Are You Listening Mom?

I'm guessing that you simply imagined your men would provide everything. That they would take care of us all, and most importantly you. I'll bet you believed they could provide everything you thought you lacked. You might have even imagined you needed someone, who could provide even the simplest necessities to you and your children. Perhaps, you came to believe that survival was impossible, without a man around the house. You did give it a good try though, didn't you? But, everything just fell to pieces? Without a man, who could lift the weight of the responsibility, and the burden that you carried with four children? It would have been absurd to think a single mother of four could do any of these necessities of life, on her own, wouldn't it? So, you made sure that you didn't have to take care of me, as long as someone else did it for you, right? You needed someone to bridge the gap between your own demise and the children who loved and needed you. You would need someone bigger and stronger and more dominant than yourself to build that bridge. You simply weren't succeeding on your own.

You would need someone who could provide for me, make sure I knew my place, make sure I didn't get "out of hand" and, above all, make sure I did my part to help my poor mother. You needed whoever it was at the time, at every possible expense. After all, you had four children and they needed a lot of attention. Maybe you just dreamed that they took good care of us all. Maybe you just imagined that we were fine. Weren't we? Dad and boyfriends, alike, they took care of everything, including me, so you never had to take care of anything, anymore, ever again. You were just so tired of being a mother, so you gave in to someone else. I remember how they took care of everything, that you couldn't care for yourself. Like the laundry, the dishes, breakfast, lunch and dinner, and even me, to name a few. You might even remember not doing much of anything, at all, except watching TV. I remember how you left me under their watchful eyes, blindly trusting that I was in good hands. Convincing yourself that your submissive trust was enough for you to turn your eyes away. They provided everything you thought you needed and that's all you really wanted. Wasn't it?

When dad left, he packed his bag full to the top, with all the housework, food, discipline, control, and sex. Do you remember, after his leaving, having to tell me to stop complaining of hunger. You told me it was because I ate all the food and that's why there was nothing left. How about having to wash a plate and fork every time I had something to eat, because dad wasn't there to do the dishes anymore? Or, the dirty clothes I had to where to school, because nobody did the laundry. Do you remember that pile of laundry? It almost filled our entire basement, because it grew there, like that, for almost two years. It tried to smother my toy box that was filled with old teddy bears and things that I simply wouldn't need anymore. The smell of mildew saturated my bedroom, as it happened to be the room right next to mine, in that basement. It crept in like the hunger I fell asleep with. Like the flies that slowly multiplied and buzzed around our kitchen. Like the dirt that som! ehow appeared on my clothing over time. It crept up behind me, like the bullies that teased me at school. Like the truth that you didn't want to hear me tell. The truth, that dad was creeping into my pajamas, into my pants, into my shorts, into my bathing suit, into anything he could get into, at anytime. He was creeping into my childhood, like so many other things that you welcomed in for me. They came, of course, and defeated my childhood because you chose to turn around and ignore it. You didn't want to see what surrounded you. You didn't want to face the absolute horror of it all. Don't you think that your men served their purpose? They did such a good job of blinding you from the truth?

They provided for me, and accepted me, like you wanted them to. They sure did. I was dad's 'favorite little girl'. I was someone else's 'princess' and, if we were alone, I could be his 'little angel'. I was constantly in the spotlight of your men. They provided me with relentless attention. They taught me lessons about how to respect my elders, who was in control, who was the bigger and more powerful, existence. They provided me, incessantly, with an air of 'manliness'. They just had to show me how much I needed their strength, their power, their experience, in all positions of life. They really wanted to show me and to help me remember how much I need them, because they showed me all the time. They were always behind me, no matter what, or when, or who. They were always beside me. They were always all around, and on top of me. They were always guiding me through it all. They guided me even when I would I fall to my knees and cry, at the thought that I wo! uld be forced to submit. They dominated me so intensely, so obsessively that they brought me to my knees in obedience. They never let me slip out of line.

