[Bad] Dream of a Memory

Do you know anyone that’s ever been abused? Any sort of abused? I do. I have. I was. Many forms, by different people at different times in my life. Most of the time, though, it was on repeat by one person: my stepfather.

For the most part I’ve gotten over it. While my mother is still, unfortunately, married to the man that treated me so badly throughout my childhood and adolescent years (and even now he bad mouths and talks down to me, but I’ve grown more of a back bone and will talk back to him despite fear of retribution), most of my communication with my mother is via telephone as she lives over an hour away and she works over 8 hours a day, every day, every week with the [very] occasional day off; she’s the main “breadwinner” of their household as my stepdad is (surprise-surprise!) a convicted felon & although he could find work at, the very least, a manufacturing plant, he refuses to work anything other than odd jobs that he runs himself.

Therefore, my communication with that entire household is limited.

And my mother.

I love her. I do. I may not always agree with everything she says. I may not agree with everything she does, especially the fact that she’s still with my stepdad, but I love her nonetheless. I will acknowledge her faults, though most of the time not to her face because she won’t most of the time. She confides in me and I, her. We understand each other because of, oddly enough, my stepfather. We have a mutual understanding between us and I’m thankful to her that, although she’s my mother, my Mom, she chose to have me live apart from her.

And that’s where everything comes full circle as to why I’m writing this tonight.

I woke up around three this morning, my eyes wide and in a panic. I knew I was in bed and if it wasn’t for the fact that my husband’s arms were still around me I probably would have screamed.

I dreamt of a memory of days long since past. It was nearly 9 years ago – the winter of 2005 – and I was living with my mother in the home she lives in now. It’s a small, technically one-bedroom, house that at the time housed my Mom & stepdad in what is now a closet; my two younger brothers, who were then 6 & 8 years old in what is now a combined living room/Mom & stepdad’s room; and me, in what is now my youngest brother’s room, that back then was right next to my mother and stepfather’s “room” and only separated by a sheet. There was no privacy whatsoever. It was Hell on Earth.

Normally I wouldn’t be living with them; I abhor my stepfather and nearly always have, but my Grandmother, whom I had been staying with, gave me an ultimatum that pushed me and I took it. I wasn’t going to give up a friendship for her old-fashioned ideals, but that’s a different topic altogether. So I found myself moving 45 minutes away and switching schools in the middle of the fall semester my first year of high school. My mother was happy that I was finally coming to live with her, but she wasn’t happy about the circumstances behind it. Honestly, everything was going well until the last day of school before winter break.

One of my friends, specifically a male friend, asked if he could come over and hang out for a bit after school. I told him I’d ask. I was more than na√Įve back then, I guess; he purposely left information out to me and I didn’t see the signs. Either way, we both got permission for him to come over and he rode the bus home with me. I’m going to point this out now: I never thought of him as anything more than a friend; he was JUST a friend to me in my mind. Well, apparently everybody else thought otherwise – including him.

He ended up eating dinner with my family because his mom hadn’t picked him up yet. When I asked him why she hadn’t shown up yet, he said that she wouldn’t be there till around 9PM. I was pissed! He never told me that and I knew, at that moment, I was going to get hell from my stepdad as soon as he left.

I was right.

After he left and my brothers were firmly asleep my stepdad started in on me and it just kept coming. I don’t remember everything he said; he asked me so many questions – accusing me of lying when I hadn’t and every time I denied lying he just got angrier.

What I haven’t said yet is that my stepfather is an alcoholic. I know by that time he was drunk for sure, but I couldn’t tell you how long he’d been drinking that day.

Finally, at one point, I was sent to bed. I think it was around 11-11:30 that evening. I was tired. I’d had a long day at school and then I’d been grilled and yelled at and intimidated by my stepfather. Nobody likes that. I fell asleep listening to him yell at my Mom, but the words were a blur to me, even then.

I was woken up again around 1AM, being dragged – literally – out of bed by my arm by my stepfather. He was pissed, and that’s an understatement. I don’t remember what the discussion at that point was about. I was being questioned again about my actions that evening and why I did what and several other co-existing categories. I remember answering something honestly and it must have been the wrong answer, and something that he disliked extremely or considered a “smart-ass remark” because the next thing I knew I was dodging a glass plate being thrown at me. If I hadn’t moved it would have hit my upper left shoulder near my neck. I don’t remember much after that other than crying and being scared.

I moved back to my Grandmother’s within days after that. I don’t think anyone would question why. It was my Mom’s decision to move me back.

The thing is, this is only one of the instances of something abusive happening to me but for some reason it’s the one that pops up the most in my memory, in my dreams; it’s the one that troubles me the most and I don’t understand why.

