i'll try to write it all down as clear as i can. cause in my head it all spins around. my name is christine, and i'm sixteen. i am a victim/survivor. people tell me i have survived, but sometimes i still feel victimized.

my story begins when i was a child. lost, lonely, no where to hide. i lived/live with an abusive father, with a really big temper. so we always tried to avoid him. we, refers to my 3 sisters and i. we were always together doing something .to free ourselves from the wrath of father. the four of us played "house" frequently, and because i was a tomboy, i was made to play the boy. usually i played the brother, or the father. one day, i was with my eldest sister playing alone. i was five, and she was twelve. she told me that i was going to be the boyfriend and she ,the girlfriend. i, being so nieve, followed along, acting out the part. then it was time for her to go to "work". she told me that i had to say, goodbye. i was really confused,and had no idea where this game was going. she stepped closer to me and said "boyfriend's say goodbye like this." she reached out and grabbed my neck. she shoved her chapped lips against my innocent, breathless, mouth. she continued to shove her stale tongue down my throat, while shoving me on to the bed. as she lay on top of me, i realized that she was no longer playing and this didn't feel right. after leaving my face soaked with saliva, she slowly got up and walked away. we have never spoke about this instant since,and i doubt she even remembers.

my next experience wouldn't be until my freshman year in high school, i was 14, insecure, and shy. never speaking unless spoken too. i made friends with a boy, 2 years older than me. we talked all the time. at school, home, even late at night. every thing was fine until he asked to drive me home from school one day. i told him that was fine, what could i lose. instead of taking me home, he would drive me to his house. for the first couple of days, we only played pool, and talked. after a while he started to get really friendly. he would take me to his bedroom and start kissing me. that's when i would leave. i don't mean physically, i mean mentally. i would slip away to a place of love, peace, warmth, anywhere but where i was. this boy would throw me on the bed, and say over and over again "you know i love you. this is real love." he would kiss me, digging his teeth into my lips, i could taste the blood. he would then proceed to take off my shirt, scratching my breasts with his fingernails and biting them with his teeth. i didn't even feel the pain, i just laid there, under his control. he would begin to rub against me, trying to pull down my pants, but i always found a way to keep him from actually taking them off. he would rub, harder and harder until i know he ejaculated. soon after his father would come home. the boy would throw my clothes at me and tell me to put them back on while he left the room to greet his father. i was zoned out, lost in my mind, searching for an answer. this experience happened every day for three months. --most the people i have told, always ask me why i kept going back, and the only answer i can come up with is: if i told him no he would have become furious, and maybe hurt me more, and as far as i was concerned i could handle what he was putting me through. so my decision was to let it be or make it worse.

one evening this boy called me late at night. my parents had just left and he told me he was coming over. i told him no, and i thought that was enough. i was wrong. he came to my house and he was crying. we sat outside and i was trying to comfort him. after i while i told him to leave. i said goodbye and walked into my house. he followed. i told him to leave, but he kept walking , into my house and down the hallway. he stopped and went into the bathroom. i asked what his problem was, but instead of an answer, he pulled my arm and slammed the door. inside the bathroom, he started his routine of "i love you and i never want to hurt you." this time he was really rough, and he was ripping my clothes off. before i had a chance to say anything, i was standing there naked with his hand searching for his dick. he was pushing me to the ground, while looking for his weapon. when i was on the floor, i came back to reality, and the situation set in. he was going to rape me! as soon as my mind made that connection i squirmed away. i looked him right in the eye and said, "do you have any idea what you are doing to me." he stood up looked at my shivering, naked body, and left the house.

it was over, so i thought. to this day i still sit next to this boy in one of my classes. i only have a couple more months and he will be graduating, so he will be gone, from my life forever. the hardest part of my recovery is having to see his face every day.

people often say that telling your family is a good thing. well in my case it wasn't. i sat my mom and my dad down together, and told them my story. they proceeded to yell at me for hours straight . they told me it was my fault, and that i was a slut.

i know my case is minor compared to others, but i hope that by sharing my story i can help myself and mostly, others. i want to give my wonderful boyfriend steve a great big thank you. without him i would be dead right now. he has helped me find life in the hell i was living. i also want to thank butterfly for letting me share my story. thank you everyone, you are all survivors. let no one take your life away from you.

Looking back to the early pre-teen years it began with tickling, fun chase-me games, done in the presence of my stepmother and/or visiting cousins, and my stepmothers young sisters and nieces. All fun and games, wrestling balls, rolling on the floor games of touching, sometimes inappropriately, all in the “game.”

