Take advice from fuckups.they're the only ones that can tell you about the bottom & how to avoid it


Friday, February 12, 2010

The Guy That Raped A 3 Yr. Old...(And still rapes my mind)

This is the first time I've ever written anything about my "dad", well, I don't know who my real dad is, but that's another story...The reason I'm a slut, the reason I started habitually masturbating at age three, the reason I hold so much resentment toward my mother...
He was always a buzzkill. No laughter was allowed unless HE was laughing. No music was allowed unless he was playing it, sometimes naked sitting in the floor of my bedroom in front of my turntable, ruining my LPs by drunkenly throwing them around as neglected cigarette ashes fell onto his huge erect penis. I used to have a few VHS tapes with recorded proof of what he put us through, just in case he killed us. I'm not sure where they are.
A few months ago I was going through some childhood photos of mine that were stashed away in a storage shed on my mom's property. A lot of what I found was disturbing. There was an album of vacation photos in an album from our trip to Nassau. In more than one of what were supposed to be happy cuddly pictures of me and my daddy, his hands are on my crotch. In another series of pics, I'm in the bathroom crying because he won't stop taking snaps of me while I was on the toilet or while I was changing my clothes. I'm obviously screaming and crying, not in a playful or comical way at all, either. I can't believe my mom would compile these things into a scrap book to be looked at as if they're cute or endearing.
A couple of weeks ago I was staying at my cousin's and her girlfriend was making a snack. As she was preparing it, the smell whafted up into my nostrils. She asked me if I had ever eaten it before. I didn't even look over. I knew what it was. I just asked, "It's peanut butter and pancake syrup, isn't it? I hate it and it reminds me of something awful. I don't want any." I could feel the chunks of bile and stress acids crawling up my throat as I ran into the other room. I felt like I wanted to cry or cuddle someone, just get away from it. My dad ate that shit every night for the sixteen years of hell that I had to live with him. He spread it onto saltines. A couple of times when I was really small, he made me lick it off of his penis. He also used to do this with honey or butter, or a combination of the two, but for some reason that doesn't make me as ill as the peanut butter and syrup thing does. I guess it's because I had to smell that shit every fucking night.
I worry every day that he's out there molesting, raping or beating another kid somewhere. Sometimes I wonder if he ever did it to any of my little cousins and that maybe that's why they all hate me and tend to avoid me. I had originally planned to write more, but it's too nauseating and upsetting.

Robert DeNiro's character in this movie always reminded me of him. This whole fight over an empty mustard jar is the kind of shit he did all the time. I threatened to fight back once, but I didn't. I just ran out the back door. I was on probation at the time, and of course, my parent's reported me. When the cops found me, I had to go to court and ended up going to fucking prison for a year as they stood by and did nothing. My mom never attempted to protect me. Sometimes she would scream, "Stop it Jeff, you're gonna kill her!" or "Don't punch her in the face, we'll go to jail..." but that was about as far as it went.


  1. Fuck, reading this post was like a trip down memory lane for me. I admire your honesty, and appreciate what it took for you to let this out.

  2. I can definitely relate: my childhood was like this. I'm sure this is why I became a hooker as well as being sexually promiscuous. Kudos for being courageous in writing about this.

  3. I was really afraid to post this for some reason...like someone was going to jump outta some bushes and get me...I'm glad that I'm being commended for it, but at the same time, it breaks my heart to hear about anyone else having to go through this kind of madness and bullshit. I'm sorry for all of you...Really I am... I wish I could fix us.

  4. I'm sorry for your beyond-shitty childhood. I can't imagine growing up that way, but I admire you for surviving and for your honesty.