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The following is my own personal story of abuse.  
It may be a trigger for some, as I didn't censor 
anything.  Be warned.  If this may botheryou, go 
back to the previous page now or follow a link.


As near as I can figure, the abuse started when I was 10 years old,
the summer I went to Girl Scout camp for the first time.  I'm pretty 
sure it started after I got back (July 3) because I was devastated 
that I wasn't home that year for my brother's birthday (June 27).  I
couldn't tell anyone exactly when it started.  It's not like I recall
an exact day.  I do know that my brother and I were cleaning our room
(we shared a room up until the day he moved out at 19), and before I 
knew it, he was "showing me some stuff about sex."  From there, it just
escelated.  I remember after it happened that day, that I felt so guilty.
I didn't grow up hiding things from my parents.  Well, not usually, any-
way.  So I wanted to tell my mom what happened.  My brother told me not 
to or we couldn't do it again.  So I remember getting out of bed (it was
late) and writing on a red notebook cover in gold crayon (it looked
really cool) that my brother had told me some stuff about sex.  My mom
was sitting in the living room (in one of the brown recliners, I think)
and I took it into her.  She said it was alright.  My dad wasn't there.
(Where was he?  At the Waffle House, probably; he spent a lot of late
nights there talking to friends.)  Since my mom said it was alright, I
went back to bed, some of my guilt abated for the time being.

I know it happened many many times after that.  He would show me porno
flicks, Playboy and Penthouse, and he made me do things to him.  He made
me masturbate him, made me 69 (even though I didn't even know what it
was called; I was only 10, 11, 12...somewhere in there), and a lot of 
other things.  I remember the kisses in public, in the car when my 
parents were in a store, the times he'd touch my ass when my parents
weren't looking (didn't they EVER see something was going on??), the 
times he made me say "dirty" words, like fuck, cock, pussy, just to turn
him on.  I remember the shame, the feeling that I didn't really want 
to do it, but I had to do make him like me.  I think in some way, I
wasn't so afraid of him not liking me, but of him telling my parents 
on me, that he'd tell them what "I" was doing if I didn't cooperate.
I really don't know where I got that idea, except that I know so many 
times he'd ask me what I wanted to do, instead of just doing it to me,
he'd make me decide what he did to me.  Sometimes, I didn't have a choice.
The times he made me masturbate him, I didn't get to choose.  I had to
be forced to touch his penis.  It was disgusting.  But he made it move
and I thought that was funny, so I giggled and touched it, revolting
as it was.  I didn't want to...I never wanted to.  He always made me!

Near as I can figure, the abuse went on for a couple of summers.  It
never happened during the winter months, while school was going on.  He
didn't have time for me.  The last summer was the summer he graduated
from high school, when we was 18 and I was 12.  I was getting ready to
go into junior high.  I was tired of it.  I didn't want to do it anymore.
But he never got tired of it.  NEVER.  So I tolerated it.  But at the end 
of that summer, he finally slept with a girl closer to his own age.
At least, I think it was sex...I hope to God he didn't rape her.  She 
was one of my best friends.  I have a major reason to believe he tried
to rape another friend of mine, and I know he slept with yet another one.
That was the last summer, though.  After that, I never allowed it to 
happen again.

When he was 19, my brother got kicked out of the house because of something
he'd done; I don't even really remember anymore.  But my dad didn't talk
to him for 7 months, and then he came home.  My mom was in the hospital.
I was in 9th grade.  He tried it again while he was home, but by then
I had put up so many walls and defenses, he couldn't get around them.

The first person I told about the abuse was a friend I had as a Junior in
high school.  I whispered the words to her in gym class, the only class
we had together.  I felt so empty, so betrayed, that I immediately closed
up again.  Next person I told was my then-best-friend.  She told me
she'd been through something similar with her sister.  I was relieved,
but neither of us was ready to start dealing with it yet.  Next person
I told was a close friend of the family.  I was 17 when I told him.
He knew my brother, but I didn't tell him right off it was him.  I thought
this guy would want to protect me or something, and might go off on him.
I was wrong, because all I managed to do when I did tell him was render
him speechless (not something easy to do, though).  The fourth person
I told was my high school counselor, who, oddly enough, had also been
my brother's high school counselor.  I didn't tell her, though, until 
after I was 18.  I didn't want anyone doing anything on my behalf.  I'd 
had it all thought out for years.  I knew what I had to do to protect
myself.  I was not ever going to lose control of a situation again.

My parents finally found out in December of '96.  We were living with my
brother and sister-in-law at the time.  One night, my brother told me
that I didn't have the balls to tell them (my parents) what happened,
so I went right back and told my father.  When he first found out, he
would look at me, wouldn't touch me, wouldn't do anything.  I knew he
wanted to kill my brother, and I realize how much restraint it took not
to.  My mom didn't find out until much later.  Well, not too much later,
about a week.  That was the night we moved out of my brothers and officially
became homeless.  I went to live with my aunt, uncle, and grandmother,
so of course, they found out about it...actually, in about a week's time,
I think 99% of my family found out.  And they were all behind me.

A lot of time (7 months!) has gone by since the initial disclosure.  I'm
not sure how I'm doing.  I just started therapy to heal, and it's been
very very difficult.  I've had many days where I just want to curl up
and die.  I've also had a lot of days where I'm glad I finally told.  But
one thing remains constant...I still don't feel anything.  I'm now in 
the process of trying to press charges against my brother, and I'm hoping
(kind of, that is) that I start to feel.  I almost want to have flashbacks,
crying jags, something besides this deep hopelessness and profound wishing
that it had never happened.  But I know that in time it'll go away.
At least I hope.

I hope telling my story has helped you somehow.  If you want to talk,
by all means, e-mail me.  I'm interested in being able to help people.
If you'd like to tell your story but don't have a webpage, I'll put it 
here.  Maybe if all the survivors in all the world pull together, we
can beat this once and for all.