My half sister eight years younger, jumping on top trying to find her place in the laughter and fun. She always had a hard time finding a spot in this tough competition. The competition was strong from me against her, because I believed her to be my enemy in getting all the attention from my father.

After all, she was so little, blonde and cute. I was at an all arms and legs stage, and even though we both had very curly hair, like our father, mine was dark brown. Her eyes more like his, with long lashes, mine like my mother’s father, hazel, blue with crinkles at the corners. She probably saw me more as “sister” than I was able to accept her as “sister”. In fact she called me Sister for the first few years, I did not like it, but would not ask her to stop because I thought she would do it to annoy me even more. She got into my possessions, and being used to being the only child for much longer than she, everything she touched became contaminated as far as I was concerned. She never broke or destroyed anything, likely because she was a bit afraid of me, even though at the time I did not consider that as a remote possibility.

The next step in the seduction was opportunities when my stepmother took her child to visit family, or worked at night, often going to church meetings, leaving me with my father. He took me out like a “date” to dinner or put my half sister to bed early. This “alone” time was special and treasured by me because I had his undivided attention.

The first physical sexual contact was an act of molestation only. I was coming from a bath on the upstairs landing. I was about fourteen years old. My stepmother was either at work or a church meeting. She often was out at church when she was the more active member rather than my father. He was reactivated into the Mormon church when she became a strong convert.

This time was just previous to my father being called to the Bishopric as a second Counselor to the ward bishop. He was on a “home mission” to convert local people and baptize them into the church.

This particular night my father caught me with only a robe on and said “this is how I kissed my girlfriends.” He forced his tongue into my mouth. The surprise and shock made me so vulnerable, but I said--”stop it” and pushed him away from me. He reached out, forcing me against the bannister on the landing of the curved staircase. I was repulsed, as he pressed his very erect penis into my resisting pelvic area. I again said “stop it”, and ran to my bedroom and shut the door with the usual bang when I was angry about some demand of my stepmother.

Fortunately he was not a large man, stocky and muscular, but only 5’7”, and I was about 5’4” and well developed from sports and a maturing teen body. My breasts were well developed so I appeared to be even a bit older than I was in years or experience.

There was some time lapse before another physical advance from my father. He seductively, although I did not even know that word, used praise to entrap me. It worked quite well because he and I became “allies’ against my stepmother. I felt like the “winner” over her during those years. She probably had begun to resent the decision that she enforced about bringing me from Canada and my grandparents.

I was expected to do numerous household chores, dishes, laundry, ironing, my own and family pieces as well. I helped with cooking particularly when we had guests which was very often, and sometimes for overnight. Sometimes it was friends, or relatives visiting, or cousins who needed a place to stay for a few days.

My father used every opportunity to tell me privately that “your food, your ironing, etc. is done better than hers.” (my stepmother). To have “one up” on “her” became a goal for me to manipulate both my father and her against each other. She was jealous, and it showed, much to my delight. He told me my breasts were bigger and more attractive than hers and although I felt embarrassed I did not speak out.

Soon after these situations became more intense and acceptable my stepmother took a full time night job. She worked answering emergency calls for the electric company where my father worked days.

The change in her schedule affected the home and left me in the “role” of mate most evenings of the week. I prepared dinner, my half sister went to bed much earlier and the “playing field’ was wide open for the seduction. My father sometimes went out on missionary home visits, or church meetings, but returned early in the evening before I went to bed.

The seduction began carefully, with flattery and no force from my father toward me at this time. I was very vulnerable and loved the one on one attention and generous praise. Also I felt like the “favorite” over my stepmother by this attention from my father whom I still did not know very well. I had no memory of him at all until he returned to Canada from California when I was ten and I was brought to California to live.

Weekends were “war time” with my stepmother because by now “she had become the enemy.” Privileges were requested from my father and discussed after the fact with her, which made her angry and I played on the constant battles. Some I lost, many I won, with the support of my father against her.

My father used this time to tell me about her “love affairs” (no sexual details) more “flirtatious episodes”. She was made out to be the one at fault, while he was the faithful mate. I became aware very early on of her flirting with men wherever we went, at church, in family gatherings. She had a “way” of attracting the most eligible man in the room. This of course added fuel to my fire of resentment toward her. My father became the martyr in the relationship. At the same time wanting to please this “betrayed” father who was so “wronged” by my “wicked fairy tale stepmother” captured my full attention. I saw later how I was the family savior, if I told anything the family would break up, and “she” would become a prostitute. He was convincing!

