I need to go into this post with a warning. This may be uncomfortable to read. Especially if you are a dear friend of mine. Or even worse, a relative. It’s uncomfortable to write. But in light of recent events in this world, I feel it’s necessary to share my story. Even if you cannot relate, perhaps you have a child. A child that you should address boundaries with. Teach your children that safe adults don’t ask kids to keep secrets. Safe adults don’t touch you in your private areas. Safe adults don’t make you feel SCARED. And better yet, prepare them for a world where their body is THEIRS. They have a voice and a choice!

Kidnapped
My earliest memory of my father was when I was around 2 years old. I was asleep on the living room floor of my aunt’s house. I recall being there with my cousins, in front of a blue-lit screen tv. The screen door opened ever so slowly. I guess I’ve always been a light sleeper, or at least since this moment. My father grabbed me, hand over my mouth, and told me not to make a sound. I then remember being so scared knowing I wasn’t supposed to be where I was. Bits of my memories are blocked. Stuck in the past. But I recall a tiny hand up against a cool glass storm door, as lights came into the driveway of my grandmother’s house. My mom was there to rescue me from this confusing and uncomfortable situation.

Has he ever?

It’s not a common question, at least, I wouldn’t think. “Has your dad ever touched you or hurt you?” but maybe it should be. I was asked this many times as a child. My mom was always so suspicious of the man who was my father. I suppose her fear stemmed from a 14 year old version of herself and a 19 year old, version of him. Things change when you have daughters. What seemed okay then, is now understandably–pedophilia. (Mom had me at 15, dad was 20)

I wish I had the intestinal fortitude to say no.

I was 5 years old. We lived on Austin street. My dad was in town from Florida, where he lived. He came to pick me up, it was around Christmas time, heck maybe it was Christmas. It was FREEZING cold. I wore a pink coat. He was in a white convertible, a Lebaron I think. We didn’t even get around the block when he put the top down. I was shivering. “Isn’t this soo fun!?” he yelled. He was around 25 at the time. I was miserable and too afraid to cry or say please take me home. I cracked a smile. Whatever I needed to keep him smiling.

Nightgown photos

My dad moved back home from Florida when I was around 10-11. He met a woman and they moved in together. Life seemed pretty normal for him then. They lived in separate bedrooms. When I would stay the night, I would sleep in his bed. He would allow me to invite friends over to swim or to stay the night. Often times, encourage it. Later on, my friend wasn’t allowed to stay any more. My dad had been taking photos of us in our swimsuits and night gowns. What may have seemed innocent dad behavior wasn’t okay with my friends mom. She was, and is, a smart lady.

Verbal abuse

My mom and I decided to have a girl’s weekend. We checked ourselves into a local hotel with a jacuzzi tub. We even brought the dog! She was a girl too, mom said! I can’t recall why I was with my dad this particular day but my mom specifically asked me not to mention the hotel room. My dad always went on about my mother, how he was the love of her life and he missed her. He said to me before dropping me off, “I bet your mom misses this big dick up inside of her.” I was frozen. What does a 12 year old girl say in this instance? I said nothing. The dirty jokes never stopped. That was a way to keep me uncomfortable and frozen.

Why did you keep going back?

My mom remarried when I was 4, my brother’s dad was a great father, who always treated me like his daughter. I think if he would’ve known, suspected anything, he would’ve hurt my bio father. I remember once he had a “Talk” with me about sex and physical touch. I don’t know why he was the one having this talk with me and not my mom. But I can assume he wanted to make sure I was safe. I can only remember a green garden hose running through the house filling up a water bed, I just kept staring at it as he talked. The things we associate with are incredible. At the age of 10-12, my mother’s relationship with my stepdad became tumultuous. Divorce was imminent and the stepdad I grew up with was not the same person I recalled. Withdrawing to drugs and struggling with addiction he left our family in an abrupt way. Inconveniently for me, My bio dad was now back from his 10-year hiatus in Florida. I was grasping at straws in the dad department, desperately wanting that connection.

Razorblades, short skirts, bad attitude

At the age of 12 (yep you read that right) I began acting out. In ways that got the attention of boys, and well, everyone for that matter. Blame it on cliché daddy issues if you like. It was deeper than that. I was fighting with my mom the most. But also with girls at school. I started drinking alcohol, kissing boys in the back of the track bus, and sneaking out of my house. By the age of 15, I had stolen my mom’s car in the middle of the night, been drunk more times than I could count, and more unmentionables to include cutting my wrists. I hated myself. I was suspended from school several times and ended up seeing a counselor. I was prescribed a series of drugs before I was even 18. Meanwhile, having dreams of having sex with my dad.

