The following post contains the personal account of a trauma survivor. This may include recounting of abuse which can be physical, emotional or sexual in nature. This can be terribly disturbing and it can cause trauma survivors, PTSD or C-PTSD survivors negative reactions as it can trigger their own experiences of abuse and trauma. Therefore, if you are triggered by reading such personal accounts, please avoid this article, or make sure you are prepared in whatever way works for you for being confronted with a personal account of abuse and trauma.
The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is: 1-800-273-8255, if you feel the need to talk with someone they can help.
We need to fight abuse. We need to fight the stigma against those who have been abused and suffer from PTSD or C-PTSD. We need to share and get the word out and we need to show people that it is okay to talk about their abuse. Silence is absurd. Silence is what the abusers want. We need to stand up and speak out. We need to fight childhood abuse, domestic abuse, any and all fucking abuse. This provides our community with a way to share their story without exposing themselves. This is a way for us to show other abused people they are not alone and there is hope.
Acceptance. Education. Accommodation. Understanding. Healing.
-Phoenix
WHY WOULD A CHILD LIE ABOUT SUCH A THING?
C-PTSD Trauma Survivor From the age of 5, up to my 18th birthday, I don’t remember a day where my life wasn’t pure hell. I had abusive parents, an older brother who hated me, and encouraged our younger brother to hate me as well…and a grandfather who molested me.
Yeah. That’s why older brother hated me. He claimed I had lied about the whole thing. And so did many others.
My question is…why would a child lie about such a thing?
I had learned at a very young age, it was far better to remain quiet than to speak up for myself. No one would believe me. Or worse…I would get beaten for it. Like the time my mother slapped me across the face, called me good for nothing and basically kicked me out of the house all before taking me to school one morning. I was distressed, panicking and sobbing hysterically because apparently I didn’t have a home any more. So I told my friend I needed to get away for the weekend.
Well apparently, she called her mom and than the mom called and chewed my parents out…one thing lead to another, and when I got home, my father beat me. “Family matters should not leave this house!”
I was in elementary school at the time. And it was the last time I ever spoke out against the abuse I endured.
Which is why I never said anything about my grandfather. That, and I was worried about my grandmother. She was ill from ALS, and I was the one who took care of her the majority of the time as every one else worked. She hardly could do a thing, was bound to her wheel chair for the rest of her four years on this earth.
Four years. That’s how long my grandfather molested me. And I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t say anything. As much as I wanted to see him in jail, I didn’t know who, or if any one, could take care of my grandma. I kept quiet for her.
It didn’t help that my home life was still just as miserable.
It was round about December, my 7th grade year. I remember it was a weird day at school, a rainy Monday on a December morning. The sky was dark, the rain was pouring hard. And there I sat in my free period class, my head resting on the desk, tears flowing just as hard as the rain. I had spent the night at my grandparents that weekend, and he did it again…
A friend happened to notice me sitting in the back, so she came over to talk. When she asked what was wrong, I lost it. I started sobbing hard and loud, near wailing from just how tired and disgusted I was with what had been going on for so long. It took her, and two others, to drag me to the counselor’s room. When the cops came to take me to DHS, I was so relieved. I thought my nightmare was finally over. I was wrong.
I was so wrong.
Because they could find no actual evidence, he got away with it. This lead the majority of my family to think I had lied about the whole thing, was just trying to get attention. I was shunned by most of them, and longer welcome in some of their homes. I was no longer aloud to be near my grandmother, the only person I felt who truly loved me.
My grandmother died shortly after, and I had only gotten to see her a few times before she passed.
And that is when I truly had a mental break down.
I was diagnosed with PTSD, anxiety, depression, paranoia, and dissociation. Which is why they couldn’t find any solid proof. There were certain questions I couldn’t answer, because I had blocked out most of the incidents. I just knew my child hood, and my innocence, had been stolen.
The years rolled by. I had stopped caring about school, made some bad friends and made some bad choices. I knew I’d probably end up dropping out at 10th grade, and running away from home with some bad boy. Maybe end up in an even worse scenario. And I wouldn’t have cared one bit. If it wasn’t for my husband, I probably would have. He has saved me from my self, countless times.
We started dating my 11th, his 12th grade year. Though we had been on and off since 5th and 6th grade. I know, typical high school sweethearts, right?
Do you know what’s sad, though? Because they found no evidence, they never did any kind of check ups on me. To see if he had raped me in my sleep, to see if he stole my last bit of innocence. So, on our wedding night, I had to tell my husband I didn’t know if I was a virgin. Do you know how humiliating that was? How it made my skin crawl, my insane urge to sit in a boiling hot shower to wash away the ghost of his touch? My wedding night was almost ruined because of that man.
My life was almost ruined because of him, and every one else who tried to snuff out what little bit of happiness I had, and what little bit of light I could find in this dark world.
Though I have been dragged through hell and back, I still managed to escape. Narrowly, but still managed to get out. I have demons who chase me, I still have issues with what I suffered. The PTSD, the anxiety, none of it is going away any time soon. And I’ve accepted it, Because I’ve learned the only thing I can do is to just take one day at a time. I know I will never be one hundred percent fine, that I still have a long ways to go in mending the relationship between me and my parents.Which is a slow but promising process.
But I don’t plan on letting my past define me. I still have a long life ahead of me, and with the love and support of my husband and a few close friends and loved ones, I’m slowly healing. I will make the best out of my life, for it is mine and I refuse to let any one ruin it for me.
And maybe, I might be able to both move on, and forgive. Maybe, one of these days.