What you didn't know is that they needed me more than I needed them. They needed me for themselves, to feel like men alive, strong and powerful. They needed me to fill their moulds of what a "real man" truly is. They showed me that they couldn't really do it alone. They showed me, they needed my little hands and my little body, in combination with a few heavy tears. They showed me how small, innocent and vulnerable I really was, compared to them. They taught me that when you're not as big and strong as them, that you are smaller than life, itself. That you are a humiliation to the human race, a shameful and insignificant little girl, in the face of power, even in the face of your own mother. I learned, then, that I was always someone else's tool for personal completion. I was their object of devotion and I was your ticket to freedom. From them and you, I learned I was nothing more than someone else's avenue to self-fulfillment.

Didn't you just want to exhale us into yesterday, when you made the choice to have us, so you could breathe again? Didn't you just keep on wishing you could let your children all float away? Didn't you simply regret making the choices that committed you to us for a lifetime? It all got too big and ugly. Didn't it? It got so big and ugly it started to slip through you fingers and you couldn't do anything to stop it. It slipped through, like mud splashing to the ground and soiling your clean, white, shoes. The shoes you used to walk around in, when your life, without children, was free from obligation. When you could enjoy your own individuality. You just couldn't hang on. You just wanted to walk in someone else's shoes for a change, right? You'd had enough. Or, was it that your men accepted us and wanted us, all for themselves, that made you happy? It must have made you so happy when you found these few men, one after the other, after the other, after the other, who could give us all that. They gave it all without any hesitation, consideration or consequence, simply because you welcomed it.

Now, you could just sit back, and watch them, while they danced with their obsessions. You could ignore them while they glided through their own private paradise, with ease. You could close your eyes when you didn't want to see the horror of it all. It must have been easy, for you, to hand over such beautiful children, so you could find some inner peace. They deserved to have some attention, even if it was the wrong kind. You could afford to pass me off, to someone else, as one of your burdens. Let someone else do the work for a change. You must have felt so accepted, so appreciated and so free to hand me over without even the slightest hint of motherly conscience. Just, as long as these men remained in control of your own broken life, you could forget just how unhappy you really are. All this, so you could throw your hands in the air and give up, because it didn't work out, quite as you planned. Did it?

Maybe you didn't understand that life brings responsibility. When you give someone life, that comes with a whole lot more. I don't think you gave yourself the chance to learn that parenthood is a gift. It's not a mop that you can pass to someone else to clean your floor with. I'm telling you now, that it's not my fault that you never stopped to consider yourself, before you made the choice to have children. It's not my fault that you got pregnant at the age of eighteen and gave birth at nineteen. Or, that you never thought about, what the future might hold for you and your four children. It's not my fault that you didn't give yourself the opportunity to have your own life, to help yourself, be yourself and find yourself. It's not my fault that you didn't stop to consider the responsibility that your children would bring to you? It's not my fault that you made this life for me seem so big and ugly, and finally, it's not my fault that you saw my existence that way. Really, mom, it didn't have to be so difficult.

It didn't have to be so scary and unbearable to be my mother. I could have told you that I only needed a hug sometimes. Perhaps, I could've had some support, some kindness and maybe, just maybe, a little compassion, if it wasn't too much to ask. I only needed to hear you say, "I love you", every now and then. I needed you to care about my days as a child. You didn't even stop to ask. I needed to know that I could come to you when I needed someone, other than myself, that you would come when I was in pain, and that you would be there, when that time came. When I felt like I just couldn't take it anymore. When I needed your help with something that I couldnt do by myself. When I felt like the world was caving in on me. When it all got too big and too heavy for my little body to carry around on her own. I only needed to know that you would love me, support me, and protect me, no matter what. I only needed you beside me, while I sat in the dark, alone and scared and desperate for any sign of motherhood. I needed you when I knew there were monsters sitting there with me and I couldn't stop them, by myself. I only needed YOU.

