sexual abuse + child abuse
My parents had me at 23. At the time they were incredibly inexperienced in English, still are but they have the hang of it…sort of. My mother was new to the country when she met my father at the laundromat 2 blocks away from where we live right now. Eventually, they started dating, following speeding police cars attending crimes, they had me. Perhaps a year post my birth, I was the witness to their elopement. I am 1/3, excluding the long lost half sister on my dad’s side, I am the oldest. Being the oldest is a lot to say the least. At times it was brutal. It hurts. It hurts to remember when I was in the 1st grade, coming home to the homework of using crayons to shade in a farm. It hurts to remember tears streaming down my face when they couldn’t understand what the word “crayons” meant, it was like speaking to aliens.
It hurt like hell to know that this was the beginning of having to be self taught in everything. I learned my own anatomy, I read puberty books like crazy, I taught myself the things I like. I taught myself when the people who loved me couldn’t understand me and I couldn’t understand the people who’s purpose was to teach due to my lack in knowledge of the english language. It’s sad when STILL at 15 years old, everyone knows certain words and concepts and I sit there out of the loop. It sucks when I feel so idiotic at times because of what I experienced at school couldn’t come to use because the last thing I wanted was for my parents was to feel embarrassed and bad parents since they both never passed middle school in Honduras in order to support their own homes. It hurts that I went along with what my parents knew and COULD teach me that it set me behind in the educational scale.
At age 9, I was touched. He was 17. He was my cousin. I swore to God (who deserted me a long time ago) that if I were to see him, I will kill him. To this day, I’m not too sure if I wouldn’t, which is bad, I don’t want to see myself capable of doing that. But I do. He led me into his bedroom to play, there he took off my shirt, first playing with the little strings of my pink top with little flowers. Then he…he put his fingers in my pants. I never told anyone that. How I got out of it? My sister, 7 at the time came into the room, she didn’t know what was going, she hopped on the bed where he stopped, interrupted. Anie, you never knew what you did for me. In my opinion, you saved my life for me. To this day, you shine 13 and I don’t, I can’t have the heart to ever tell you what went on in that room, no one should ever know. We are complete opposites, we don’t talk, we’re too different but for this I will die for you.
This incident occurred when I was in another country, my parents weren’t there. Once again, I was alone at 9 to deal with the fact I had my first sexual non-consensual incident (eventually, at this point in time, definitely not my last. I don’t blame them though, many weird encounters are by men who genuinely think I’m older, and when I tell them I’m 15 they run for the hills.) My parents at the time were going through a secret divorce, which is why I went on the trip I just didn’t realize. Coming from a broken home is awful, when you witness the love crumpling, especially with kids. I thought for the longest time, that it was my fault. I spent nights crying in my room hearing them argue.
Now to finally spit it out, yes my parents were abusive. I think it’s the most common thing in Hispanic nature. To tell the truth, the last time I was hit was when my father smacked me across my face 3 times calling me a whore and fucking worthless for accidentally coming home with a hickey.. I spent all summer crying over it, not because it’s true but when I was a kid I made my father promise to stop cursing, he agreed. This was the first time in my whole life that I realized I can make a difference, only for him to swear again and shatter what has motivated me for so long. At this moment I realized I could never trust him. Well, I did know prior but this was the last straw.
My parents used to strike my back with a belt. There used to be red marks all over it when I was in elementary through middle school. My parents are playful, they love pushing my buttons, physically. They love tickling me and touching my back/shoulders, little do they know, that’s how the 17 year old got me into his room. My back is a hard limit to me, no one touches it, I feel ghosts when it is touched, I shiver and ugh…it’s my special area of my body. Please, don’t touch my back.