All this “stalking” by my father were just parts to the grand puzzle working itself out in his mind. I had no way of realizing my father’s warped vision, or what my part would become in this vicious game, or what trauma to my life would become the end result. I was very innocent in spite of the situation.

One night I had been well praised for dinner and he helped me do the dishes before putting my half sister to bed. After my homework was done, he called me to their bedroom. He had a black dress for me, which really pleased me, and it was a nice reward for helping while my stepmother was a work. I had to earn money baby sitting to expand a small allowance for “extra” clothes. Going to regular church meetings and activities there and at school made clothes a very welcome gift.

My father urged me to try it on---saying,” go ahead the full size mirror here is better than in your room.” This was well orchestrated, but at the time I was too flattered to resist his advances, and after all he was my father.

He used this opportunity to express his pleasure of my maturing young body. He had told me before that my breasts were bigger, more firm looking than hers. All the seductive praise about my sexy body and long curly hair sounded very good to me. My stepmother became the one I wanted to “win” over, so I was a perfect candidate for his careful steps of seduction.

My father led up to this well planned idea of his by telling me about my stepmother being better at sex than my very young natural mother, who died a few days after I was born. Once again, I was in a position of power and provided with the opportunity and personal advantage to be “better than my stepmother.” This was yet another victory in my young teen mind, that once more I was better than his mate.

He quickly pushed me on the bed and without force had sexual intercourse two times. Fortunately he withdrew and I did not become pregnant. This being my first sexual experience, I was shocked, not in physical pain, but mental, emotional upset that haunted me for many years after it took place.

There was lots of guilt, shame, and confused thinking on my part, but my father was not one to talk a great deal, and it was not spoken of between us for several years. My stepmother’s job ended shortly after the experience with him, and before he had another chance to have sex with me. I felt a lot of guilt, as if it somehow was my fault, I was in his room, changing my clothes, and of course I knew it was wrong because of the religious training that was constantly pushed at church. There was no sex education at school of course, and certainly no discussion other than menstruation between my stepmother and me. I knew there was something terribly wrong about what happened, and I avoided him as much as possible. I carefully locked the bathroom door, always taking my clothes with me, and coming out fully dressed.

About this time I was dating often, and with school and church activities, and the constant meetings both my parents attended I was often the sitter for my half sister. I was only allowed to date Mormon boys and attend church and school activities, but there were a lot of dances and groups and it was a busy time for me.

My father’s job began to take him out of town as it had when I first came to live with them when I as ten. My stepmother used me to stay with my half sister so she could be free and come and go without any guilt. I do not know about relationships with other men, she had in the past, but my father and half sister later told me she did.

Lots of time was spent in the city library looking for information about sex between father and daughter. Even fiction seemed to never describe what had happened to me. All medical books and anything pertaining to sexual intercourse was locked up in those days and off limits to me except with parental permission. I knew better than to ask for a written note from my stepmother, and did not want to discuss anything sexual with my father. This was a family in almost total denial of what was happening right in front of God and everyone.

There were no magazines, TV, or education I knew of anywhere. I did read about Oedipus, and never could identify because it was a Mother-son sexual encounter complicated by murder. There was nothing for me to do except put what happened as far out of my mind as possible. I had no access to erotic materials, and knew no one, even at school that could help me during those years.

There were no physical pressures from my father. I just felt anger toward my stepmother and my father and most of my frustration landed on my half sister. I avoided her as much as my father and only did things with and for her when forced. It was a very confusing time, no one to tell, no one to share the experience with. I was sure this had never happened to anyone I knew. The rage was just repressed and I pretended it had never even happened at all. My father was Bishop by now.

I wanted to be sent back to Canada to live with my grandparents, and knew they were too frail and unable to have me by this time. I visited them every year when our family drove from California to Canada for two or three weeks. Then the awful parting from my grandparents, and more trauma, until I again did what I had to do to survive in this home. I was so confused, my stepmother refused to speak of sex, or death for that matter, her words were always, “lets not talk about it, a very sordid subject.”

I never told my grandparents because I did not think even they would believe me, I hardly believed it myself when I thought about what happened. Even if they did know, I could not live there, so what choice was there anyway. Maybe it was just best to keep quiet. My father had told me “never tell about us, your stepmother would take my half sister and be on the street” and there would be no more family.” “It is our secret”, just as most sexual abuse becomes, particularly for the child. The secret becomes just another burden the child has to carry along with the shame and guilt.

