And So It Begins...

                 He said he'd kill me if I told what was going on - he being my half-brother, nine years my senior. He often proved he could by choking the air out me or throwing me and knocking me out cold, most notably by covering my sperm-filled mouth until I passed out. I've known ever since that I shouldn't talk. I was 5. 

Childhood

                 So, I didn't. I left clues. I drew anatomically-correct pictures, which my parents made me burn. I said words I had no business knowing. I was smart. I did everything I could but knock them on the head. Teachers were soon asking, and they were on the money. My Mom wasn't talking, but she knew. Oh, she may not have known the details, but she just couldn't be bothered to take time out to stop it.

                 It took some time for me to feel the same t'word my Father. I realized that, while my Dad worked too much to notice what my brother was doing,  his best friend felt me up whenever he liked, he'd also invited a convicted pedophile over as well. I'll get into that guy sometime; he change my life for the better. 

                  I've had more than one man get touchy-feely and I hate to say that's pretty tame to what my brother did (and I will get into that). I have yet to see a movie or show that touched it, even Sybil. I guess that explains why I'm so messed up, and yet every professional I see tells me they're surprised at my power to heal. I'm not sure what that means, really. I mean, I've been a pin-up model for the better part of two decades; had a few firsts (ever). I'm an Honor Student. *shrug*  I guess I've accomplished a great deal for someone who's spent most of their childhood being raped and humiliated and tortured, but in fairness I (thankfully) only remember pieces. When I do though, it puts me down for months. I'm just useless with flashbacks, nightmares and depression. Flashbacks: My grandpa had them from WWII. Why the hell should his kids?

                  What's so really sad is that now, nearly thirty years later, my parents are still catering to him. They are still covering it up and not understanding my gripe. This long, and three surgeries later to correct all the damage he left with the sharp objects he loved, they still consider ME the shit-disturber. 

                    Even when I was a teenager, when my memories were fewer, I knew this was wrong. I didn't believe they had the right to judge anything about me - my music, my sex life, who I hung out with or where I went, because they betrayed me. They spewed God out one side of their mouth and condemned me out the other. So, I read their bible and found out what it was really about, and rejected them both.

                   Just this year I formally told them about my PTSD and divorced them from my life. Even when the truth came out to my Dad, he wouldn't even talk harshly to him. What kind of parents do nothing? How low am I in their opinion?

                   Anyway, I usually am in better humor, but... you know... I felt very upset starting this. I had a hard time too. It's always very hard talking, because there's that Devil on my shoulder reminding me that he's going to kill me. 

                        I have a lot more to talk about though. This colors my life every day. I am not normal - not slightly. That's a point of pride for me, but it makes it hard for me to communicate with people. Nobody can really understand me, nor I them, but I think this will really help me get out what needs saying. (Perhaps some of that old-fashioned reality-testing will help too. :-) ) Finally, I also hope that, as I write, this will clear up some of the stoopid misconceptions people have about people w/ PTSD. :-/

                    ~DC