My story of sexual abuse, PTSD, and how I realized my dream.

This is rated everyone to show underage victims and survivors that they are not alone. To them: You are beautiful, and you are worthy to be loved.

My father started molesting me when I was 8 that I can remember. The last time happened when I was 13. While it was happening I had this sort of dissociative episode. I went completely numb. It was happenening, but it was not real. Nothing was real. I felt nothing. I said nothing. I was nothing. I had two options: find one of my father's guns, load it, and shoot the f****r (Go 2nd Amendment), or run away to Seattle and live on my own, making a living as a prostitute. I told myself that I would sleep on it. I can't remember exactly when I reported the abuse. Once split from reality, I don't feel like I ever came back. Not even now. The day I reported the abuse, I was driven by a nice police officer to the police station so he could fill out reports. I was all alone sitting in that chair. I was completely numb. My entire being had been violated. The officer finished his reports, and drove me to a sort of foster home in Tacoma. Once we got there, I stopped being numb long enough to fear for my life. I was never so afraid as I was right then. Then I was numb. I stayed there for a while. That caregiver was not s**t. She would not allow us to watch TV with her. I did not care. I started stealing stuff from stores with the other kids, and my wonderful (not) life with drugs started. The other kids were smoking, and I wanted a puff too. I could not smoke right. I would learn that when I was 17. Anyway, I had this dream while I was there. I was at a beach with everyone I knew parked behind me. I saw a snake and I chased it into the water. Next thing I knew, I was lying on my right side, quickly floating away into an infinate ocean to die. I screamed for help, but no one helped me. I woke up. I found out later how prophetic that dream would be. Eventually, I spoke to some idiot social worker who could not even do his job right. He sat me down, and asked me the most bullshit question I have ever heard in my life: "what side of the can is the pencil on". I looked at him like "what the f**k is your problem" but I said "it depends on what angle you approach the can with", and left it at that. I met up with my mother who had driven across country to save my sorry a*s.

We went to where I had been living, and Mom moved in with us (separate f*****g issues, don't get me started). We met with another social worker, and this vile b***h is a demon from Hell. I think her name was Melanie. She actually had the nerve to ask me what I had been wearing that night and why. I told her that it did not matter, that I had done nothing wrong, and that I was not to blame for what happened. I asked her when she would do her God damn job and stop blaming people for s**t that aint their fault. I then realized that the dream I had was actually a prophetic vision of what was to happen. It was the sum of all of my worst f*****g nightmares. I had been violated in one of the worst ways possible, and no one gave a s**t. That day is the day that the white hot rage that had been building my entire life came to fruition. I was on my own, and it was me against the world. Everyone was my enemy, especially God. Mom and I moved out of the house, and moved in with my grandma and grandpa. Things were tolerable (I was still pissed off), but one day my father showed up shouting. He ordered Mom and me to get into the little two door car. I sat in the back, Mom in the front passenger's seat, and my father in the driver's seat. As he made his way towards the bridge, I realized how there was no way for me to escape and throw myself out of a window or door. As we got on the bridge, my father asked me why "I said those things", and for the first and last time, I stood up to the monster. I said "the things I said were true, Dad", with one pissed off attitude. The whole car was quite. Everyone, including me, was shocked at my "treason". No I can't find a better word. I had disrespected the man who tried to outdo God. Thus began my career as a rebel. That was one of the best moments of my life. I have said it many times, and I will say it again: you never know how strong you are until you have to be, and you you find out how strong you are when you are backed into a corner, and you have no choice but to be ready to fight to the very f*****g death. Anyway, in silence, we went accross the bridge. My father pulled the car into the driveway of a jail for minors. He said that he was putting me in there for what I did. I was not scared. I had my taste of freedom, and I was going to have more if it killed me. I said nothing, but hatched a silent plan to cooperate with the process and get a quard alone, tell about the abuse, and how that was the real reason behind me being there. The power shift that happened when I had stood up to him earlier must have been fresh in his mind, and when he noticed that I was not scared, he said nothing, pulled the car away, and made the way back to the bridge. On the way back to grandpa's house, I said "I still love you, Daddy", and sat back and cried. I knew that my relationship with my father was over. There was the bittersweet feeling of relief, and the crushing sadness of loving someone who does not love you back. Story of my life.

Legal charges were never filed against my father. No, my dears, don't let that scare you. Fight, fight, fight, for your right. You are worthy, and treasonous is the punk who violates you. Back to the story. I would alternate between a burning hot rage that threatened to consume me, and the numbness that consumed my soul. I would have these episodes where I was complete split from reality. I did not exist, the universe did not exist, God did not exist. Everything was an illusion. I suppose that this might be part of something called post traumatic stress disorder, a mental illness that occurs from, you guessed it: trauma. It does not make you less of a person, and it can happen for any reason under the sun. Own your condition, not the other way around. When I was 15, on September 16, 1996, I repented of all of my sins and accepted Jesus without reservation. I was now saved. Music did not play, applause did not sound, and rockets did not fire. I just had the peace of knowing that I was be safe (eventually). I had found my true identity as a Christian serve (most of the time), a loving God who came to earth to suffer and die for our sins, and raise from the dead three days later. But the story did not end there. When I was 16, I started having the flashbacks. I would start having muscle spasms you know where, and feelings of rage and fear would control me. I thought demons were abusing me. I did not know about the way the human body worked. aIthough would have helped, I can tell you that. When it would happen, I would try to hurt myself. I was afraid and I felt violated. The feelings of betrayal and being violated did and still do continue to this day. I almost killed myself last year because the flashbacks were that bad. I could not lay down without it happening. I am learning skills to deal with it. I feel so guilty because I take God's name in vain when it happens, but when I am in the zone, I can't help it. I am learning to realize that my salvation and eternal security depend not on me keeping it together, but on the life of Jesus, the first Man I loved who did not violate me. I am telling this story to help people like me. When you reach out to help someone, a healing energy is created that heals both people. In the psych ward last year, when I thought I would die from "this", there was this younger woman who was just as scared. I would tell her that I am feeling exactly the same way and that she was not alone. I was not better, but I felt like I had a purpose. It was then that I realized that my purpose is in the mental health field, either as an advocate fighting politicians that make dipshit laws that hurt people like me, or working on a psych ward helping people at there worst. At the type of typing this, I lean towards working on a psych ward and this story is why: I was having one of my flashback panic attacks the first night there. I was afraid to lay down. I was crying hysterically. The counselor then had me go through a medication excercise. That is the reason that I want to help people like me. I think I have to decided to first get myself more stable and then see about working on a psych ward. I want to help people who are at their worst.

Author's Note

Seriously, you are worthy to be loved.