I remember how you showed me your support, in all these things. I remember how you showed me who you are. Do you? Do you remember how you taught me to respect my elders, to learn what a mother and daughter are, to protect and take care of myself? Do you remember how you showed me you couldn't do it yourself? Do you remember how you showed me you couldn't help? I do. You showed me two specific words. Words, so that I could tell you just how much I meant to you and your men. They were 'getting fresh'. You taught me what they meant when you asked me, "Are they 'getting fresh' with you?" I thought you were leading by example. I assumed that it meant I could use the same words to say, "yes, yes - YES!" I thought that, if you, my mom, could say it and mean it that way, that I would be understood by you, of all people, when I said it back. I tried to tell you, in the same way you told me, every single time it happened. It was like you didn't hear me. It was like! all the other things you chose not to see. I thought I could keep using those words you showed me, until you finally heard them come out my mouth. So I did. I kept repeating them. I don't know how you didn't hear me screaming, "PLEASE, mom, make them stop getting fresh with me!" I thought I was supposed to say, getting fresh when I was being harmed. When I needed an adult to save me from what I was feeling, save me from my fear. I thought I could say them when I needed someone to save me from what I tried so hard to tell you. Wasn't I supposed to use them that way? I was listening when you said these words. Why didn't you listen to me? It was hard for me to say, "getting fresh", because I knew exactly what that meant.

I knew how disgusting they were and when I said them, I had to risk feeling dirty. I had to risk feeling ashamed and humiliated and disgusted. I had to risk feeling sick at my own words, as I told them to you. I had to put myself on a limb to tell you the truth, even when I knew you wouldn't believe what I was saying. I had to risk you seeing the fear in my eyes, while you called me a "liar". I had to risk facing my doom, because I knew they'd be back that night. Why did you make me say it so many times? You must have seen my struggle, while I cried out the words, "getting fresh". When I screamed at you, after a long while, "GETTING FRESH, mom! They're 'getting fresh', with me!" I felt invaded, violated and empty, already. You made everything invade me over, and over, and over, again. First, I had to survive through the sexual humiliation, daily and nightly, and monthly and yearly, at the discretion of your men. Then it was the humiliation I felt when you looked me straight in the eye, with disgust, and called me a "liar". Then it was the shame I felt in myself, because I even bothered to tell you, at all. I knew, full well, that you would ignore me but I told you anyway. It wasn't once, it wasn't twice, and it wasn't ten times. You made it all reoccur so many times that those words lost their meaning. Until I knew, for sure, that they didn't really mean what you taught.

You taught me that I should be a silent child, with nothing, but a cry in the dark to comfort me, to hold me, protect me, and tell me, "Everything would be OK." You taught me to submit to the focus of a monster's devotion, because you didn't have any left to give me, yourself. That, I would become someone else's sick obsession, and all I could do was accept it. I felt alone with it, because you left me there, by myself. I felt infected by their power, and you wouldn't even give me a pill to subdue it. I felt isolated and all I really, truly, wanted to do was feel better, and finally get some sleep. I was so tired - tired of it all, tired of working so much in my youth. The monotony of these illnesses made me so sick and exhausted, I could hardly speak loud enough to tell you, for the last time. I could hardly even whisper about how much I just wanted to feel better. I did all I could do to try and accept it, and I couldn't. I wanted to feel better so badly, that I put you on a pedestal. I thought you were my only hope to recovery.

I thought you would be my "doctor mom", up there, on your pedestal. All I had to do was see through the dark to try and catch a glimpse of it. I had to reach for it so that I might know what it felt like. I had to know if it was really there, if you were really way up, somewhere, on top of it. I called for you, screamed for you, cried for you, but you didn't hear me. I just had to get to the top, but I was too small. I wasn't strong enough or loud enough. I was too short to reach it. If only you would come down here and give me a boost, I might be able to reach the top. If only you could see how hard I was trying, on my own, you could find it somewhere inside yourself to empathize with me. I needed you, to come down here and help me. I needed you when it was time to share this burden that I tried so hard to manage on my own. I needed you, but you were already up there, without me. I just needed your help, for a second. That's all. You left me with no choice. I had to pile up some of this pain, and anguish, on top of the tears that were given to me, in place of a childhood. I tried to pile it all up so high that I would be able to see if you really were up there, on that pedestal, I gave you.

