A story of family violence

One of our readers wrote us this letter, and we asked her the permission to publish it as an article, hoping that it might be useful, that it could help people understand this topic more, and feel less alone.
Here is her story:

A premise: someone might think that what I am about to tell is rather rough (although there is actually very little to be considered rough, if we compare it to other similar testimonies).
And this is for two reasons:
1. to get across a little of that knot in my stomach and of my feelings. To create, in other words, an empathetic although mild, bond.
2. above all because, like Alice Sebold stated in her interviews released for Lucky’s publication, I believe that we need to stop being scared and ashamed of pronouncing words related to sex crimes. This is, in itself, one more violence.
Valuing a word more than a fact in itself is dumb.
So, let’s try to bring those words to a material level, instead of raising them under a veil of taboos.
Ok, now we can really get started.

“In the tunnel where I was raped […] a girl had been murdered and dismembered. I was told this story by the police. In comparison, they said, I was lucky”.
(Lucky, Alice Sebold)
This is how this book begins.
I wanted to quote it because that word, “lucky”, is exactly the one that suits my story the best.
“Lucky”, because I wasn’t raped in the way media and TV fictions perceive rape. “Lucky”, because after listening other people’s experiences and what they had lived, I can’t help but consider myself otherwise.
Sure, if we could create a mathematical scale of pain, I could even remove those inverted commas and continue to live happily like nothing had ever happened.
However, I don’t believe it could be possible.

When I was abused, I was around nine.
“He” – whom we’ll call G. for convenience – was an almost close relative of mine.
He was around fifteen, and he was my cousin.
He still lives in the upper floor. Just a flight of stairs separates us.
He required no effort to climb down the stairs and come into my bedroom.
I shared (and still share) my bedroom with my brother (from now on, M.). He was around six at the time.
M. and I had a sort of veneration towards that “big cousin”. I’m talking about that reverential respect that you certainly have experienced if you are around twenty-five.
Adolescents.
They were de facto adults to us, but still enough kids to come and play with you if you asked them to.
It was what M. was looking for: playing. And more specifically, he was looking for being helped with all those difficult videogames that G. was good at playing.
And it’s here that the mystery – to use an unpleasant euphemism – occurs for the first time.
There has never been anything that could allow me to predict what was about to happen.
Never.
My bedroom door was never closed. It was always wide open. Furthermore, even if it had been closed, there were no keys to lock it.
My mother, and I perfectly remember that, was always around the corner, in the living room.
No matter if she was busy or not, she was always there. We were never left alone.
Never.
It happened one afternoon, when G., who was sitting on a chair just behind my brother, was showing my him how to pass a level of a game he was playing.
There were no chairs left for me, so I told them I was leaving for a minute, just the time to look for another chair.
«Let it go, you can sit on my legs».
Just an innocent sentence, isn’t it?
I was in the safety of my bedroom, with the door wide opened, with my mother a few meters away, with M. a few breaths away, focused on his game…
What could have ever happened?
He started making his moves, slowly. His fingers where slightly moving towards me. Like if it was accidental.
I didn’t pay attention to his fingers, until I found them on my thighs. Shortly after, they were in between my legs.
On the spur of the moment…I was surprised.
I wasn’t completely sure about what was happening, but something was definitely happening. Slowly, but it was happening.
Very soon, those fingers slid under my clothes. They passed through the trousers’ elastic band. The panties’ elastic band.
He had icy fingers.
I reacted like I would have to a shiver, but his other hand held me tight to him.
«Ssh, be quiet» he whispered. And he continued, with nonchalance, to give M. indications to proceed with the level, before slipping his other hand under my t-shirt.
I remember being rigid and stunned like a pole while he was exploring my body. I couldn’t understand what he was exactly doing and why.
He kept on doing it for a while, maybe for a few days, until he eventually decided that it wasn’t enough.
While that same icy hand was touching me, stroking me and exploring between my legs, the other one, this time, took mine. He brought it behind my back.
The cautious noise of his jeans zip has never ever left my mind since then.
He introduced our hands in his panties and made me grab something that in my mind was just something I had only heard about.
Satisfied, he kept on doing it for a while, up until he got bored with that as well.
Another day -I was expecting the same modus operandi- he whispered me to close my eyes, while pushing my head down on his body.
He then told me to open my mouth.
And then I felt something warm.
«Blow it».
I remember not understanding what it meant.
But I do remember my hand in his hands, which were suggesting me to make some moves I had no idea what they meant; and he must have been bothered by that, because he began pushing my head back and forth again.
Up until he told me:
«Swallow».
But I really had to throw up.
He let me go to the bathroom, but it was too late.
I remember sipping some water from the fountain, before coming back again.
It kept on going on like that again and again.
I remember myself squinting, just once, and for a second. I don’t know if he has ever noticed that.
It happened again, in the room with the opened door, with my mom and brother close enough to hear it.
It happened again until it was over. It was an average afternoon, with the only exception that this time it was me who went upstairs.
Yes, it was me, not vice versa.
It all happened in the same way, in his room.
But this time we got caught by his mother, who understood what was going on.
You may now think that she told everything to my parents, that she said she was sorry, that there were some falling outs… But no, anything like that.
I got betrayed twice, this time by her. I got betrayed because she kept this secret by herself; she just made sure we avoided any type of contact.
Everything went forgotten.
Well, it did only to all appearances.

