Finally Starting Life

I will always remember the day my life truly began ― a couple of months before I turned 15. It was Friday, March 20, 1998.

I was a freshman in high school, and I was sitting in my last class of the day next to Tracy. This was the first year since elementary school that we had EVERY class together. The last class also was one of our favorites. It was science and we thought the teacher was funny and engaging. The teacher had presented some stuff, and we were all working quietly on our school work when Mr. Squier, the school counselor, came to the door and asked to remove Tracy from class. Everyone immediately started making sounds and saying things like, “Oooh, someone’s in trouble.” Tracy packed up her stuff and walked out with Mr. Squier.

Meanwhile, I was sitting at the table we were sharing as our desk space and freaking out! The minute he showed up at the door, I knew what it was for and got butterflies in my stomach and a heat enveloped my whole body. I was relieved, still sweaty and nervous, but relieved to still be in class. That was short-lived. A few minutes later Mr. Squier was back and asked to pull me from class as well. All the rumblings from everyone started up again while I felt my heart plummet. 

The school counselor’s office was on the second floor, and my class was on the first floor, basically as far from the office as possible. It felt like it took at least 20 minutes to walk to the office, but in reality it was only about three minutes. As we were walking up the stairs, Mr. Squier asked me if I knew what this was all about. I was terrified to speak and just kept looking at my feet as I walked, but I managed to squeak out that I thought I knew what was happening. 

I had told my brother, Fred, a couple of days before about something that was happening to me in our home. 

I knew this was something serious, but I didn’t realize just how serious until I walked into the office and saw Tracy sitting in a chair, gazing at her feet, while two police officers, a man and a woman, sat across from her. This scene made me even more nervous! There were cops!? All of a sudden my confession to Fred seemed so serious and scary and a big part of me wished I had never said anything. 

Lucky for me, I wasn’t required to speak. I sat in the chair next to Tracy, staring at my feet the whole time the cops asked questions and Tracy answered. I would speak up to confirm what was said but never added any more details or information.

I have no idea how long this whole process took, it felt like a lifetime. I do know that by the time we were done talking, we had missed our bus home. Before we left the office, the police officers gave Tracy and I a sucker for being able to share this information with them. Then we came out and saw that Fred was there waiting for us. At that time, Mr. Squier and the cops came to let us know that they had called our mom and she was on her way to the school. Our whole future depended on her reaction and whether or not she believed us.

You see, for the past several years, Tracy and I were being sexually abused by our step-father. He had recently threatened to kill our family dog, which made me, so I told Fred that I had something on him that could probably get him sent to prison for a long time. Once I told Fred some of the details, I clammed up and didn’t want to say any more. Fred said he had to do something. So, he found a number in the back of a phone book that looked helpful. He called and they told him this was serious and that he would need to tell a trusted adult what was happening. All of us agreed immediately NOT to tell our mom. We didn’t know how she would react, but we didn’t think she would do anything to help us. Once we ruled her out, I started to panic and told Fred it would be best not to tell anyone. We could continue living like we had been and it would be fine. However, we all really liked Mr. Squier and had a great relationship with him, so it didn’t shock me that Fred confided in him a couple days after we said we wouldn’t tell anyone.
So now we wait. 

Once the cops could talk to our mom, they could determine the best plan of action to move forward with this case. If our mom showed any signs of not believing us or didn’t seem to care about our well-being, we would be placed in foster care—foster care! This is something we had heard about, but could this really be happening to us?! 

Mom finally arrived at the school and was confused seeing us sitting there with the two police officers. All the adults went into the same room Tracy and I had recently vacated so the cops could fill her in on what we had told them. Mom came out and was visibly shaken, she believed us. The cops asked her if she had a safe place where she could take us, and she said we could go up to her parents house. There were no cell phones then, so she called them from the school phone and asked if it would be okay for us to come up for the weekend. It was a last minute trip that none of us expected. 

Before we could leave, the cops had to go back to our house to confront our step-dad and to make sure it would be a safe space for us to go to pack up some things for the weekend. The cops left, confronted him, and when they came back, they stated that he never once denied any of it. They said that is a sure sign that he is, indeed, guilty of what we were saying. So, they said we needed to get out of that living situation.
All three of us kids and mom piled into her van to go back home to pack for the weekend. The cops followed us there and told us we had 15 minutes to gather what we needed and then we would need to leave. We packed quickly, grabbing whatever we thought we might need and headed “up north” to our grandparents house. They lived about two hours away. 