The next action from my father came on a day I was careless, thinking I was alone in the house at bath time. I left the bathroom with just a robe to get ready to meet a girlfriend to go to an early movie. I was seventeen at the time, a senior in high school. This time lots of boyfriends helped me bury my thoughts in activities, particularly at church and school. I was still only allowed to date “good Mormon boys” whose families my family knew well. I did not have sexual relations until I was engaged. Lots of touching, dancing, mostly group activities.

My father came up on the stair landing just as I entered my room. I shut the door, had no locks and hurried to my closet to dress. He entered and very forcefully grabbed me, pushing me onto my bed and laying on top of me holding me down. I fought him with all my strength, and yelled, “NO” “STOP” and pushed him away, saying “I will tell, don’t you touch me.” He tore away my robe and very quickly ejaculated on my stomach. I was so repulsed that he got up and left me alone, crying into my pillow. He never tried to physically overpower me again.

The next seductive move came when my family insisted I go to Canada on a trip since I was engaged to be married. I was working and sometimes had to work odd hours and split shifts at the telephone company so there was no opportunity for my father and I to be alone. I avoided my family as much as possible and wanted to get married and leave home. I did not want to go on this trip, and as usual my stepmother pushed until I agreed to take time because I could see my grandparents again. They were very frail by this time.

This clever little plan of my father’s included a boat trip up the river in Victoria before we went on to Alberta where my grandparents lived. I was looking out over the river on deck and he came up from the restaurant below where my stepmother and sister were and stood beside me. He said, “see those people over there watching us, they think we are engaged, they see your ring.” I was stunned at the nerve of him to say such a thing and answered, “they and you are wrong.” He continued with “I am only twenty one years older than you are. It is possible, you know.” I angrily walked away in disgust. At that time I only felt revulsion and rage toward him.

My father never approached me again even verbally until after my first daughter was a toddler. He began coming to “visit” me when my husband was at work during the day hours. He wanted me to have a sexual relationship with him and I totally rejected the idea and told him not to speak to me about it. I confronted him for the first time saying, “I am your daughter!” He said, “you have always been a woman to me, you always were and you always will be.” I just sat there and cried. He never approached me in any way after that. He was a Bishop in the Mormon church and seemed to have no remorse or guilt about what had happened, and was eager to have sex with me, even though I was married and a mother with a young child. How he could live that way I shall never know.

When my father developed cancer when my oldest daughter was eleven and the younger one eight, I was not aware guilt could have a part of the illness. I believe he wanted to die, even though he was only fifty two years old and enjoyed being Bishop. I never understood how I sat and heard him speak as bishop, “father of the ward” and still had any admiration for this man who used me so shabbily. He died within a year after his illness was diagnosed. When I saw him in the casket he looked very sad, dressed in the temple clothes, the white bakers’ type hat and green apron of the “worthy Mormon priesthood member.” My tears were relief rather than of grief and loss. The funeral was huge, many people in the church and from his employment came and I wondered if I would be able to even cry. The tears flowed and I had some release of all that had gone before. There was no sorrow in my heart, finally I knew he could never approach me again in a sexual way, and it felt good to be free.

Thinking I was free at last, I began having severe migraine headaches. No medical reason could be found to stop them, even control the frequency and extreme pain. I was referred to a psychologist to see if that could help me. This gave me the courage to tell my Bishop, his shock showed in his silence. Finally he said, “it is over, and best not spoken of again.” I asked him if he would report it, he told me it was not necessary. Of course I was twenty six at that time, and he never did tell as far as I know. He knew my father well because they were Bishops in the same Stake area in California. Howard Hunter was Stake President and later became President of the church.

Finally, I told the therapist and my psychological tests proved my resentment, guilt, remorse and shame were at least part of the migraines. Years later medical education proved sexual abuse, other abuses, shame, guilt and pure rage certainly could, and often did cause migraine headaches. So much was turned inward, I was depressed, full of repression, never telling anyone, and not expecting to be believed even if I did reveal my inner pain. A group helped some, but little was known in the fifties, and I was even told that I did not need to worry about what he may have done to my children. As far as I know and their memory, he never did touch either of my two older daughters. My youngest was born the year after he died. The headaches became less frequent and intense and the pain was manageable. The love-hate relationship with my father had taken more from me than I ever imagined. As education and experience and more appropriate therapy would come forth in our culture, I began to finally heal.

Memories of how he threatened that “if I told” about what happened my stepmother and half sister would leave still haunted me. He said my stepmother would become a “street woman” like the ones he showed me in Los Angeles. He had taken me alone with him into the prostitute district on one of our “dates” during the early stalking period of time.

I was about twelve and entranced with such a grown up time in the city, dinner and a movie, followed by a walk through the “red light” district of this huge city. He explained why they were on the street, and what they did for money.

