"When you were old enough to realize that what was happening to you wasn't normal, that most kids didn't go home and have the shit beat out of them, how did your abusers keep you silent about it for so long? I know when you are a kid and especially when it's your parents who are hurting you, the world really doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But you were being tortured! Did you contemplate telling all the time or was that just too scary to even imagine? As someone who has not been there or done that, I would think that nothing could be as terrifying as what you were already experiencing."
So I'm finally getting around to answering this question I was asked in the comments. This is a tough one, and I'm struggling to come up with one coherent answer. This could get long!
First off, as you said, for a long time I didn't really grasp that what happened to me didn't happen to everyone. Even when I was older, it was just the way things were. My parents and my other abusers had the mind control stuff down to a science. It's really scary looking back just how much they had an answer for everything. I remember so clearly my dad explaining to me what love is and how to be a good daughter. He told me that the things that he was doing to me...our "special time"....were because he loved me so much. He said I couldn't talk about it at all to anyone because it would make others jealous that they didn't have the kind of relationship we had. When you've grown up with that kind of "love", it's hard to question it. Also, the alternative to that was pain, so I craved that love. I wanted to be a good daughter more than anything else in the world. I couldn't see that my parents were doing bad things to me. When they hurt me I instead saw that I had done something bad to them and I needed to do better. It was explained to me that young children are egocentric...they see the world as revolving around them. They also rely on their parents for everything. So, when their parents do something bad to them, it is easier to understand it as they did something bad than that there is something wrong with their parents. Because when you're a child if there's something wrong with your parents and you can't count on them, that's way scarier than just thinking you're really bad and constantly causing trouble. So when I was beaten, I rationalized that I'd messed up again. When the other stuff happened...the more torture like stuff, I was enduring it to make my daddy proud of me and happy with me, because that's what a good daughter does. I guess he knew just the right amount of love to give and take away to make me comply.
On top of that, during the really bad stuff it always came with a threat that if I ever told anyone they'd kill me. I can still see my dad's face (and others) when he spoke those words. He'd get right in my face, hovering over me, his eyes lit up with....evil (for lack of a better word). I believed him. I believed him so much that even in adulthood if I tried to tell anyone anything I would hallucinate figures coming out of walls, dark corners, etc., all coming to kill me. I didn't trust that anyone could keep me safe from that.
I did accidentally tell once. I was in elementary school....2nd grade I think. I hadn't really gotten good at the acting ok thing, and my teacher caught on that something was wrong. It got reported and this woman came to our house to talk to me. I knew why she was there, and I knew I'd messed up bad. One look at my dad confirmed that. He had a "you're dead" glare shooting at me in a way that I can only describe as absolutely terrifying. I knew it was time for my emmy-winning performance because I had to get that lady out of there. I turned on the charm and talked about how wonderful my parents were and how happy I was until she left. As soon as she walked out the door, everything changed. It was like the air in the house changed as the door shut and my layer of safety was gone. I got it bad that night. I remember him coming towards me with a type of anger I hadn't seen from him before. I don't remember much of what happened next but then I remember being on the floor in too much pain to move. That day reaffirmed for me that telling wasn't an option. I couldn't let anyone get even the slightest hint that something might be wrong, so I went out of my way to appear like a happy, healthy kid. It was safer that way.
In all my years of living with my parents, I don't remember ever having the thought that nothing could be as bad as what I was experiencing....mainly because I had no basis for that. For all I knew if it was that bad at home it could be twice as bad elsewhere. My parents had told me that no one else would ever love me, and I was lucky they still did even with how bad I was. They told me horror stories about kids who were taken away from their parents and what happens to them. I didn't grasp that it wasn't any worse than what was already happening to me because I didn't view what was happening to me as abuse. It was just life. So when they said, "Those people get money for kids and treat them horribly," I listened and checked that off as not an option.
When I finally reached the point that I'd had enough and had to get out of there, I still didn't trust anyone, and especially not anyone with any sort of authority. So even though I liked my teachers and they'd been helpful to me, there's no way I would tell them because I didn't believe they could stop it. I thought if anything they'd side with my parents and make it worse. I definitely didn't trust cops or anyone like that. Because my parents were involved with drugs (and obviously other illegal stuff with me), I'd been taught from a very early age that cops are the enemy, that they try to break up families and they're out to hurt people. There was no one that I saw as trustworthy enough and also powerful enough to tell. I believed that if I told I risked death, even if I knew they couldn't hear me say it a part of me believed that somehow they could. So I had to be able to believe 100% that the person I told could stop it and keep me safe before they killed me. But there was no one like that, especially because I thought all adults worked together. (When you've been hurt by many different adults it becomes harder and harder to believe there's good ones out there. It starts to feel like even the ones who seem good probably also secretly hurt kids. It didn't help that my parents and the others were more or less respected members of society, so there wasn't a "type" to look out for). Anyway, when I wanted/needed to get away, I believed that the only one I could rely on was myself. So I ran away and hid my situation from everyone. Eventually I let a select few in because I knew they were the type that wouldn't tell (homeless, on drugs, abusers themselves, etc.).
It took until well into adulthood before I was able to tell. My official reason for entering foster care was abandonment. I got arrested while living on the streets...semi purposefully, as I was just exhausted and couldn't keep going like that. I told them who I really was and they tried to return me to my parents who refused to take me. They said that I was a troublemaker who had caused too many issues for them and they just couldn't deal with me anymore. They had a whole big sob story that made them the innocent ones. I was ok with that. I was just grateful to be released from them. But I still believed they could see and hear everything, so I kept their secret.
I realized something else as I write this. Denial was a big part of it all. As I mentioned earlier I wanted that love from my parents more than anything in the world. I wanted us to be a loving family. I wanted to have the life and family that I read about in stories. So I couldn't really acknowledge what was happening. Saying it out loud meant that it was true...that there was something very, very wrong with my family and that I didn't have that. It also felt like acknowledging there was something deeply wrong with me. If not even my mom could love me, how bad must I be. When you're young you hear all about how your mom loves you no matter what. Or at least she's supposed to. I wanted to be good enough to get that love. Saying anything was different meant that it...well...was different. Also, for some reason I had a very very very strong sense of family loyalty. I'm not really sure where that came from, but I took pride in the fact that I protected my parents. I took the whole "honor they father and mother" or whatever it is to extremes. I thought it was a badge of honor that I took pain in their honor and didn't let our secret out. I don't know it's hard to put into words.
Anyway I think I gotta stop there...this has been really emotional to write out and I gotta get away from the computer for a bit. I don't know if what I've written makes sense but it's too painful to go back and edit. (For some reason writing it isn't so bad, but re-reading my own writing is really really hard for me with stuff like this). Also you probably noticed I still can't say most of the words for the stuff that happened to me, so I still really haven't learned how to "tell". I'm much more open than I used to be, especially on here where it's more or less anonymous, but I still can't say the words. I tried once to make myself say it out loud to someone and I did, but then I proceeded to throw up and be sick for hours. Ok probably too much information there! lol
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Still gotta end with gratitude. I'm grateful that that part of my life is done and that I'm safe now. I'm also grateful that I'm able to use my story now to benefit others and be something positive.
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