Holy shit, Tasha? Really?

That was my childhood. Fun right?

Except the dreams didn’t stop. And neither did the self-loathing. I have no idea why I kept trying to have a relationship with my dad. I still struggle with understanding this. I moved 1,000 miles away at the age of 18. Ran away, is a better way to put it. And by the time I was 20, my dad’s wife was dead of colon cancer. I felt so badly for him. I came home to be there for him. While we were home, we went out for a day trip. We made it 15 miles down the road before he started in on me. Dirty jokes at first. (Now I can understand it as flirting) And then when he didn’t get the response he wanted he began to tell me “you aren’t shit without me.” He loved to tell me what a great influence he had on my life. That if it weren’t for him, I would have never got this far. (Mind you, I think my dad has maybe given me $500, total, in my 30 years of life) Anyway, I sat there and took the berating before softly asking him to please drop me off at my brother’s. I no longer wanted to be anywhere near him. I was so scared at this moment. I was praying he wouldn’t kill me. He sped up. Yelling at me, the speedometer increasing with his tone of voice. He was well over 100mph. Please just take me home I kept praying. There it was again. I was 5. Pink coat, convertible. Please just let me be home. I’m cold.

I joined the Army

I finally did something that only I was responsible for. No one could have this credit. Little did I know the dreams would find me there too. As a female in the military, it isn’t easy. We all know that. You are either one of two “things.” A slut or a bitch. Take your pick and do it quickly, because you must wear this scarlet letter from day one. Instead, I chose to get married. And I got married quickly. Finding safety in someone who had been at this army thing longer than me. It also helped me avoid being a bitch or a slut. I was just simply loyal. What can I say? See my ring!? Apparently, the ring wasn’t as big of a shield as I thought it was despite my prayers. I carried a knife with me wherever I went. Always on high alert. Always checking my back. I got stuck with a leader who was the army version of my dad. He was skeezy. That’s a fantastic description. Skeeeeeezy! He would target me during PT at first. During a run. Where are you going to go? I would slow, so would he. I would run faster, he saw it as a game. Isn’t this fun?

Caveman

Mr. Skeezy, harrassed me for 6 months. Straight. One day we had a gut-wrenching discussion about cavemen. He told me that the best way to rape a woman was to freeze water bottles and then hit them over the head, you know, like cavemen and their clubs. But with water bottles, eventually the evidence would thaw out and you could just toss it. He told me that it would be so easy to do because the tents are so dimly lit and women are stupid and walk alone. He then went on to explain that men have needs and women are put on this earth to fulfill our needs. If rape were legal, we would have less crime in the world. Testosterone must be dealt with. And because of this, he kept a large bottle of lotion under his desk. He is saying this and THE ENTIRE TIME, we are running. I was just looking for a bathroom to duck into but also in complete fear that he would follow me into the stall. There I am again. 5, in a pink coat. Freezing.

Frozen in fear

Why did this keep happening to me!? I asked the Major that was in charge of my mental health at the time. Amanda was her first name. Funny I can’t remember her last name, which I’m sure was clearly printed on her uniform name tab. She got out the dry erase markers and whiteboard and helped me conclude that it would have never made a difference to yell stop or no. These people were predators. I hated that I was so strong in other aspects of my life but not for myself. I hated that I could stand up for what I believed in or in honor of those less fortunate, but I couldn’t ask someone to stop. To stop making me feel uncomfortable or to take me home. I remember being 15 and the boyfriend of my friend’s mother snuck into my bed one night and forced himself on to me. I didn’t say stop. I just said, “she will hear.” I remember every second of that moment.

What is wrong with me?

He is there in bed with me. On top of me. I can smell him. My body seems to enjoy this, although it doesn’t feel right. And I wake up wanting to puke. Over and Over. Why was I dreaming of having sex with my dad? Was this metaphorical? Was something wrong with me? I know consciously I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to think about it. I felt very dirty. It screwed with my head. For years.

The back story

While my mom never exactly spoke ill of my father, she also was very direct. If I didn’t want to see him, I didn’t have to. She never made me. In fact, she often prayed me for more information on why I didn’t want to go see him. My father was very abusive. The stories corroborated by my grandparents and aunt. My father once broke in every window of my grandparent’s home. He broke in their house, beat up my grandfather, and kicked my mother in the back as she was pregnant with me. After I was born, he snuck in one night and my mom found him strangling me in my crib. They really should’ve got a guard dog. My dad was crazily obsessed with my mom. As I grew older and began to look more and more like her. She was beyond concerned that he would begin to mistake me– for her.

