Three things of note about my father, number one being that he never held my hand when we were walking or crossing the street. He held me by my wrist. Even though I was a very little girl, this bothered me. The second thing is that I was the only one of his children that he ever took to the place where he worked. I was very happy about that because it made me feel special. The third thing is that he was a world class pedophile, which probably explained the first two things.
He married my mother when she was sixteen and he was twenty-eight. This was probably a red flag but her family was glad to marry her off and have one less mouth to feed and besides he was a very charming and intelligent man. She also was, by now, pregnant with my older brother.
When they were first married he drove a truck for some company. The only other job I knew him to hold for any length of time was a folding machine operator. A folding machine is (or was, since I'm sure the only ones left are in a junk pile somewhere) a huge noisy machine that folded greeting cards. I remember he would come home covered with glitter that was put onto some of the cards. He would also spend eight hours a day breathing it in so between that and the unfiltered cigarettes he smoked it's a wonder to me that he didn't die of lung cancer.
I was the middle child, born on my older brother's second birthday. My younger brother was born a year and a half later. My mother has told me that the arrival of my older brother was celebrated with great joy, especially by my father's mother. When I was born the old witch came into the hospital room, threw a box of chocolates on my mother's stomach and voiced her disapproval. Not only another child that her poor son would have to support but a girl! My mother was very intimidated by her so when she became pregnant for the third time she was terrified and made a decision to stop having children (three children too late in my opinion).
My older brother was my mother's favorite, a fact my mother tried, unsuccessfully, to hide. Oddly enough, I was never jealous of him for this. Luckily for him and my younger brother my father's preference was strictly for girls. I don't know when he began molesting me but in my mind's eye I can see a very little girl of two or three standing in front of him and like most victims I see it happening as though to someone else.
Some people should never be allowed to have children because they are simply incapable of loving them.
I have these holes in my memory, as though my life ceased to exist for periods of time. Old age isn't the cause. It's just always been this way. I'm a toddler and then the next thing I remember I'm ten or eleven. This bothers me. I don't know why. It's like a movie that's been cut and spliced. What I do remember is crystal clear. A cute little curly headed girl being instructed by her daddy how to perform oral sex. The same little girl trying to tell her mommy what daddy is making her do and then backing off because her mommy is getting very angry and says “stop making up stories”.
When my mother would go out for the evening and my father would baby sit I remember lying in bed trying to pretend to be asleep. This usually didn't work. He knew. He took me into the next room away from my brothers, telling me to be very quiet and to stop crying.
Over the years, whenever I would hear an incest survivor tell their story I would be amazed by the fact that almost every single one would say the same thing. It was as though there was a pedophile handbook that these degenerates would keep as their bible. They all said the exact same thing to their victims, “all daddies do this to their little girls”. Sick bastards, no originality.
