Ages 10 and 11


After I was adopted, I was officially his and there was no chance that they were getting a divorce.

We had moved from the little 2 bedroom apartment into a 3 bedroom one. It was amazing because I got my own room and my own bathroom vanity. I was starting to feel like I was growing up into almost a teenager! I couldn’t wait to be a teenager. Better yet, I couldn’t wait to be an adult. I could make all of my own choices and do what I wanted.

Dave had quit the waterbed store that he had worked at for a long time in order to start a lawn care business. (Yes, we all had waterbeds and ugly oak furniture. But, hey, it was solid wood!) He purchased an old van from a friend for pretty cheap and a trailer to carry the riding lawn mower. It didn’t take him long to gain a long list of clients. Most of them were little old ladies. He did “favors” for them and sometimes wouldn’t even charge them to mow. It’s funny because anyone who ever met Dave always said that he was like a “big teddy bear.” He was so gentle and sweet to the ladies that he met. He is a big guy. He stands about 6’3″ and has always had a big pot belly. So for a little girl, the things that he did was pretty traumatic just by his shear size. Because of the type of business he was running, he no longer had to work Monday through Friday, 9-5. He could make his own schedule and on rainy days he stayed home.

By the time I turned 9, my mother decided that I was old enough to stay home after school and during breaks like summer and spring break. I was a latchkey kid. She used this to her advantage. Summers were horrible. I wasn’t allowed to leave the apartment. She kept tabs on me by calling every 30 minutes. Seriously. I was a trustworthy kid. When it came to her, I was just scared to death of her so I never wanted to do anything wrong. Sometimes she would call while I was in the bathroom and if I didn’t pick up she would keep calling until I did pick up. When I finally was able to get to the phone she would freak out and chew me out for not picking up the phone. Everyday, she had a list of housework that I had to do. I’m sure she thought that this was great for her! This meant less work that she had to do. It wasn’t just doing the dishes and keeping my room clean. She had me do EVERYTHING. Dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, laundry, cleaning my brother’s room, cleaning the bathrooms…. fucking everything. In her defense, she probably just wanted to keep me busy. They couldn’t afford to put me in daycare or summer camp so this was it. My grandmother offered to let me stay with her but my mother had developed a sense of hatred toward her. She didn’t like the clothes she bought for me, she didn’t like it when she cut my hair (to get my bangs out of my eyes), she didn’t like anything the woman did. As an adult, I can see why. This was the woman that reported my parents (her own son) to authorities. Of course she hated her!

I never did a good enough job. Ever. One time I didn’t stack the pots and pans correctly and in the right order so I got yelled at to come “front and center.” When I got to the kitchen she was screaming and yelling and started throwing them at me. When I told her to stop she then smacked me and told me not to talk to her like that. Another time it was the baby bottles. I must have put them top-up instead of upside-down. She was so anal about cups being put upside-down. That time she threw the bottles at me at full force.

I was a really good kid. I didn’t have behavior problems at school. I was smart and made good grades. I was definitely not in need of any type of “correction.” I had made a friend who was a little bratty and did get into a little bit of trouble with her. We thought it would be funny to throw pine-cones and trash into people’s cars that left their windows down. “That’s what they get for leaving their window down,” my friend said. Then we laughed really hard about it. She lived toward the front of the apartment complex and I lived toward the back so when we got off the bus she got home first. After she went home, I continued on my walk home. On the way I also had to walk in front of the apartment’s main office. I thought that I could continue on with our little pine-cone escapade. Unbeknownst to me, the office manager was watching me through the window. She recognized me and called my mom. Unfortunately, she didn’t call her until after she got home. Once again I was summoned to the kitchen.

“I just received a phone call from the office manager. She said that you were throwing things into people’s cars. Is this true?”

I hung my head and confessed, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is not good enough!” she screamed at me.

She then proceeded to slap me from one end to the next all while yelling. I was grounded from everything that I loved for “embarrassing” her. Once she got started, she couldn’t stop. Usually the ranting would go on all into the evening. She was relentless. Her goal was to break me.

The sexual abuse was stronger than ever. Since he was home more then I could expect it to happen more. Pretty much anytime he was home, all we watched on t.v. was porn. Lots and lots of porn. One day when I was dusting my parents’ room, I stepped on the edge of the water bed to get to the top of the tall headboard. When it rolled back, I discovered my mother vibrator. Not knowing what it was, I asked him about it. He wasted no time explaining to me what it was and showing me how it was used. He then showed me the rest of her stash. I clearly remember, at this point, several times that my underwear was found on their floor on his side of the bed. She started to not even inquire why she would find such a thing.

During the summer, right before I turned 11, I had been wearing a little white jump-suite. I came out of the hallway and she looked at me, wondering what was wrong. I didn’t even know that anything was wrong. She pointed for me to look down and when I did I noticed that my entire crotch area was wet. I had been seeping something gooey in my underwear. She immediately made a phone call to a gynecologist. Turned out, I had an infection. I can only imagine how I got that. Did she stop to THINK for a goddamn minute how the fuck I got it? Hell no! They prescribed me  some antibiotics and I got better. There is a possibility that the infection wasn’t related. I don’t even remember what kind of infection it was.

About this time I also became dependent on masturbating. I had been so overexposed to sex that it was all that I thought about. Even when my cat went into heat I felt the “urge.” I was terrified of the dark so I had to get off to put myself asleep. I did it out of boredom…  a lot. I began to feel like I needed to do it all the time. This is something that has carried with me into adulthood.

Speaking of the cat. Yes, they got me a cat. Her name was Tabitha. She was all mine! Including all of the responsibility. She wasn’t fixed either but she was just a kitten when they got her so at that time it was ok. The litter box was kept in my room making my room stink to high fucking heaven. So couple the responsibility of the cat on top of the other chores I had, I really felt like I was her slave not her daughter.


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