My dad was abusive in every relationship. With family, with wives, with his own children. He abused drugs, alcohol, and people. He went through 3 wives by the time I was 12. Leaving me with 2 half brothers, neither of which he cared for. By the time his eldest son was 18, our dad was making an attempt at weaseling his way back into my brother’s life after signing over his parental rights at age 8. My dad and brother had not spent any length of time together for over 10 years and when he decided to come around, of course, his mom thought she was doing the right thing. Every child needs to know their dad, right? When my dad’s 3rd wife died, he took a turn toward the worst or in his case, his usual self. An addict. My brother recalls the moment that my dad used peer pressure to get him to try meth for the first time. Wow, what a great bonding experience, right? I know that crippling fear my dear brother felt at that moment. Pink coat. Frozen. He said sure. And soon, he was making, distributing, and taking the fall for the reunited daddy in his life.

Bringing it back around

I wanted to paint that picture of my father to explain what happened next. To summarize the shit human that he is. I didn’t rekindle my relationship with my dad. He would send basic holiday greetings via text message and I wouldn’t respond. This Christmas, we all got together as a family. I don’t know why I agreed. I think maybe because he was forever at odds with his own family for so long and if they could forgive him, then maybe I could too? Plus he seemed clean and stable. He was really good at pretending. We had pizza one night and breakfast another day. Always with another family member. I introduced him to my husband. I felt safe. He couldn’t hurt me anymore, I thought.

My mom dies suddenly at 45. She freezes to death outside on a cold January night.

My world is rocked

I don’t know why I called my dad. He was the last person I called that day with the terrible news. I guess I assumed these two people made me, and maybe he should know. Typical of him, he starts to boo-hoo about her being the love of his life. He says he was for sure that they would always end up together. He tells me over the phone, maybe an hour after hearing that my mom died, that they still had a connection and she still wanted him. Are you kidding me? By that point, I had him on speakerphone so my husband could witness this shit show I was hearing. I was rolling my eyes and ready to come through the phone to strangle him. How dare he make this about himself? Why did this surprise me.

We had a celebration of life in honor of my mother. My dad came and stayed most of the night, attempting to be supportive. I was the beneficiary of my mother’s will and estate. So not only was I trying to mourn and grieve the sudden loss of my mom, I planned the funeral and celebration of life, I was also taking part in her death investigation, clearing her house out, dividing up her belongings, canceling all of her bills and trying to leave town in two weeks because I live over 1000 miles away. So, after all of this is settled, and I am driving my deceased mother’s car home with me to Lousiana, and my dad calls me.

Admission. Reopened wound

“I just can’t believe I have a grandson that I’ve never met.” My dad says to me. My brother refused to come to my moms celebration of life after learning that our dad would be there. (Which by the way I was totally respectful of) I tell my dad, rather spitefully on the phone, that he should just get use to the fact that he will never meet his grandson because he doesn’t deserve to. Whoa! I was a little shocked about what came out of my mouth. But, like I said, I can stick up for others better than myself. He Immediately began jumping to conclusions and getting defensive in the way that only a true narcissist could, “Why? Is that what he told you? You only know his side of the story.”
“I know what you did and you’re not going to fool me! Do you know how fucked up I am because of YOU!!?” I screamed. Shocked, once again at my bravery. He says to me, “well I guess since were being honest, we should talk about what happened to you when you were young.” Like he was letting me in on some kind of secret.

He says he was asleep the first time in happened. He woke up as it was happening. And then, he tells me, he admitted it to my grandmother and great grandmother. They apparently told him to just not talk about it unless I brought it up. My Nan and grandma are rolling over in their graves hearing this. And I’m sure anyone reading this that knows them would love to sucker punch my idiot father just for this remark alone. I began to scream. “That’s it!? That’s what you have to say to me? You lie and say it was just once? That you were sleeping? THAT MY NANNY KNEW!? Oh, fuck you! do you know how many years I spent wondering what was wrong with me? Hating myself? YEARS in counseling. Failed relationships!!!! ALL BECAUSE OF YOU!”