Long story short: after a period of time that I could describe as normal, the rest of my life was a constant delirium.
I had nightmares.
I then suffered from insomnia.
Later, I just felt apathy.
Growing up, it became mutism.
When my girl peers were just thinking about looking pretty, all I cared about was going unnoticed.
Just thinking about making myself pretty bothered me and felt disgusting.
When they were having their first crushes, I was sitting at the desk, covered by the darkness of my room.
And the worst was yet to come.
I got hit by it again, like I would have gone hit by a train.
It was because of a film… a film made me remind of every single detail.
EVERY SINGLE DETAIL.
Including the smell of his skin.
His taste.
I was 13.
He was 19.
Ironically, he was my educator from the local Catholic Action Center (no, I am not trying to demonize any kind of organization, nor any kind of religious belief. We both lived near the same church and that was a case).
This meant I had to see him every Saturday to say the least.
And it especially meant I had to listen to him while preaching the “Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful” quote.
Just the thought of him being so hypocritical, triggered a rage that I had been going neglecting myself for years.
It was a blind rage. I was furious. And it could only get worse but at the same time couldn’t explode.
After all, who could have ever listened to me?
My parents, involved with the groups of the church? His parents?
I only told everything to the best friend I had during those years; mainly because I didn’t want to feel lonelier than to really voice my rage. I only got more anger: this time also my best friend was pouring out her wrath towards him.
She wasn’t really helping. I simply couldn’t allow this situation to be known out and about. I got her to promise me she would have kept the secret by herself.
Months and years went by, and pressure started to wear me out.
I couldn’t focus on studying anymore. I knew something was wrong, but what I knew could not get out of me.
My words were lacking. As if the secret shut my mouth up for anything else.
All this, along with the growing anger, led to small premonitory outbursts.
I would experience violent temper tantrums against lifeless objects.
Chairs, desks. My own spectacles, which have been broken twice.
I would immediately regret all of it, and go back to an endless darkness. At least until the next meltdown.
I said the truth to my parents: I couldn’t do it.
And I felt stupid for not being able to explain exactly why.
I’d see my mum crying, wondering what was going on.
If they questioned, I’d go back to my silence and I just cried.
It was a dead end.
Then another final outburst.
Against myself this time.
I dug my skin deep with my nails, until I calmed down.
That’s how it all started.
And it only worsened.
The questions about the marks on my hands, always clearer and neat, were answered with excuses. Cats’ scratches. They believed it, I don’t know how. I bought wristbands.
The first years of my secondary school.
At least I was calm, finally. I could study again. My mind was free, although it’d never been free.
No one ever knew about it, apart the few people I’ve told.

