I was touched, and to stop feeling ashamed. I wrote letters to both of them, but was unable to confront either one about how betrayed and broken I felt. A few wonderful people came in to my life and helped me survive school, helped me want to live and to care again, and one even went on to become the closest friend I’ve ever had. I worked hard on my own issues, as well as dragging myself back up on my feet. I improved myself in the process, becoming a more confident and more complete person than I had ever been before. My trauma forced me to fix things with my father, and although our family dynamic is still turbulent, I know that he does love me.

         Eventually, the guy I had loved and given everything came back. His apology gave me a chance to do what I needed: I screamed at him, berated him, and cried all the tears he caused me to save up. I made him read the letters I wrote, the words I had written tore into him and made him beg for forgiveness; he cried even harder than I did. I had reached a point in my healing and acceptance where I was willing to allow him to try to earn my trust back. I loved the person he had been, and hoped that his realization of what he did to me would be enough to bring him back. I made sure he knew that I was a better, stronger person than I had been and that I would never again tolerate being treated poorly. He and I are still close, still balancing out that trust. We’ve talked through many things, and gotten help dealing with them. I never found closure with my best friend, never saw her again after high school, and may never be able to share with her how I really feel. Although that makes me sad, I’ve come to understand that even if I never see or hear from her again, I’ll still heal.

         So, I’m a survivor. I survived being beaten, manipulated, emotionally destroyed, and used physically. Somehow, despite everything, I turned out ok. What would I say to people who are also survivors? Don’t ever forget that you are wonderful, beautiful, and loveable. Most importantly, you are NOT ALONE. You can overcome anything, even when the hurt and void that abuse creates inside you feel insurmountable. It’s a good feeling to find closure and confront the people who hurt you, but know that you don’t need to have closure to feel whole again. Also, just because it wasn’t rape doesn’t mean you weren’t abused. Any violation of your comfort, morals, or emotions is abusive and every one of us needs to be aware of the difference between how we’re being treated and how we deserve to be treated.

Sex+Sexual Abuse: The Author's Survival Story (Tara, age 19, Female)

Hey Readers!

   My name's Tara and I'm the blogger who created "Feeling Young and Being Grown." I'm so proud of everyone who has written in with their stories and emailed me for advice. I know it can be really tough and intimidating to "come out" about what you've been through and sometimes, it can even be really really scary. I'm here to tell you, it's scary for me too. Right now, I have visions of my mom and dad secretly reading my blog and, once I post this, coming after me with a really nasty, jarring email.

   That's okay.

   What's important is embracing who I am and what I know I've been through and sharing it so that all of you know it's going to be okay and the time for being embarrassed, ashamed, and feeling guilty is over. What's more freeing than telling the world your most painful, embarrassing, life changing experiences?

    I don't have anything to hide.

   When I was nearly five years old, my family moved from Washington to California. I have a brother who is 14 years older than me and a sister who is 9 years older than me. My dad had landed some great new job in California and we built a big fancy house with a great view in a gated community. When we came out to California, something fell through with the new job and my dad decided with my mom to go back to Washington and get a job there while we lived in CA as a family. He commuted and came back for the weekends. Some of my favorite memories come from before we moved and right after we moved. We stayed in a small apartment while our house was being built. We had close to no furniture, my mom hung my stupid crayon drawings on the wall as art, and my mom would make me dolls out of popsicle sticks and magazine baby-picture cut outs. Good Will was our favorite place to go and I got one of my favorite dolls there. His name was Bun-Bun and he was a bunny with tiny eyes, long ears, and really long arms and legs. I remember being really happy.

   When we finally moved in, things seemed okay. I was sad that my brother wasn't really around. He went straight to college when we moved. My sister was in middle school. I started kindergarten. I started noticing things were weird when my mom seemed sadder and sadder and smelled funny all the time. She always seemed puffy faced with red cheeks and her voice was different a lot. She started being really sneaky and I'd come downstairs or walk into a room and she'd quick tuck something away, or I'd hear gulping noises and the closing of cabinets. My mom smoked at the time and I don't know if my dad really knew. I figured he wouldn't like it. I didn't know what she was doing when I'd hear those gulping noises or I'd see her being sneaky. But I knew something was wrong.

   My sister and my mom fought a lot and there was always a lot of crying and yelling and one time my sister broke a door handle off a door. My mom always said my sister was insane and that she should be committed to an "insane asylum." Lots of times, my sister would call my dad, who was in Washington, and she'd sound panicked and hot-faced and she would be crying and I could hear my dad. Sometimes he sounded angry and said "liar" a lot. Sometimes he sounded heartbroken and sad and he would fly out the next day, earlier than planned. Those times, he would yell at my mom. The other times, he would yell at my sister and pull her hair and say she was "grounded." Then more crying.