The last words he said to me: “You got counseling because you knew you needed help. You were strong enough to know when you needed to get help”

I hung up and blocked him. He could’ve died right along with my mom in January. In fact, it should’ve been him. Not her. And I know, not very Christian of me. But I’m not there yet. I don’t think I’ll ever be. Do I hate him? yes. Have a healed all of these wounds and scars he’s left behind? No. But I’m working hard every day. Why did he choose that moment to tell me? Was I suddenly not giving him the response he wanted? He knew how to inflict pain and get that frozen little girl in a pink coat, like a switch. My counselor says he saw me as vulnerable and possibly unwilling to lose another parent.

He doesn’t know me at all. To me, he has never been a father, he is the monster in my closet. The nightmare I can’t stop.

In the best version of myself, On a good day, when all the stars align, I can thank the universe for handing down his need for knowledge, his wittiness, his athleticism and sometimes even stubbornness.

Generational

Trauma comes in many forms. There are big traumas and little traumas. It is compounding, piling one hurt on top of another. While the small stories I recalled of my father were maybe little traumas, rape, especially by a parent is one big giant trauma, or “Big T.” Little traumas are things like divorce or loss of a job. And the thing about trauma is, we all process it differently. Not all trauma is created equal. I have some memories of when I was a girl, but the memory of the molestation itself, only came to me in dreams. I had no idea it was real, although in my gut it felt very real, until my dad admitted it to be true. Spoke it into existance. I am sure some family members might think I am making it up. I don’t remember so how could it be true? In a traumatic situation your capacity to deal with the event can often lead you to disassociate, black out, or even freeze. >Insert pink coat analogy<

But it wasn’t just me. My aunt suffers from severe blackouts of her childhood memories. She cannot recall anything up to the 6th grade. Can you imagine? Her sister, unfortunately, can recall all of the memories from those years as a child. All of the awful, horrendous nights of hiding under the bed, afraid of the monster in the other room. She still has ptsd that is triggered by colored Christmas lights. Rape after rape. 4 generations of pain and trauma. And where does all of that trauma go when it is not dealt with, not healed from? It stays inside the body. Injuries like this are compounding, they stack on top of each other if they aren’t able to cycle through the body and be processed. Trauma inflicted by a parent or a loved one, someone who is suppose to love you is the worst kind of trauma. The bonds we are suppose to form with our parents are shattered. We don’t feel safe or secure. We’re unable to develop skills that help us find our sense of self and purpose. We also don’t develop coping skills and when trauma or abuse happens we don’t know how to handle it because we never learned! And then when the next thing comes along, it feels dramatically worse because haven’t dealt with all the other shit that’s just stacked up on top of this one, living inside of our bodies. Festering.

Picture this: a mom who is raped as a child and never heals. Raises a daughter or 3 who all are abused as children as well. Who do the children turn to? How do the children even know what to do? And is it the fault of the mother, whom herself, isn’t sure how to overcome the constant pain of her traumas? The mom who chooses bad men to bring home to her daughters because she can’t recognize when she is being abused? THE CYCLE CONTINUES.

The Cycle has to end. Hidden traumas won’t heal

I’m writing my story and sharing some extremely raw and venerable things about myself and my family because I want you to stop the cycle in your family. Whether it is abuse, addiction, or pain. Have the courage to say enough is enough. I am not looking for pity or I’m sorries. I am working through my trauma and ptsd to heal and become a healthy and whole person to avoid passing on any unhealed pain to my children. Trauma lives in your body, whether you like it or not, it is there. It is time to acknowledge it. The next generation, your children, should not have to suffer because you are not willing to get help.

If you aren’t sure where to start here are some helpful sites. Please feel free to reach out to me. I am not a professional in this area, but I know many who are!

https://www.helpguide.org/articles/ptsd-trauma/coping-with-emotional-and-psychological-trauma.htm#:~:text=In%20order%20to%20heal%20from%20psychological%20and%20emotional,and%20rebuild%20your%20ability%20to%20trust%20other%20people.#:~:text=In%20order%20to%20heal%20from%20psychological%20and%20emotional,and%20rebuild%20your%20ability%20to%20trust%20other%20people.

https://freeptsdhelp.com/?utm_source=bing&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=Campaign%20%231&utm_term=help%20trauma&utm_content=Ad%20group%20%231

Here is a free online skills summit coming up

https://product.soundstrue.com/trauma-skills-summit/broadcast/?sq=1&_ke=eyJrbF9lbWFpbCI6ICJ0YXNoYXBpbmdlbEBnbWFpbC5jb20iLCAia2xfY29tcGFueV9pZCI6ICJKTURnYXEifQ%3D%3D