During one of these episodes I mistakenly cut deeper and found myself dunking into water, without even realizing it. As I saw those small red dots coming out of me I got shocked to the point that I had to stop.
I realized it was going too far.
Did I really want what I was about to do?
I realized that just the fact that I was asking myself this question, meant I wasn’t sure about the answer.
It’s like being addicted. You always go back doing it, and you can’t fight it. You go back doing it and you lose pieces of your life behind you. When you realize it and you’re alone, eventually, you can just continue.
And I would have never stopped, maybe, if counseling didn’t become available at school.
One of my classmates asked me to, please, go with her. I only had to be there as a support, but Doc (that’s how I call her now) asked me some routine questions as well. I don’t know why, but I told her the truth.
The result was my classmate fixed her issues and became a support for me.
Doc asked me to remove my wrist cuffs.
No one had ever done that before.
She made me promise that I would have thrown everything away and I would have gone to her on a scheduled appointment basis, just to talk.
«You’re the cause of your own change.»
I started a therapy with her, a therapy that lasted maybe for four or five years.
It was more of a conversation than a therapy, actually. She asked me those questions I didn’t dare asking myself.
And I managed to eradicate the completely wrong sensation of being guilty of something from my head.
I hadn’t hurt myself since that day at school (mental drama doesn’t count).
I even fell in love with a girl, and my love for her was reciprocated.
With her I spent the two most beautiful years of my life.
When my dad found it out, I don’t know what stopped him from hitting me (because it really looked like if he was going to do it).
Once, he even started screaming at us under her apartment.
He was yelling that I was ungrateful. That I needed to respect him more. Things like that.
And it was then that I exploded, bursting like a champagne bottle at New Year’s Eve.
I yelled everything back at him.
I told him all the things that had happened with G. and how much I was despising and pitying him for talking to me about respect, since he had always protected me from the wrong things.
Immediately after that I thought, «He’s going to have a heart attack now».
But with my immense horror and stupor, he calmed down, walked back and forth along the hallway and then shouted that he HAD ALWAYS KNOWN EVERYTHING.
I broke down.
My girlfriend was crying and trembling right next to me and asking why he hadn’t done anything.
His answer was devastating and I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.
«I didn’t know whether to believe you or not.»
It turned out he had read it in an entry on my private blog. He had always liked to sneak around, but in the end he had just always answered to my silences.
«Is that why you’re with her?», that was his question.
I answered him, quite offended, that no, it wasn’t because of that… as if it was a kind of compensation of some sorts.
As if the most beautiful feeling of my life had to depend on G. and what he had done to me. I let all the thoughts and sensations got out of my mind, as my father took me in his arms and brought me home.
«I have to talk to G., and see what he has to say», he went on.
He didn’t believe me, not even later that night.
I know now why: he never talked to G.
After a month of keeping distance with my father, my father began acting as if nothing had ever happened. I don’t know if he’s still pretending, we have never talked about it again.
I think I died one more time, that night.
Actually, I die a little day by day. Every time I see that, despite everything I have been through (all the shit included), I still have to deal with more shit, it feels like a never ending circle. And it sucks.
I think I still have to internalize it and it’s not easy.
But I can handle it, now I know that I can.

Fast forward to the present: I still can’t answer to some questions that I know you’d like to ask.
The main one – why didn’t you tell your parents what was happening, right after the first time?
I think I know now why, at least partly.
I never told them in order to protect them from the truth, somehow. I knew – or thought – that it would have been too much for them to handle. And at the same time, having to keep my mouth shut, I could go on pretending it had never happened.
My mum still knows nothing. I don’t think my dad told her – and given the current state of things, I don’t think telling her would lead anywhere.
It’s not like before. I know my truths.
I can live with them, more or less, going through all the highs and lows that everyone has. Telling it to my mom would just cause more useless pain.
Besides, even with all the cold logic I can summon, I do love my parents.
It’s not easy having to live with things like this, so I can maybe understand my father.
I know that I wished I had found a stronger father that night, but I know that reality doesn’t always grant us all that we want.
We’re growing up. We’re learning.
And it may seem nothing special, but I swear you it’s not.

In conclusion (finally!), another reason I wanted to make my story public is because I want to say ‘SPEAK UP’ to all those who have ever found themselves in the same situation.
Speak to someone you trust, and do it.
I wasted twelve years of my life because I thought I had to protect someone from what had happened to me.
And there’s NOTHING more wrong you could do.
Believe me when I say that I don’t know why these things happen. I’d tell you if I knew.
What I do know is that there’s no shame in being/having been abused.
There’s no shame in being raped.
No weakness.
It’s not your fault.
Don’t believe those people who say that you’ve been «lucky». There’s no maths when it comes to calculate the pain you have to feel in order for it to be considered «serious», or for you to being considered «unlucky». You just have to be conscious of YOUR own pain, because it exists and it’s real.
Speaking up is the only way to prevent you from imploding. Speaking up is the only way to get out of it.
Do it.
Speak up.
Don’t make my mistakes.
Erase these taboos, all they do is slowly killing the people who don’t deserve it.

I was «lucky».

Rosa