I somehow managed to survive in that pain, long enough. I managed to cry enough tears to get to the top. "Thank god!" I said, when I finally made it up there, twelve years later. "Oh mom, I have so much to tell you. You're never gonna believe what I went through to find you. Your never gonna believe what I have to say." Your face went blank and it crushed me, when you pushed me off. It hurt when you looked me straight in the eye and said, "What else am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to believe?" and then you threw me right off the edge. I was only asking for a little room, up there, with you. I only asked for a small corner of what you refused to share, for so long. Why didn't you save me some room? You couldn't fool me, you know. I knew, all along that you were up there. I knew you heard me crying in the dark. I knew you heard the rage and frustration, inside me, begging to come out. I knew you were just ignoring me and then I looked at my bruised and skinned heart. I realized, then, that I wasn't really looking for you, I was looking for an answer. It's the question that drove me. You know the question - Are you listening, mom?

Well, I'll ask again. Can you hear me now? THEY WERE GETTING FRESH WITH ME, mom! So where's my protection, where's my unconditional love. Where's the "good mother" you were tried so hard to be? Can you hear me? They were fucking me, in all their pedophile glory and you did nothing, absolutely NOTHING, to stop them! Do you hear that? Where is that shield that these words were supposed to produce? Like you taught me they would. I think, maybe, you forgot what they meant. I think you forgot what you taught me to say. I think you forgot why you even gave me those words, in the first place. Where did they go, when I gave them back? What did you do with them? Where did you put them? Are we speaking the same language? You know, the universal one. The one that everybody, but you, seems to understand without difficulty. The one that speaks loudly enough to transcend beyond the boundaries that you set in your own personal dictionary. The one that calls past all others to be heard, felt, accepted, understood and believed, for the plain English that it really is.

So, are you listening, now? Can you hear the ladder that I made, falling to a tap against the edge of your pedestal? Can you hear my determination to come up, stand beside you and scream those words, you taught me, right into your ear, for the last time? Well, believe it, mom, because I'm on my way up and I've waited a very long time for you to hear this.

Trinity

I don't really know if you would call this *rape*, but I do. I've only told three people I really trust about what happened that night. And only two of them believed me.

I was a freshman in high school and I met "Dave" who was also a freshman. We hit it off right away. We weren't dating, but we became best friends. We were always there for each other. If he broke up with his girlfriend at the time he would come to me for support. If I broke up with my boyfriend at the time I would go to him for support. All of our friends would tell us that we needed to get together. We never listened. We didn't want to ruin our special friendship. But finally at the end of our Junior year, we knew we were in love with each other and began dating. Everything was going so well. We were the couple everyone couple wanted to be. Happy, never had any fights, and oh so much in love. About 4 or 5 months into the relationship we began to get physical (our first mistake). I trusted him and I guess I let him go way to far, too fast. We would have major make-out sessions, that would sometimes go to far. He would have his fingers inside me and I would fee! l a lot of pain and I would make him stop. He would stop, but only for a few minutes and then he would start back up again. I finally told him we needed to slow down. It was getting way to physical, way too fast. He agreed and we slowed down. Then 2 months later we became physical again. It was around the middle of our senior year that began to notice a a change in him. He seemed to want more of the physical part of the realtionship while I wanted the happy-go-lucky couple we used to be. The couple that didn't need all the sexual touching and stuff. Anyway I was over at his house (alone, my second mistake) and he asked me if we will ever have sex. Now we had talked about it and I told him that I wanted to wait until I'm married. (Having been raised Catholic I was a firm believer in that.) "Dave" laughed and said that was stupid. He said that we should have sex tonight because his parents weren't home and we loved each other so much. He told me the only thing that kept him from marrying me was our age. We were both 17. I thought about what he said and decided that he was right. I did love him and wanted to marry him so why not start having sex now. So we where up in his room and (now comes the hard part for me) we were making out and I'm not sure when the cloth dissapered, but they were gone. He was about to enter me when I just got a funny feeling and said "This isn't right. We shouldn't be doing this." He said "It's okay you're just scared." And he entered me. All I can remember is pain. Pain all over me. I was crying so hard I was shaking. He was kissing, and licking me (yes licking) and touching me all over my body. After he was finished, he got off of me and got dressed and kissed me, like nothing happened. I stayed on the bed afraid that if! I moved he would rape me again. He asked me why I wasn't getting dressed. I didn't speak to him. I didn't even look at him. So he finally left. I got dressed and went down stairs. I told him I wanted to go home. He took me home and I was smushed so far over on the passenger side I was making an imprint on the window. I got home and was so tired I didn't even change to go to bed. I never told anyone and I stayed with "Dave" until my family moved to Texas. He never raped me again, but HE remained physical with me. I never touched him unless I had to (for those who don't remember high school is very crowed during passing periods), never held hands with him. I was closed off and never let anyone in.