Once we arrived, mom made us kids sit in the van while she went into the house to tell them more details on what was happening. We would end up staying there for the weekend before returning to school Monday morning, but for the moment we were safe. We had a fresh start, and that is the day my whole world changed and I started to truly live.

Secrets in the Haymow

Warning: This blog contains mature content that may be triggering.

The effects of being raped and the emotions it produces are more complicated than a lot of people might realize. I remember all too well the mixed feelings I often had when my "dad" would come for me.

His visits often came at strange times, such as during chore time. My siblings and I would take turns going up to the haymow to throw hay down for the cows. While one of us was doing that, the other two would distribute the hay for the cows to eat. Between the ages of 11 and 15, my “dad” would often come up when I was the one in the haymow and have his way with me.

Those times up in the haymow are some of the most memorable, and definitely not in a good way. I was trying to do my job – because there would be severe repercussions if I didn’t do it correctly – and then my “dad” would show up. I had a love-hate relationship with seeing him enter the haymow. I knew he was there to rape me. Of course, I didn’t know that word at that age and didn’t even considered it rape until I was much older. But even though I knew what he was going to do to me, it was good to see him – because he was there just for me. He thought I was someone special, his little girl. The other part of me, the part that knew this wasn’t really right, was scared and nervous about what would happen. Often when he came to interrupt my work, he would be quick so that I could get back to my job. He would pull down my pants, no matter what the temperature was outside, and then he would pull down his own pants just far enough to pull out his penis. Then he would lay me down on a bale of hay or shove me up against a wall and rape me.

Everything would happen quickly then, and I remember him spasming in orgasm. It all seemed so weird, though I wouldn’t really think about it until I was older. I just remember feeling gross after he spasmed on top of me. When he was done, he would just get up, put his penis back in his pants and zip up. I would just be lying there, and eventually, I would get up as well. I never had any kind of towel or napkin or anything, so I would pull up my pants while semen was rolling down my leg. I would have to continue doing my chores – for several more hours – like this. The winter months were the worst because the semen would get cold REALLY quickly and feel as though it were frozen on my leg. But no matter what time of year, the sticky substance made it hard to focus on my chores.

No matter where it happened – in the haymow or in the bedroom – being raped was an emotional rollercoaster. I was just a kid, and the man who should have been protecting me was abusing me instead. It made me feel special, and it made me feel wrong. It would be a long time before I could make sense of it all.

The Price of Childhood

Warning: This blog contains mature content that may be triggering.

Watching from above became my new normal for the next several years of my life. I would watch this girl like she was someone else, all the while knowing she was me and that I didn’t have the power to stop anything that was happening to her.

One moment I would be a kid and the next I would be living a nightmare. For instance, if my siblings and I wanted to ride our bikes into town to hit up the only store there - to get ALL the candy - we would need adult permission. After all, we were only 10 to 12 years old. However, that adult permission came with a pretty big price. At least for me.

Looking back, it seems like I was more of an object than a person at that age, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. If we were to get permission to ride our bikes into town, I would need to be the one to ask my “dad,” and nine times out of 10, he would say, “Yes.” Of course, that, “Yes,” only came after he would have his way with me. He would lay me down on his bed and either perform oral sex on me, as I have previously mentioned, or he would take things even further.

Him going past the touching and oral stuff was something I didn’t talk about much when I was younger but have started to open up about more as I get older. I want it all out there. I want people in my life to try to understand how terrible life was and how the things that happened to me were really hard to talk about.

As I have mentioned before, my “dad” would often pick me up like a “sack of potatoes” and take me into my parents’ room. Then, it would start with him performing oral sex on me. However, that would quickly progress into something more. He would lie on top of me and French kiss me with his nasty tobacco mouth while he was naked, and before I knew it, he would be inside of me. The first time it happened was shocking. I can’t say I remember the specifics, but a part of me liked it and felt wrong all at the same time. This feeling persisted every single time he did it.

