This post is somewhat graphic and may make some of our visitors feel uncomfortable. It takes an incredibly brave person to share something this personal as a means to motivate others to take action. Thanks, DQ.
My father was a child molester. I don't know what he did to random children. I don't even know the totality of what he did to me or my brothers. All I know for sure is that he liked them small.
My grandmother used to say how lucky I was. "You Daddy loves you so much. Did you know he bathed you when you were a baby?" He never "helped out" with my older brothers. Gee, I wonder why?
When I was twelve, one of my older brothers wrestled me to the living room floor. All of my brothers (two, nine, and eleven years older) used to practice half nelsons on me, punch me, grab me. That was pretty much their only way of showing affection, and I didn't mind too much. But this particular time, my Dad joined in. He had an erection and decided to rub it against me repeatedly. Right there with my brother in the room and my Mom in the next.
When I later learned about molestation and rape, I felt like if that happened to you, your life was ruined forever. I didn't know it had happened to me. I knew I didn't really like my Dad but I didn't know what my Dad had done was wrong. I didn't have a word for what he'd done but I knew I hadn't been raped.
There's a lot of my life I have absolutely no memory of. I don't remember much that happened inside my family home we moved from when I was 11. I don't remember almost anything at all from before I entered kindergarten. I'm not sure if that is normal or not but I know people who remember their cribs.
And, of course, I had happy times and good things. I had great teachers and friends and I even had some fun times with my family.
So, why am I telling you all this? This isn't the first, second or third time I've told my story. I don't know why I'm telling you. Southern Dem keeps saying "Women on Wednesdays" is for anything and this is my anything today.
Well, I do know why the subject is on my mind lately. I've been following Screwy Hoolie's coverage of the debacle in state funding for the mentally ill. What I want is for the people who need it to get mental health services. I want veterans and cops to get PTSD treatment as needed. I want kids to be respected when they say they "don't like" someone. I realize we aren't going to stop hurting each other tomorrow. But we do have the ability to care about people today.
That's why I'm telling my story. Because it's your neighbor's story, your sister-in-law's story, your mother's, your grandmother's. And, yes, perhaps it's my father's story, or his father's. Perhaps it's your nephew's story, the boy next door. Perhaps it's yours.
Let's fund services for the mentally ill.