I am now 21 and married. My husband is one of the people I told. He believes me and is very supportive. I still have nightmares about that horrible night, but not as many. There are times when he does something that will remind me of the rape. I will get really scared, back up and hid my face in defense, and then begin to cry. When he realizes that I am remembering the rape he stops and tells me there is nothing to be afraid of anymore. We are expecting our first child in January. And I pray every night that our child will never have to experience this.

Thank you for reading my story.
Mary

First, I would like to thank Shannon for this page. After reading a lot of the stories I would like to reach through and give each of you a big hug. To let you know that there are people out there that do care, and who understand. Me for one, I am a survivor also. It is still hard though to write about that dreadful night. The night my world would change forever. My story, my heart is racing as I write this so if I ramble, you understand why.

When I was 15, I didn't have a care in the world. I was a very happy, niave child and thought that nothing could destroy my life. I was wrong!!!! I was shy, and not popular at all. I so wanted to fit in with the "IN CROWD", that I joined the Chess club at my local High School. A family friend (Louis, the name is changed) was also a member and kind of took me under his wing, so to speak. Now my family had known Louis' family for 10 years, we spent a lot of time together as friends. Anyway on that dreaded night, Louis had invited me to a Chess tournament that was at a Holiday Inn in the next town. He picked me up, and we talked about the players that were going to be there and that maybe I could meet some of them. I was so excited. We got there and went into the conference area and watched some of the matches. Louis was older than me by 2 years and I thought I had a big brother to look after me. (as I am writing this my hands are shaking) We met up with 3 boys from sch! ool, who I knew but not really well. David (again name changed) was on the football team, Mike (name changed) was a friend of Louis' and Steve (name changed) another guy that I had met once before. We hung out for a while and then Louis asked if I wanted to meet some of the players. I said sure, here was my big chance. Louis told me that there was a hotel room set aside as a hospitality suite for the players and that we could go there. Since Louis was a long time friend I trusted him, and went with the four of them to this hotel room. They opened the door and we went in. The room was small I thought, but didn't care because I felt like a big shot. I asked where the players were and Mike said that they would be there later. Ok, I thought. So we sat around talking for a while. Then David found out that there was a stocked bar in the room and started making drinks for them. At first I didn't want to drink, but I guess peer pressure at age 15 is more powerful. I starte! d drinking vodka and orange juice. I had about 3 and started feeling weird. Louis saw the condition I was getting in and told me to lay down on the bed and sleep it off for a while. That he would take me home in about an hour. So I did, I mean here was a guy that I grew up with and trusted completely, he would watch over me. I must of passed out right away. I don't know how long it was before I woke up, but (here is the really hard part) I felt something squeezing my left breast. My eyes opened to find David laying on top of me and my shirt and bra was pushed up over my breasts. I tried to fight, God knows I tried, but the alcohol in my system was making it hard. (Twenty-five years later it is still hard to tell the story.) David kept touching me, and I tried to scream, but he put his hand over my mouth. He then told Louis to come and hold my hands down and for Mike and Steve to hold my legs. I continued to fight with everything I had. Louis came over and pinned my! arms above my head so that I couldn't use them to fight. I remember looking up at him wanting to know WHY!!! Why are you letting this happen to me? As soon as Steve and Mike had grabbed my legs, David started taking my pants off and my underwear. Before I knew it, they were off. I kept looking around the room wanting the players to come in and help me, somebody, please help me. Steve and Mike then took my legs and spread them far apart. I thought "My God, I'm not a wishbone on a turkey." I tried to scream again but David slapped my face hard and I started to cry. I cried and kept saying "NO!", I don't know how many times I did. Then I felt the pain. That first gut wrenching pain of David pushing himself into me, I thought I was being ripped in half. I was a virgin, I knew nothing about sex. I knew that sex was what men and women shared when they were in love. I didn't love what was happening to me. I opened my mouth to scream the moment I felt the pain, but not! hing came out. Silence, I couldn't breath it hurt so bad. All I could do was struggle and keep saying NO! When David had finished, the other three took their turns. Even Louis, the friend I thought I could count on. Each of them took turns holding me down as I struggled and fight the whole time. But I never could scream.

