There are no words, just pictures. If you took a colorful magazine full of pictures and randomly tore off pieces of various pages, and tossed them all on the floor, that is what these memories are like.
Small, rough-edged, pieces of things seen when we were with dad alone.
Lots of white. The white stuff that looked like milk but wasn't...and where that came from. That picture happened many times, like a scrap of the scene we witnessed up close, in our face, every single day.
That was "normal day"; words I hear from a child "speaking" in my head.
This was a big part of my early toddler and pretoddler years because it happened daily, and was a pattern.
I often wondered how I could ever relay, if there was anything to relay, regarding the infant sexual abuse because it was preverbal and what do infants and toddlers remember. Well, some remember men jacking off in their face.
Sorry. Not sure how honest I should write about what happened to me.
That was my dad. He raped and sexually abused babies. My brothers and sisters still love now dead dad. They don't remember what I say, what I experienced, and what I say him do to them.
