This guest blog post comes courtesy of a survivor I met on Twitter, who wanted to share their story for the very first time, and I could not be more honored. Thank you @Hootiedespo  for your bravery in sharing some of your life so openly. You are an amazing survivor.  Always remember to keep fighting, you are worth it, and you rock!

From the outside, it looks like the most beautiful place to live. A large red brick and white wood four-bedroom house with a large painted statue of the Mother Mary. There were two barns horses, dogs, cats, ducks and plenty of room for us kids to play around. There was a quarter-mile racetrack made out of beach sand with a weeping willow tree inside at both ends.

The two corrals were large enough for the racehorses to run and graze. On the other side of the yard was a built-in swimming pool a fenced in play yard and large boulders to hide behind and pretend to mountains to climb.

Inside was a beautifully decorated House of Horrors.

Daily beatings with a belt or horse crop were the norm. It was not unusual to have items such as dishes or shoes thrown at you from across the room. I was reminded daily I was a lazy, stupid, ugly son ta bitchen baster that was a waste of oxygen.

I used to smirk because girls can not be bastards so Mr. Perfect wasn’t so perfect after all. My mom died at forty-two leaving behind eleven children. I was volunteered to take care of the six youngest kids and the house. If I didn’t finish all the housework, feed and clean the babies and children I would extra beatings.

I am not sure if my mom was aware of the sexual abuse but it became clear after she passed a way that my dad knew and was protecting our abuser. We were forced to do things no child should ever have to do.

When the septic tank would back up into the house it was Mary, Laura’s and my job to clean the waste in the house up and then empty the septic tank with buckets and a hole digger. We would put it in a wheel barrel then dump it into the brook at the edge of our property. This had to be done late at night so our neighbors did not catch us. It took us most of the night but we would still have to attend school if it was open in the morning.

I told several adults including our priest but they chose not to believe the businessman who attended church every day would allow this to go on. I was told I was going to burn in hell for lying about my father to get attention.

At the time, I thought the joke was on him. If God was real and let us go through this then there was no heaven just hell and God and Satan were one in the same. I survived and did what I’m told a lot of victims do. I built a wall of fat around me so no one would ever touch me again. I became afraid of the world and kept to myself.

While in the hospital a few years ago, a very kind doctor gave me the name of a psychiatrist because when told there was a good chance I would not make it through the night because I was hemorrhaging. I was relieved and calm.  The word cancer didn’t phase me in the least.

We talked while waiting for an O.R. and preparing for surgery. He was the first person I talked to about the abuse in twenty years. I got the help and the medications I needed and am dealing with the guilt, hatred and negative feelings I developed about my self.

I still have a long way to go but know there is hope.


If you would like to be a guest blogger, and share your story, just contact me anytime!