The whole time this was going on I could hear them cheering each other on. "Poke that pussy, make her hurt". I can remember a song that I heard while this was going on also, "Tonight's The Night" by Rod Stewart. They finished what seemed to be an eternity later. I just laid there in shock. This couldn't have happened to me. I was a good girl. I didn't fool around, I didn't let boys touch me. I cried for a long time there on the bed. I couldn't look at them sitting at the table in the room smoking a joint. They kept comparing their performance to each other's. Who took the longest, who made me struggle the most. Finally, I got the strength to get up and walk into the bathroom to clean up. They told me not to close the door so I didn't. I took a washcloth and cleaned myself. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror even, I felt so dirty. I walked out and put my underwear and pants back on and just sat on the end of the bed.

Later, Louis drove me home and told me that if I said anything to anyone that it would be their word against mine and after all there were 4 of them and only one of me. He told me that I had been drinking so no one would believe me anyway. I didn't know what rape was at the time. I went into the house and went straight to my room and curled up into a ball on my bed and cried myself to sleep. The next day, my mother asked how the Chess tournament was. I just said fine and went to school. I started my period 3 days later and thank God I didn't get pregnant.

Needless to say, I dropped out of the Chess Club. After that I put up a total mental block when it came to that night. I would see them at school and go the other way. I was called two week Dana through the rest of High School. That is because, everytime a boy would start trying to touch me, I would break up with him.

It wasn't until 15 years after that night that I started to have flashbacks. At first, just images would pop into my head. Then I couldn't sleep at night, tossing and turning. I was married and still am to the most wonderful, caring and supportive man ever. He would wake me up from my nightmares and just hold me while I cried. Vince, my husband, would ask me what was wrong, but I didn't know. Or at least mentally, I didn't want to know. That is how far I had shut down about the whole thing. At Christmas that year, I went to my mothers house to pick up my son, and Louis was there. He had his hand on my son's shoulder talking to him. All I could think about was getting my child away from him. I made excuses and said I had to go.

It was only after the flashbacks got so bad that, while we were making love, I lashed out at my husband. I was hitting him and screaming. Being the loving husband that he is, he stopped and just held me. I felt so bad about it, I talked to my sister-in-law. She is wonderful! With her assurance and guidance, I went into therapy. At first, I didn't know what to say to Dr. Falk. But she told me that if I can't talk about it, that I might try writing it down. So I did, and she read it out loud to me at my next visit. Here I thought that she is a psychologist and that she is to help me get better, not make me relive the attack (I have a hard time writing the word). The emotions came flooding back and I cried for a long time. She told me to read a book called "The Courage To Heal". This book deals with sexual abuse, and it helped a lot.

I told her that Vince didn't even know what happened to me. She told me that I should let him read what I had written and then we should both come in to her office.

That night, Vince read my story. He just sat there on the couch for a long time I couldn't stay in the room. I was still so ashamed of what had happened to me. He told me that if Louis were there right now he would kill him. Then he reached out to me and just held me for what seemed like hours. Vince told me that we would get through this together and we have.

It has been 25 years since I was gang-raped, and it still hurts to talk about it at times. But I do know that keeping silent all those years only made it worse on me. To this day, my mother does not know and probably will never know. But that is all right now because I found the support system I needed as that child. I felt I had no one to turn to back then, but now, God forbid it should ever happen again, I would not stay silent.

I want to let each and every one of you know that you have a friend to turn to. I am here to listen, and I understand. Always remember that IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT. I don't care how much you have had to drink, or smoke or what else. When you are not given a choice or you say no, it is the other persons fault, not yours. Please feel free to email me. I want to be there for anyone who needs help the way I did all those years ago. You are not alone!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thanks,
Dana