   One day, I was home and my mom wasn't. My dad was. A big fire truck and some police cars parked in front of our house and talked to my dad. My mom stumbled in. My dad was angry with the police and I'm not sure why. When the police left, my mom turned to me, looked at me while I was sitting on the steps, and said, "I wish I never had you. You all ruined my life. You were a mistake." I remember wishing I was dreaming.

   Lots of times, I'd wait for my mom at the bus stop, one block away from my house. In the rain, in the heat waves, on nice days...I'd wait for maybe 20 minutes, but what felt like hours, and realize she had forgotten me. I remember thinking, "Maybe today she's dead" and often times, that made me really happy. I'd get home, hear loud music blaring, shaking my house and I could catch a glimpse of my mom, often half naked (and very overweight) dancing, well, more stumbling than dancing, and sing-screaming to Joe Cocker music. I'd ring the doorbell, but not too many times. I didn't want to make her mad. Sometimes, she'd even see me. But she'd make this sort of angry-happy face and go back to dancing and drinking out of a big colored plastic cup from the Dollar Store (we went and picked them together). Sometimes the neighbor across the street would see me and take me into their home. She fed me Gold Fish in a tiny, beautiful little bowl and let me pet her pet cats. She did homework with me and told me nice things. Sometimes she had her son help me with my homework, which I liked because I had a crush on him.

   I stopped going to my neighbor's house when my mom and dad said it was embarrassing and unacceptable. I would just wait on the front porch instead until my sister got home or my mom remembered I was outside. One day, my mom gave me a beautiful white bear with a golden nose and golden wings and a halo- I had seen it on the cover of a JC Penny catalogue and mentioned how wonderful she was. My mom wrote a story about "Angel Bear" (who was really me in the story) and Angel Bear's mom and how she was sorry and loved Angel Bear. I loved it. My mom told me it was to make up for forgetting me.

   In first grade, I woke up one morning to scream-crying. I went to my sister's room, where the sounds were coming from. My mom was yelling at my sister for always waking up too late and being lazy. She stormed downstairs, then upstairs, then poured ice on my sister's face. Next thing I know, my sister is on the floor being pinned by my very large mom. My sister is very tiny. I remember my mom's gold necklace with the beige stone in the middle that dangled. My mom was trying to strangle my sister, and was doing a good job. My sister tried pulling my mom's golden necklace and it left red marks all over. My mom looked really angry and red puffy faced and really gross. She was jiggly and had some sort of clothing on where all of her was out and I remember feeling really icky. My sister made choking noises for a while and cried a lot and sometimes screamed to me and asked me for help. I didn't know how to help. I remember my mom saying "Only one of us is leaving this room alive, and it's not going to be you" to my sister. I remember feeling really scared that I was going to lose my sister. My sister asked me to call 911 and I looked to my mom. She said if I dialed, she would kill me too. So I didn't. I remember feeling like a killer. I crawled over to my mom and sister and tried to pull my sister out from under. My mom smacked my hand and her bracelets (bangles) hit me and made the sound that made me know when my mom was close. I got a little cut and I remember thinking I would tell someone about the little cut and someone would comfort me. My mom was biting my sisters face and neck, which was weird. I think I hid for a while and eventually the police came and took my mom to jail. My sister's friend and her friend's mom came and I remember her mom telling me to bring my favorite blanket with me. I thought that was smart. We stayed at the friend's house that night. I slept on the floor next to the bed my sister and her friend were sleeping on. I listened to my sister cry. My dad was in Japan and came home. He said he had gifts but that we couldn't have them until my mom was home. he took us to McDonalds, which I loved, and my sister wore a baggy black sweatshirt. She had bite marks and bruises all over her face and neck. The next day at school, my first grade teacher, Ms. Hogan, called me to the principal's office. A "therapist" asked me if my mom ever hit me. I said only that one time and that she barely ever hit my sister. She only did when she was really mad and it was never hard and that my sister tried to make my mom mad. When I got home, my sister and mom asked what I said to the therapist and I told them that I said my mom was always really nice and that I loved her.

