Surviving Childhood Pornography

Living with Incest, Family Secrets Exposed

Watching this documentary, made me realize how easy it was for siblings and family members to picture me as nothing but a liar, out for some hidden, non-existant gain. Seriously, what possible motivation does a child or an adult have that they would blatantly talk about being sexually abused, raped by a family member? The only reason is to free themselves from the pain and shame of being forced to keep secrets for years and decades. Freedom can be found in words, truth spoken. The emotional pain is lessened and can start healing Only with the spoken words.

People see what they want to see, especially in families deeply entrenched with physical and sexual abuses. No one wants to believe a father could molest his daughter week after week, year after year.

If so, why didn't she tell anybody? Like anyone would believe one little girl over a family's rally cry behind the good husbandfather. Threats were constant, violent and frequent. 

It's good to see incest being talked about.

Truth is truth, even if it's ugly and makes your stomach turn and you don't want to believe it.

Incest Happens

Talk about it

Don't ever let the perpetrators win

Start healing

Speak your truth

I write a book and went into a fog

I published on the 25th of August. Immediately we shifted into a clouded room, ethereal and removed from reality. Couldn't think straight or form a complete sentence. 

10 days out and I've had hours of clarity. Then, I felt the return. Sentences broke apart in my head as soon as they formed. I muddle empty handed from room to room. I think a thought only to know I've list it seconds later. Looking around. Can't find the line, the path. I know I'm missing something. Mostly, my lost thought.

I am cloudy and removed now. Thinking time is over.

Slowly getting used to post publish, our new 🌎 world.

Visiting a Middling Land

In the ten days since publishing, Surviving Incest and Childhood Prostitution, I have been as if in a daze, numbingly walking through reality, relatively unaware and Highly Dissociative. 

It's like I'm sitting in a large, round room, with elongated near ceiling to floor windows, open with soft white drapes gently billowing. Around me are Others also sitting. The room is filled with cloud and we can't clearly see each other.

I hit the Publish button on Amazon KDP and everything changed.

The seven years of intense therapy had coalesced into words spread upon 91 pages. Memories that were written and experienced first person from 2to3 to 9, all flowed into neat, concise, informative chapters.

And all the secrets we have kept hidden and locked away, became unlocked. We became real. We became free. So, please pardon me if we continue to sit in stunned silence as we ponder the top of this very tall mountain. The view is amazing.

Surviving Incest and Childhood Prostitution

I wrote a book. It's awesome and scary and new and freeing and amazing!!

Despicable, My Mother Trained Me to be a Child Prostitute

The memories of being 5 years old have become quite clear these past two, three weeks. When I was 5, my mother struck a deal with the neighborhood, corner store grocery man. I would sexually service him every Monday in exchange for a loaf of bread, a quart of milk, and flour or sugar or baking powder. I also received one or two quarters and a sucker or handful of candy.

I would feel so proud carrying the grocery box home to my mom. She would smile big with her red lipstick. She said I could keep the candy for myself, I didn't have to share it with my brothers, because I earned it. Just like daddy earns his paycheck, I earn my candy and quarters.

Mom called me "whore 1". I don't know if that was a joke or what but she smiled when she said it. She smiled with the grocery box. She smiled when she called me to go over to take care of my customer.

Mom said that working with Gustav, the German grocer, was like doing the stuff I did with daddy but different. She said each man liked it different, their way, a certain way. My job was to pay attention so I would automatically know how to do them without them having to ask. That was a big part of my job.

Mom didn't want me to talk about being with Gustav to daddy much. She said daddy would get jealous so I should mostly just talk to her about it.

I don't know if it was ever said or if it was just another straight index finger held on lips but it definitely was a secret not to be talked about to anyone but her.

How much can you do with a penny on your knee

I had a dream that was broken and fresh when I awoke.

Seeing my father, sitting beside me, in an ultra, bizarrely small car, at the top of lookout hill, in Grand Rapids Michigan, after a treacherous drive up the narrow road lined with large, sharp rocks, and he was looking at me and I could readily see he was holding up a Lincoln penny between index finger and thumb, as he said, "how much can you do with a penny on your knee?"

It makes me queasy and sick inside to recount this turn of phrase as it is a ditty, dirty, a dare, a task, a secret, an allusion to something of an illicit and sexual nature, an act repeatedly performed, yet another sporting "game" that only my father and I would play alone and away.

Maybe it was a "car game" as those were different and only enacted in a vehicle. 

I don't know much for sure, other than this phrase elicits inner emotional distress and makes me want to run and recoil.