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- Sep 12, 2009
- Location
- Too far south
I've been trying to vent for a while, mostly because things at work are dredging up bad memories. Anyone who likes good angst... This is for you?
I'll start when my problems began, thirteen years old. As far as I can recall things went smoothly up until then, I have an older and younger brother, and we got alone fairly well. We moved to a new house, older with bad doors, especially mine, which didn't stay closed.
It was summer, and as was almost routine for me I spent the entire day swimming, to collapse on my bed still in my swimsuit and pass out for the night. I woke up hours later to a strange feeling on my chest, and opened my eyes to my older brother standing by my bed, his hand wiggling down my top. I tried to scream, I honestly did, but all I could do was manage a lot and airy yelp. He ran back to his room and I was left shaking on my bed.
This was not the last encounter, almost every night that week he was in my room. I had no dresser to block my door, no lock to keep it closed, nothing to protect myself. By the end of the week I had enough, and tried to talk to my mom. Not talking about sexuality was almost an unspoken rule in the house. No one did it.
Awkwardly, I tried to tell her what was happening, and she brushed it off as he was 'waking me up'. Really? At one in the morning with his hand down my shirt?
This went on for two years. My parents maintained that if anything happened I should scream for them, but I couldn't. My brother broke the bathroom door, so I couldn't even shower in peace, tore the blinds from the window so he could peak through. My parents didn't fix either. So, at fifteen, I had enough. I stopped staying silent, I told friends online, people at school, and soon the police were involved.
I spoke to them once before they decided I was lying. My parents, law enforcement agents themselves, convinced them that I was lying, and my brother was incapable of such actions. He, of course, played the part of the innocent man. He pretended he did not understand about sex, despite being seventeen, and his computer being full of porn.
We were both taken to psychiatrists, he was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome, and I the same... As well as a number of other mental disorders ranging from clinical depression to skitzotypical ((Sp?)) personality disorder. With that diagnosis, my entire case was shot.
When the case was over, my real hell began. My mom was pissed that I would tell my 'lies'. She believed whole heartedly that I was insane, but that did not stop the punishments. I was hit, with anything she could get her hands on. Metal spatulas on my arms, legs, computer wires used to lash, and had my leg skinned on the fireplace when I refused to take back my words. And, when I had to go to bed, my brother had no pity on me.
I tried to ensure we were never home alone, but sometimes my plans did not matter. He told me then, in his twisted way, that it was all my fault. That he molested me because I am mean to him, and if I were nicer then he could stop.
I tried to be nicer, but he was outright lying. I found out that I was not the only girl he was touching. Several young women at his school were saying the same thing, none of us knew each other, but our stories were identical. Still, our cases were treated as separate instances, and the police dropped them without ever looking at them together.
To cut this long story almost short, nothing happened in my favor. I was almost raped several times, but always something saved me. Whether that was me grabbing something to hit him with... Or a noise to startle him away. I recorded him talking about molesting me, the police did nothing. I tried to rally the girls together he molested, and one lied and had my case dissolved. I endured this for years, my only hope a man I met online who promised to take me away. At 18 I left home with a bag of clothes, and moved in with this man. My parents hated the idea, tried to get him arrested, but we got married anyway.
Which brings me to story of angst number 2. In my next post... -_-;;;
I'll start when my problems began, thirteen years old. As far as I can recall things went smoothly up until then, I have an older and younger brother, and we got alone fairly well. We moved to a new house, older with bad doors, especially mine, which didn't stay closed.
It was summer, and as was almost routine for me I spent the entire day swimming, to collapse on my bed still in my swimsuit and pass out for the night. I woke up hours later to a strange feeling on my chest, and opened my eyes to my older brother standing by my bed, his hand wiggling down my top. I tried to scream, I honestly did, but all I could do was manage a lot and airy yelp. He ran back to his room and I was left shaking on my bed.
This was not the last encounter, almost every night that week he was in my room. I had no dresser to block my door, no lock to keep it closed, nothing to protect myself. By the end of the week I had enough, and tried to talk to my mom. Not talking about sexuality was almost an unspoken rule in the house. No one did it.
Awkwardly, I tried to tell her what was happening, and she brushed it off as he was 'waking me up'. Really? At one in the morning with his hand down my shirt?
This went on for two years. My parents maintained that if anything happened I should scream for them, but I couldn't. My brother broke the bathroom door, so I couldn't even shower in peace, tore the blinds from the window so he could peak through. My parents didn't fix either. So, at fifteen, I had enough. I stopped staying silent, I told friends online, people at school, and soon the police were involved.
I spoke to them once before they decided I was lying. My parents, law enforcement agents themselves, convinced them that I was lying, and my brother was incapable of such actions. He, of course, played the part of the innocent man. He pretended he did not understand about sex, despite being seventeen, and his computer being full of porn.
We were both taken to psychiatrists, he was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome, and I the same... As well as a number of other mental disorders ranging from clinical depression to skitzotypical ((Sp?)) personality disorder. With that diagnosis, my entire case was shot.
When the case was over, my real hell began. My mom was pissed that I would tell my 'lies'. She believed whole heartedly that I was insane, but that did not stop the punishments. I was hit, with anything she could get her hands on. Metal spatulas on my arms, legs, computer wires used to lash, and had my leg skinned on the fireplace when I refused to take back my words. And, when I had to go to bed, my brother had no pity on me.
I tried to ensure we were never home alone, but sometimes my plans did not matter. He told me then, in his twisted way, that it was all my fault. That he molested me because I am mean to him, and if I were nicer then he could stop.
I tried to be nicer, but he was outright lying. I found out that I was not the only girl he was touching. Several young women at his school were saying the same thing, none of us knew each other, but our stories were identical. Still, our cases were treated as separate instances, and the police dropped them without ever looking at them together.
To cut this long story almost short, nothing happened in my favor. I was almost raped several times, but always something saved me. Whether that was me grabbing something to hit him with... Or a noise to startle him away. I recorded him talking about molesting me, the police did nothing. I tried to rally the girls together he molested, and one lied and had my case dissolved. I endured this for years, my only hope a man I met online who promised to take me away. At 18 I left home with a bag of clothes, and moved in with this man. My parents hated the idea, tried to get him arrested, but we got married anyway.
Which brings me to story of angst number 2. In my next post... -_-;;;