   My mom loved TV and liked to record everything on tape. Sometimes, when she would drink, she'd get really confused and really upset if she didn't have the right tapes and the right channels on time so it was my job to help. I knew how to set a TV recorder by the age of 6. When my mom would get mad, I'd get so mad at myself. One time, my mom said I lost the TV Guide. I swear I didn't but my mom was so upset, I just wanted her to be happy and snuggly again so I ran upstairs, happy to be away for a minute, and searched under her and my dad's bed to find the current TV Guide. There were so many and I was crying so I couldn't tell which was which. She was yelling and getting impatient and I said to myself out loud, "You're so stupid. How could you be so stupid and selfish? You can't even find the TV Guide. You don't deserve to be treated nicely right now. You're a terrible daughter and she SHOULD hate you. You're lucky to have her." Over and over again. When I would find it, I'd feel better about myself and apologize to my mom for being so stupid. I liked the end of the day because I would get to take her upstairs, tuck her in and bring her her pajamas and put her bra away, and say "I love you" and she normally seemed okay with me helping her. Sometimes glad! And when she would wake up, she wouldn't be puffy faced and as angry. Sometimes, she'd be really nice. Sometimes, though, she'd still wake up mad.

   One time, my sister wasn't home because she said she couldn't handle it. So it was just me and my mom. My mom was sitting on the marble in the front hall by the bathroom and she puked green-chunky-cigarette-smelling-puke all over herself. (People who have been drinking puke cigarette smelling puke) My mom was all alone so it was up to me to give her a bath and put her in jammies. I walked her to the bathroom and ran the bath water, scrubbed her off, told her I loved her and it was going to be okay, she mumbled something over and over like she always did, like "I hate myself" or "I HATE your father" or "I wish I were dead." I walked her upstairs and tucked her in after PJ time. I made her scrambled eggs and toast, her favorite when she was sick, wrote her a get well letter, and brought her "special drink" ( a big tumbler filled halfway with ice and water, and halfway with diet rootbeer)

   My dad was away a lot and my mom was lonely so I guess I was lonely too. My mom would have me sleep in her bed and I didn't really like it but I thought it made her happy. Rules were: In bed by 8, lights out by 8:30. I always had to read before lights out. I didn't like lights out either, though. I hated being in that bed. It was gross. When my dad was home, I would sleep on the trundle-bed to the side of the room with quilts that were cold and didn't cover my feet and smelled funny. I worried there were spiders there. When the lights would go off, I'd keep my eyes open and feel cold and I'd wait. Then the sounds happened. I didn't have a word for it, sex, but I did not like it. My mom made these weird panting noises that got faster and faster and I remember thinking she sounded really gross. My dad made weird noises too and he had a hairy butt and weird scars that I didn't know where they came from and his butt was always in the air. Sometimes my mom was on top and I'd wonder if my dad was getting hurt because she was so big and he was so small. It always lasted for about ten minutes and then there was snoring. I could finally fall asleep when there was snoring.

   My mom and dad fought a lot and sometimes they said some really weird mean things. My dad and mom would talk about divorce a lot and one time my dad told me my mom tried to bite his penis off and that she was a terrible person. That she wasn't who he married and he was lied to. Sometimes my mom would tell me how my dad would force her to have sex even when she didn't want to, and that he really liked blow jobs and shoving it down her throat. She said he would call her a fat pig after sometimes, and that she was filthy.

   One time, my mom and dad were fighting and my dad slept in my bed while I slept in theirs with my mom. My mom had been drinking so I didn't want to be with her. I went into my room and saw my mom drawing on my dad's back with a glue stick that had purple glue and she was laughing at him. His back hair stuck together. I was really confused and felt really sad and alone for some reason.

   Lots of times, my mom liked to go to sleep naked and she'd ask me to take off my clothes too since it was comfier. She'd touch my butt a lot and other things and feel inside me and sometimes she'd stroke my hair. Sometimes she'd be rough and tell me how ugly I was. How she hated me for ruining her life. Sometimes she'd fall asleep naked with me and wrap her legs around me. I hated it. She was so jiggly and hot and smelly and she didn't feel like my mom.

   Sometimes she'd make me take baths with her and told me to feel her "pussy." She'd tell me about how I broke it because she ripped it giving birth to me. She said that I ruined her body and stole it. Sometimes she'd touch me too. I hate baths, even now. They're gross.

  Sometimes, after she was finished with her bath, she'd push my head under water and keep it there. Only for a few seconds, but it was scary because of the times she told me I wasn't supposed to exist.

   My mom really liked shows like Sex and the City and Queer as Folk and Six Feet Under. And some other things I didn't know the names too. Most of the time, the people were naked and making those noises I hated and a lot of the times, the people didn't look like they were happy. I didn't like to watch those shows but my mom said she didn't want to watch my stupid cartoons and that I needed to toughen up. Sometimes she'd ask me if I was a lesbian and whether or not I "diddled" myself. I didn't know what that meant but I figured it out. I knew a lot about sex. I even knew what a dildo was and I was only 7 by then.

