Child Abuse Story From DeAnna

by DeAnna
(Flatrock, Alabama, USA)

My story of abuse begins on my wedding day. MARRIAGE! What a cruel joke. I met my future husband at a football game. I was thirteen years old and he was twenty. I was just beginning to notice boys at the time. He came over with his friend and started paying me compliments. Before the night was over I was being raped in the backseat of his car. When he was through he told me to get out and go home, before anyone started looking for me. I walked backed to the parking lot and waited on my sister. I was bleeding and confused. I had no knowledge of sex. My mother never discussed it with me, and back in the 1960's, it just wasn't talked about. When I got home, I went and hid in my bedroom. If my Mother found out what I had done she would hurt me badly. To be more graphic, she would hit me and make me stay outside in the dark. But thankfully she didn't find out that night.

About four months down the road, my stomach began to swell up. My mother thought I had a medical problem and took me to the county Health Department, where I was confirmed to be pregnant. At thirteen years old, I didn't know what pregnant meant, either. The nurse told me I was going to have a baby. Furious didn't describe my mother that day. She beat the information out of me; I told her what had happened. I told her his name and she had the police track him down. It was either marry me, or go to jail for statutory rape. He agreed, and I was shipped off to the courthouse to marry him.

We moved in with my older sister, and as soon as we were alone he slapped me and told me how much he hated me. But as soon we went to bed, he raped me again. That became a pattern with us, beating me up, and then raping me. I refuse to call it having sex or making love.

During my seventh month of pregnancy, I ran away. I was fourteen, but I felt old. I packed some clothes in a pillow case. I had no money. I started walking through the woods, at the back of the house, until I came to the small town we lived in. I walked to this small diner at the end of town and hid behind some garbage cans. A homeless, older black man saw me and asked me why I was hiding. I started crying and told him my story. He took me with him and showed me a building and told me to go in and ask for help. It was the welfare Office. I ended up in foster care, after my baby was born. I had to give her up for adoption because I wasn't mature enough and didn't have the means to care for her. My mother refused to have anything to do with me, and my "Husband" and my sister were madly in love with each other, so he got a divorce from me and married her. Good luck to her, she'll need it.

Time marched on, and today I'm still searching for my child I had to give up forty years ago. As for me, I live by myself with my three dogs. I tried marriage again, but ended up with another loser, so I gave up altogether. I'm waiting on that thing everyone was so big on in 1968: "PEACE"

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