Child Abuse Story From Samantha B

by Samantha B.
(London, Ontario, Canada)

Sexual Child Abuse: 
I was a happy child, friendly and trusting to anyone, which I found to be my fault. I was only in grade school, not even 7. I was living with my mother at the time. My parents were separated and I spent weekends with my father.

I was happy with my mother, but she had problems. I know now she had her own emotional problems that led her to seek a spouse in the wrong places, or friends that were not good to be around.

One night after the babysitter left, I lay in my room listening. I could not sleep until I knew my mother was in her bed in the next room. I heard she had someone over that night. They were arguing. I lay trying to listen, but even if I heard what they spoke, I would not remember a sound they had made. I think it was an hour later. I lay awake still knowing my mother was not in bed. I watched out the window at the storm that had slowly come in, the lighting flashing, the thunder booming. I loved the sound of the wind blowing the rain hard against the roof. It was peaceful.

I heard it then, footsteps outside my door. Hoping my mother was going to bed I rolled over to fall asleep. I didn't hear her door, I heard mine, thinking only that she was checking in on me and my little sister. Then I felt him, his hands moving over me. I thought I was dreaming, but knew I wasn't. He rolled me over. "Make a sound and I'll hurt you," he told me when he saw I was awake. I remember his voice rough and deep. He only whispered but his voice was screaming in my mind. I knew it was wrong, I was told about it at school. His hands ran under my nightgown, pulling it up so he could see my body. I felt paralyzed. I couldn't move, couldn't think. I could only breathe and watch in horror as he touched me. My mind was screaming no, but I couldn't even mouth the words. He pulled off my underwear and climbed over me. Tears ran down my face. I knew what was going to happen. I turned my head to see my sister lying there peacefully sleeping. I looked back at him, pleading with him to not continue. "If you wake her, I'll do it to her too," he told me. I did my best to not make a noise, not even breathe too loudly. I did not want this to happen to her. I did not want her to be put through this. I just lay there crying silently as he had his way, staring up at the ceiling, hoping it was all a dream.

When it was over he left. I heard him leave the house. I lay there until the sun came up and I knew everyone was still asleep. Seeing some blood on my clothing and sheets, I gathered the dirtied laundry and I ran down the stairs to put them in the wash. But my mother was stirring, so I ran and hid them under my bed. When it was safe I would soon throw them away to be rid of the evidence.

The week went on as I tried to get the night out of my head. I claimed to be ill and stayed home from school. Two weeks went by and I was back to normal, being happy, but not trusting. I was afraid of stormy nights after that. My mother thought nothing of it.

Years went on and I blocked the night altogether from my memory.

One night when I was 11, it was storming out badly. I now lived with my father; my mother thought it best, as she needed help and was unable to care for us the way she wanted. The nightmares started then. I remembered every moment from the night it happened. I woke, crying to myself, clutching my knees at the corner of my bed, feeling as if he was there in my room. I was only plagued by the nightmares when it was storming outside. I coped with them in my own way: crying until I felt safe to sleep.

Soon the nightmares became more frequent. A few times a week I had the dreams, waking up afraid and crying. I began to feel depressed and began to cut myself, once on my leg for each nightmare. Soon my thighs were covered with marks. I began smoking to relieve my stress. I secretly stole cigarettes from my parents and smoked whenever I had a dream to replace the cutting.

As I hit 15 years old I had the dreams every night. I cut myself, smoked and began to do drugs to ease my pain. I had also become anorexic and purged anything I ate. I started dressing in a gothic matter: the bracelets and arm bands covering my cuts.

After my first attempt of overdosing, I was put into counselling and on medication for depression. For years I suffered through my father telling me I had no reason to be sad or to hurt myself.

I was 16 when I finally told my 7th counsellor what had happened to me, and said I would tell my father in my own time, when I felt I could. She agreed and said if need be, she would be there.

It was after work one evening. I met him at work and said we should go for a late dinner together. He was glad to go, loving the times we spent just with each other. I was open about what happened to me. We ordered our food, and when I knew no one was close to hear, I told him.

"Dad, just listen. I need you to just listen."

He didn't answer.

"I know you keep saying I have no reason to be sad, no reason to hurt myself. I do."

He didn't reply.

"I was raped as a kid. I think I was 5 or 6. It happened during a storm, that's why they scare me. I wanted to wait until I felt ready to be able to tell you. I needed to be able to trust myself to tell anyone. I felt ready to tell you now, 'cause I know I need help. I know that by telling you, you will know why I feel this way and know why I do what I do." I was crying now. "I wanted to be able to have you know why, and to be able to help me through it now." I couldn't breathe now; I was crying too much.

He was silent for a moment. "I'm glad you told me. It's too late to do anything about what happened, or to be able to find him," he told me (and I knew it was true). "But we can help you get through it." He reached out and held my hand.

I ate my entire meal that night and did not purge. Since then, I have stopped cutting after seeking proper help for my eating disorder and my nightmares. After years of trying to deal with it on my own, I knew I couldn't do it alone.
I soon moved back in with my mother, knowing to better deal with my pain I had to be with the one I was with at the time. I never told my mother what had happened to me. I feel like on some level she already knows, and she is still suffering from mild depression, so I do not want to cause her more pain.

I was 17 when I finally stopped having nightmares and stopped cutting and started eating. I was pregnant when I felt better. I had made the mistake of forgetting a condom one night with my boyfriend. And now I'm glad I did. Because of having to care for myself to care for the life inside me, I got better.

Now I am 19. I am no longer plagued by nightmares. I no longer harm myself, and I eat healthy every day. I am strong. I don't trust people too quickly anymore (which I find to be a good thing). I have studied self defense to prevent it from happening again, and will put my daughter in these classes as well to prevent it happening to her. When she is old enough I will tell her my story so she knows to be careful about people she does not know. I'm happy now, and if it was not for that night many years ago, I would not be who I am today. Going through something so wrong as a child has made me a stronger person today.

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