   One time my third grade teacher asked me if my mom had a problem with alcohol, because we did a lesson about drug abuse and it asked who we could go to if we needed help and I listed everyone but my mom, and I told her some of the truth. My sister was really mad at me and said our mom could get taken away if I did that. I didn't want that. Not really.

   A lot of times my mom would say she wanted to die and my dad would tell her he agreed. She would jump off the stairs, pass out. Sometimes she would take a lot of pills and tell me good bye. Then her body would get rubbery and she would mumble a lot and my dad and I would have to move her and sometimes call 911 when her mouth got frothy. Sometimes she'd say I made her want to kill herself.

   Once or twice my mom held a pillow over my head for a while.

   Sometimes my mom would take me for a drive and go really fast after drinking and say today was the day we were going to die and that I was finally going to get punished.

   One time when we were on vacation in Europe, my mom disappeared and I found her smoking by herself in a bar. My dad was really mad. One time when we were on vacation in Europe, my parents were having sex and I had to go to the bathroom. I got up and turned on the light and my dad's but was in the air and he stayed there, really still. My mom made my dad take a shower while she talked to me. All I could say was "you sleep here, I sleep there" meaning.....I don't want to see or hear it. She got really mad and said I was trying to break up my parents and said I was manipulative. The next day, over breakfast, she made blueberries into a euphemism for sex and she fed blueberries to my dad all slow and talked about how badly she wanted to do it and my dad giggled and smiled a lot. It was their anniversary. I was "lucky to be there." She told all of our waiters how I wasn't happy that they were in a happy marriage and I wanted to break them up. She told my best friend and my best friend's mom when we got home. She mentioned me being a lesbian again. I was in the second grade.

   One time, in the fourth grade, I brought home a diorama on Zuni Indians that I was really proud of and my mom threw it down the stairs, stepped on it, and spit on it. My dad made my mom apologize when he got home and told her to fix it with me. She never did. I threw it out a year and a half ago.

   One time my mom "french kissed" me in our kitchen after I told her I had learned the phrase "french kiss" from the Brady Bunch. She told me that show was inappropriate for me and that it was stupid.

   Lots of times my mom said I was having an affair with my dad and that I was his second wife. (My sister was the first, and she was the third)

  One time, in middle school, my mom told my dad I was pregnant so that he would realize I was actually being manipulative and avoiding school work and trying to hurt my mom and lie about a supposed drinking problem that "scared" me. It worked. Several times.

   Lots of times, my mom broke into my room, slapped me, and tore my room apart. I always hid my computer if I could.

   One time, she threw my painting down the stairs and said I had no talent and was trying to show everyone how "special" I was, but that really, I was just great at being manipulative and that anyone could do what I did. She said that I never grew or changed. That I was a failure.

  When she found out I was suicidal in middle school, and then in high school- she said that I was actually having unhealthy affairs with my teachers and I had fooled everyone and that one day, I'd end up alone and unloved.

   One time, she said I belonged in an electric chair.

   Lots of times, my mom would tell me my sister was the pretty one. She weighed 111 lbs and had really nice boobs and a pretty face. I was pudgy, never sucked it in, had no boobs, and had a fat face. I weighed 120 lbs in middle school. After a while, I just stopped eating food. I passed out a lot. Sometimes my mom said she liked me better that way. She said she and I had more in common than my sister and her.

   Sometimes my mom would tell me how whatever boyfriend I had at the time would leave me and could never possibly want me. I was too ugly, too fat, too selfish, too manipulative, too absorbed in myself, and too damaged and emotional for anyone to want.

   Before my 18th birthday, my mom told me how she wished I was dead, and if she wouldn't get in trouble, she'd kill me herself. I un-invited her to my birthday and my dad was angry with me. It was just me, my dad, Ethan, and a loooot of silence.

   One time, I told my dad I wanted to be adopted, in middle school, and he said that he would always choose my mom over me. I cut myself and asked my best friend's family, who had already adopted three children, to adopt me. They said yes. Than later said no. I got in big trouble and my friends and computer was taken away. My sister called me "the crazy one" for a year and wouldn't speak to me. My family still refers to that time in my life as "being brainwashed."

   One time, I told my dad and mom that my mom had sexually abused me and that I wanted to know her past and that I knew history repeated itself when it came to rape and I didn't want to be a repeater. My mom denied it. My dad wouldn't believe me at first. Then he came to my room, saw me crying, and asked if he should divorce my mom. He didn't. He later decided he didn't believe me. He doesn't believe me now.

I was sexually abused/molested/raped by my mother and my mother and father believe I am a liar.