I was scared then and it scarred me enough mentally and emotionally that it still bothers me to this day, enough to keep me awake at night. The abuse I’ve suffer throughout my life from my stepfather, and inadvertently from my mother, is probably the one thing that I haven’t completely gotten over and I’m not sure that I ever will. I think that’s what scares me.

Now it’s not the terror of being physically dragged away from my bed in the middle of the night by someone else; now it’s the terror of waking up and having to drag myself from my own bed because of someone else… because I’m afraid to face what might be in my dreams.

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Post-Note: To Prevent Confusion

I feel like I owe some sort of explanation, a post-note of sorts, because there might be some confusion or misunderstanding with some things that I mentioned in my last post: Love & Friendship Prevails. I hope this clears things up. Otherwise, ask me whatever you want. ūüôā

In my last post¬†I wrote that I don’t sleep with guys before I get to know them or on the first date. Later on I go on to say that I had given him a blowjob, and further, that I “began sleeping with all those men from the bar for a couple of months”.

I want to point out that that is not who I am.

I was not lying when I first said I don’t sleep with a guy on the first date or before I get to know them. It is no excuse, but as I stated in the post, after being raped three (3) times in such a short period of time, I didn’t feel I was good for much else and I went into a frenzy of depression and any spare moment I had to myself I was out partying, getting drunk, and sleeping with a different guy. It is not an excuse.

To put how worthless I felt in perspective let me tell you a few things about myself.

    • I never went to parties while I was in high school or after high school, even though I was invited.
    • I was a [clueless] virgin until I was 18 years old.
    • I didn’t drink alcohol before I was 21 years old.
    • My children’s father was the third (3rd) guy I had sex with.
    • My children’s father raped me multiple times. He thought I wanted it even though I said no.
    • I didn’t get into any sort of relationship after I left my ex for a year.
    • The first serious relationship I got into, after my divorce,¬†ended¬†when he raped me and laughed at me afterward when I was crying and bleeding.
    • He was the fourth (4th) guy I had ever had sex with.
    • I attempted to date another guy three or so months later. I got to know him over several dates. He was the fifth (5th) guy I had sex with.
    • He never spoke to me again after we had sex.
    • Less than six months after¬†the previous rape,¬†I was [date] raped at my best friend’s belated birthday party.
    • He was, if you count it, the¬†sixth (6th) guy I had sex with.
    • Afterward, I¬†had sex¬†with 10+ men in less than two months. Sometimes more than one at a time.
    • And a couple women. I’m bisexual. I lean toward men.
    • I stopped sleeping with multiple men (and women) when I met the guy I’m dating now.
    • I truly went partying¬†for the first time¬†after the last [date] rape (with the 6th guy). That was, also, when I started going to to the bar every weekend.
    • I didn’t stop partying and drinking for almost six more months; I was an alcoholic.

At the time the date-rape occurred, I was just getting my confidence back in myself and¬†about ready to attempt to date seriously. I never would have slept with him because of my past. Most especially not until I heard what my best friend’s opinion on him was, a thorough opinion, and until I got to know him better. The rape essentially broke me and sent me spiralling into a depression and I tried to bury the memories of it in alcohol, erotic dancing, and more sex.

Do I regret what I did now? Yes. Was there anything I could have done to prevent it? Probably not.

I was one of the lucky ones. I didn’t contract an STD (sexually transmitted disease). I’ve been tested multiple times extensively, especially since I’ve been raped, and I’ve come up clear. Also, since I slept with so many men in so little time, most of the time without a condom, I was extremely lucky I didn’t get an STD.

It was the darkest point in my life. I ignored my children for a social life I shouldn’t have even had. It was a social life of people that wanted to party and get drunk all the time. I kept alcohol in my¬†home, at least two kinds, at all times for several months. Whenever something happened, whenever my kids were gone, I would want to go out and dance and drink and party. There were even times when I knew my children would be gone and I knew I wouldn’t hear from my boyfriend so I went out and partied; my boyfriend didn’t approve of what I was doing and he was trying to get me to stop. I think he knew when I did anyway and didn’t tell me, he just continued to discourage me from doing it.

It’s because of him that I stopped drinking and partying constantly. If it wasn’t for him, I would probably still be in a very bad place.

Since him, though, I have not slept with anyone else, though I have had plenty of offers. (I became known as a bar slut, a reputation I am happy to be rid of.) Since my fiance, I’ve only gotten drunk a handful of times since I truly stopped partying and he was with me each time.

I’m happy now.

Though, I do wish I were able to go dancing more. Drunk or not, I like dancing. ūüėČ