Working out this anger and rage took years, it affected my first marriage in every way. The sexual abuse between parent and child is a life long affect. I have learned to “reprogram” my mind and body over the years. I will not allow myself to pull away from my second husband, wonderful man that he is to me. When certain touches, drawing me toward him, bring back the force from my father, the revulsion, I have learned to tell my mind to “stop”. It is now ok for me to enjoy the sexual encounter to the maximum. There are certain smells, Old Spice Men’s cologne, even a slight whiff brings back the abuse from my father because he used it constantly. This is a big huge step beyond my first marriage, which became more and more fragile with my husbands alcohol problems. His guilt, being a Mormon, and added to that what had happened to me made it difficult, even though I stayed for twenty two years before divorcing him.

My sexual abuse was minor compared to many in support groups I led later, and many of my clients suffered more intensely and for longer periods of abuse. My work with dysfunctional families helped me heal my own wounds. I never suffered physical pain or long term abuse, as so many who were even first abused as infants by their parents and care givers.

My guilt because of my teen years about why I did not prevent the abuse was a difficult and long term problem. Until education and hearing professionals explained it as “never” the fault of the child became available. Eventually I was able to accept and be a support for others who had been abused, to refuse feeling responsible for what happened.

Years passed until my stepmother surprised me after years of separation, by visiting our home. She came to see me without calling to even say she would be in our city. With all the education and changes over the years, working with victims and no contact with my half sister except a few cards and a lot of distance from both of them, I was a different person. I felt determined to tell her, partly for my own healing, just as I had suggested for others, but had not taken this step myself. It meant opening old wounds for both of us, but once more she surprised me. Her response was “oh, that makes me feel less guilty for things I did?” Then she said, “why did you not tell me, I would have stopped it.” I told her, “more than likely she would not have believed me.” She ordered, begged me to NEVER to reveal any of this to my half sister. I very reluctantly agreed, knowing it needed to be told. There is no contact since then, nearly ten years ago. I have not told my half sister--we are not close, live in different states the last twenty five years. This keeping secrets is still going on, and for some unexplainable reason I honor my stepmother’s request. Neither myself or my half sister are likely to open the subject. I do not know if my stepmother told her child, probably not. And somehow I feel it is not my place or responsibility at this point in time to talk about what happened to me. Any contact with my half sister is very superficial. She will allow nothing else even now.

I may never know if he abused her or not. She has had many signs of abuse. My stepmother told me when she saw me last that an uncle of hers molested my half sister when she was about five. This child had and still has an eating disorder since she was a toddler, seven major surgeries, mostly reproductive, never been pregnant because of endrometriosis, and menstrual problems. She also is diabetic. There have been two marriages for her, and she adopted a boy and a girl in her second marriage.

Her first marriage was a Mormon temple marriage, the second to a non member. She had numerous affairs and I was not told until it was all over, and these are significant indications of sexual abuse in my opinion.

I can identify to some extent with the recent publication of the book “The Kiss” by Kathryn Harrison. The parental abandonment of a child creates an intense need and opportunity for incest to take place when they are reunited. It is long past time that our society and culture and religions stop blaming the victim, no matter what the age of the child in incest relationships. My guilt was deep and still has some vague power over my responses. I am sixty-eight years old, and the residue still has the ability to haunt me enough that I must reprogram my mind to continue with desired emotions. This haunting is minor for me, and I agonize for those who have not reached that point of time in their lives.

When will our society finally take responsibility and stop child sexual abuse? In some cultures an abuser is killed to stop the cruel chain of generational abuse that seems to follow one after the other. The blood line is killed. Religions like Mormons began with child abuse and incest and is very well documented, but not often punished. When a church has such large funds to quiet victims, hospitals, social workers, legal authorities, it is difficult to prosecute. And their power prevents professionals from reporting because of employment losses, it will and does continue in huge numbers. The victims have little opportunity, and children are just not viable witnesses in court. I know bringing it to the courts when I was young would have resolved nothing at that time. I would only have been more damaged by the publicity, as well as by family and friends. That is no reason to hide it from view, but unless, and until, action is taken to really protect victims, little is accomplished when a child is returned over and over to abusing parents.

No child deserves to be sexually abused, and no parent deserves parental rights when they have violated a child. Many judges have little or no understanding beyond parental rights, particularly when it is so difficult to prove sexual abuse.

Our society needs to refuse to tolerate child abuse in any form, and punish offenders quickly and effectively so the child is free to heal and never become another statistic of abuse when they are parents.