Child Abuse Story From Christine
by Christine
(Location Undisclosed)
The first time that I remember being abused was when I was still a toddler, I remember still not going to school and because I only had 1 sibling, I played with my neighbor. She was the teenage daughter of our tenant; we own several apartments next to our home so we had easy access. I used to go to their apartment to play with her; we would go upstairs to their bedroom and play dolls. The next thing I knew she was taking off my underwear and hers, too. She would lie on top of me and, of course, I didn’t know what was going. I thought we were just playing a new game so I just let her do it. I told my mom about it and I vaguely remember sitting on my Mom’s lap as they talked to her and her parents about what I said. I don’t remember much of what happened but I felt guilty afterwards because I was the reason they lost their home.
As I was growing up, what happened before never came up, no one talked about it, and they buried the topic deep under the ground. But it’s still here, inside my head. Next is of my big brother, my one and only sibling. When they tell stories about our childhood, they would often say that I was the good girl, I would just sit quietly in the corner while I played and when I cried they would quickly hush me and tell me to stop and I would. My brother was the opposite, they said it took hours for him to stop crying and unlike me, he wasn’t obedient. My grandfather once caught him choking me, I didn’t know what it was for but Grandpa told me that if he ever choked me again, I should tell him. But he never did it again, he did worse. I was still recovering from those experiences and my parents often fought during this period. One night, they suddenly had to leave, they were fighting as they were leaving, and I shouted, “Pasalubong.” Mom shouted back no then left with Dad. For a minute, my brother and I were watching TV and he suddenly became enraged, he started beating me up and told me to “face the wall and keep it straight.” Basically, he kept hitting and kicking me as I faced the wall, of course my body couldn’t be straight; no one’s body is perfectly straight. When my parents arrived late that night, I was still crying, my Mom was there, she knew I was crying, but she ignored me.
When I hear the word incest, it drives a screwdriver into my chest; it all feels so fresh to me. Ever since I can remember, I played stuffed toys with my brother. One night, as we were playing, he touched and caressed my chest, I didn’t know what he was doing, again, I thought we were playing a game. I remembered my first experience with this type of scene and immediately put my gray teddy bear named Zoe in front of my chest to keep him from touching them. It didn’t stop there, sometimes, he would wait for me to wake up and start molesting me, I fought but he was too strong for me. Other times, I would just wake up to him touching me and kissing me and smelling me. Years went on like this, sometimes he would stop, and then he’d start again. Especially when my Mom and Dad left temporarily for abroad, I remember I was in grade school then and it was summer time. We just moved to a new place and the only bathroom on the second floor was located in my room. He’d take showers in the middle of the night, as I was sleeping and I’d wake up to the touch of his hands exploring me. When I wake up, he’d stop then wait for me to fall back into sleep again and do it all over again. Besides the sexual abuse, the physical, verbal and psychological abuse was still there. For a few years, he stopped because my Mom went home. Recently, she left again and our Dad died last March. He was the only one who got to talk to Dad, I didn’t even get to see him and apologize and explain why he and I didn’t get along so well or to simply tell him that I loved him. Anyway, the verbal and psychological abuse is still very much alive right now. The sexual abuse stopped, so did most of the physical abuse. Or so I thought; recently, maybe 2 weeks ago, I woke up to the feeling of someone caressing my legs, I opened my eyes and saw him. I asked him, “what?” He didn’t say a word; instead he tried to kiss me again. I shrugged him off and managed to stop him, but I couldn’t sleep afterwards, I had to stay awake or he might do it again. After 30 minutes, he went back up and threw a piece of paper that said he was sorry and asked for forgiveness. A few days passed and I started talking to him again. But after a few days, I woke up to him raising my night gown. When he felt that I woke up, he immediately went downstairs. Again, I didn’t sleep right after that. The morning after, I saw a piece of paper that had the letters “SRY” on it. I didn’t talk to him for days. Saturday, he went downstairs and I discretely went another floor up, to where my bed is at. He went back upstairs and found that I had locked the doors. He walked around the outside of my room, his cigarette smelled inside my room. He walked around for about 30 minutes or so then went downstairs because I called out to him because I was supposed to throw him this stuffed Mirmo doll that he gave me that had a piece of paper that said, “Maybe in time I can forgive you. What you did all those years left scars. I can’t forgive you that easily. Just leave it alone.” But he wasn’t there anymore. Now, I don’t plan on talking to him, he’d just get the idea that I’ve forgiven him and he’d start doing it again. My only problem now is if I should tell my grandmother since she’s the one taking care of us now.
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