Survivor

June 17, 1985 was the day that changed the rest of my life. It was the day the molestation started. The mental and physical abuse had been going on for a while, but this man was going for the trifecta of evil.

I was 10 and the man was my “father.” I refer to him as the sperm donor because he has never done anything to earn the title that should be reserved for those who actually love their children.

I didn’t know what had happened that first day. He walked through the French doors and kissed me. Actually, it was more like a tonsil check, except I didn’t have those anymore. Little did I know the horrors that would come over the next four years.

We had a full house but I had no one to turn to. My step mother hated me and my older brother used me as a punching bag. My 2 younger brothers were too young to do anything. Besides, they were learning the art of the punch rather well.

I will spare a lot of the detailed events, but his abuse of me was referred to as “Daddy’s little game.” He was so brazen that he would slide his hands between my legs at the dinner table with his wife and 3 sons sitting there enjoying their meals.

I would wake up to him watching me at the end of my bed. He would be standing on the other side of the door when I got up in the morning. It was a mental batttle.

When I was 12 years old, I went to my pastor and told him Rodger was abusing me. His response? “How dare you say that about your father. He is an upstanding citizen of this community, and he would never do that to you!”

I ran away and went to a family friend and asked for help. I was told it was a family matter and I shouldn’t try to get others involved. She then called “him” and told him where I was.

I was taken back home and took pills after the beating I sustained. I wanted to die. It didn’t work. I was so depressed when I woke up. If this was going to be my life, I had to have a way to survive.

I began to question how. My mental capabilities were strong. I always knew he was evil. I always knew it was not my fault, no matter what he said. So I had to fight the mental war.

I knew I was a survivor. And I began to think about what else was a survivor. Sharks. I had an infatuation with them anyway, but they were the alpha. They were the Apex Predator. They were survivors.

From that moment on, every time that man touched me, or hurt me, I went swimming with Great Whites in my mind. Anytime he went to hurt me, he had to get through them. In my mind, every time, he signed his own death certificate. I was the survivor. Just like the Great Whites for millions of years before me.

Not only was there the sexual abuse, I was told I would never amount to anything but a two bit white trash whore. I was told no one would believe me. I was told that I would never be anything but damaged goods, and no one would ever love me.

I was hit 125 times with a paddle because my older brother told “him” I stole $10.00. I know it was 125 times because I had to count. “He” stopped because his arm got tired. When the money was discovered behind a dresser, the response was, “Oh well. I’m sure there is something we haven’t caught you doing.”

You see, it was ok, because through it all, I had my Protectors. I had my Great Whites. There was a brutal death every time I was harmed. They took care of him every time.

January 27,1985 I was kicked out of the house because I told him I was not going to keep his dirty little secrets anymore. Great Whites gave me the mental strength to make that statement.

He called my mom and told her to come get me. I left with the clothes on my back. It was all I was allowed.

January 27,1985 was the last time I saw him or any of the brothers. It was my freedom day. I celebrate that day every year. Today, I give the footprints for other survivors to walk in to heal. I also wear a Great White shark tooth that represents my strength and will to survive.

One day I hope to dive with the sharks of Guadeloupe just to say thank you for saving me. It will be full circle when that happens. I am here today. I am a survivor.