The good news is that, after he would rape me (his own “child”), he would give me the permission I had asked for so my siblings and I could ride our bikes into town. Sometimes, I would even get a little extra spending money so I could get more candy! So, you know, I suppose I won … right?

I was suddenly a kid again. For the time being.

Soulfire Gala in Lansing, MI 2017
This artwork represents my healing journey. See artist description below.
Airborne: The piece is about the cosmic bond between Trudy, her sister, and her brother and the strength they conjured to lift themselves from their trauma. The tree is a special symbol for Trudy and her sister, symbolizing rooted strength, growth and new beginnings. Marked in the tree you can see the term "give up" crossed out which is a reminder Trudy uses in her daily life to eliminate possibility of succumbing to defeat.

Floating

After my “dad” used my hand to masturbate that first morning, it became the ritual for the next few months of winter when we could be hidden beneath a blanket. It may not have occurred every day, but it happened more often than not - until the day things progressed to something more. Things started to change sometime during the summer between fourth and fifth grade.

It’s not as clear to me when things moved beyond him just using my hand for his pleasure to him touching me. Because, in the beginning, he would simply touch me. Not that that is acceptable, but it seemed less harmful than what was to come. He would touch my vagina and breasts and comment on how soon I would become more of a woman and have bigger breasts and hair and how he was looking forward to when that happened.

There were times he would pick me up “like a sack of potatoes” over his shoulder and carry me into his room, lay me on his bed and get on top of me to start French kissing me. I hated when he would stick his tongue in my mouth. He used chewing tobacco, and it made me want to vomit every time he did this. I don’t recall ever kissing him back, but he continued to do this to me. I always thought this was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. I was wrong.

He eventually escalated to more than just kissing me and lying on top of me. Mind you, he was a big man, 300-plus pounds, so it felt like he was crushing me most of the time. He would eventually slide off of me, taking off my pants and underwear on his way. Then, he would either sit on his knees or stand next to the bed with my legs draped over the edge of the bed or lifted and wrapped around his head. Then, he would proceed to stick his tongue in my vagina and perform oral sex on me.

During all of these times, I never fought back or said anything. It was easier for me to pretend this wasn’t even happening to me. I would just lie there with my eyes mostly closed. I would open them every once in a while to see where he was and what he was doing, but I would shut them immediately if we happened to make eye contact. A part of me knew what he was doing was wrong, but I didn’t know how to get out of it, so if I just pretended like it wasn’t me, then I could get through it. I would literally imagine myself floating above my body and watching this girl have these things happen to her - over and over and over again.

The Day I Lost My Innocence

I’ve previously mentioned that my siblings and I suffered physical, emotional and verbal abuse - mostly from our own mother. However, that abuse never prepared me for a new kind of abuse, a kind I had never even heard of and had no idea was classified as abuse. To be honest, none of the abuse I experienced as a child felt like abuse at the time - it was just the way life was, and it was expected that I would take it and deal with it.

Because most of the abuse we endured came at the hands of our mom, I never thought our “dad” could do anything terrible to us. And I didn't consider anything he DID do to be really all that bad.

If you have been reading my blogs, you know my siblings and I were adopted when I was 8 years old. After the adoption, I was always looking for ways to truly feel like part of the family.

About a year after the adoption, I thought that moment had finally come! Every morning before chores, we would all sit as a family to watch the news, mostly to see what the weather had in store since we would be working in the elements. I remember perfectly how things changed on this particular wintry day. We were all watching the news like normal when my “dad” saw I was cold and put his blanket over me, so we were both covered by it. After a few minutes of sitting under the blanket together and warming up, he took my hand in his. What happened next shocked me and made me feel weird and a little wrong.

He put my hand on his penis. Then, he proceeded to use my hand while masturbating. My hand was under a blanket on my “dad’s” penis, which I had never seen, let alone felt, before! When he was finished, there was weird, slimy goo on my hand. At the time, I wasn’t aware of what that was. It was his semen. There wasn’t a lot, so he kind of wiped it on his underwear, put his penis away and then took the blanket off of us. It was time to get dressed and start our morning chores.

This was the first of many times this happened over the next year. I never told anyone. A part of me finally did feel different - special. I now had this secret that connected only me to my “dad” and helped secure my spot as “daddy’s little girl.” I was 9 years old and had officially lost my innocence.