The Ridiculous Search for Others Who Survived Severe Childhood Sexual Abuse & Neglect

In searching online for others who were so maligned, I stumbled upon this article.

I crave finding others who were severely sexually abused as children, other victims of incest from not only father but also a grandmother and a great grandmother, someone who was sold, prostituted and given away for favors, goods or money not just by a parent but also by a grandparent, someone who knows what it is like to be physically beaten weekly or daily, who knows starvation and never felt kindness, love or affection from a caregiver throughout their young years.

How rare am I? 

Am I 1 in 1,000 or 1 in a million?

Who can understand me, my reactions, thoughts, feelings and distorted reality?

Who can understand my pain?

I'm curious. I'd like to find others that have suffered similarly.

Part of me kind of wishes I'd find someone with a more traumatic childhood but most of me thinks it will be near impossible. 

Giving Up, Quitting, Resignation, Defeatist Behavior from Child Abuse, What is will?

I remember when I gave up trying to tell my mother that my dad was molesting me. She would hand my toddler body to him after he had washed up in the bathtub. His job then was to bathe me, in the same tub with him. Mom would hand me over to him.

After the first few times of dad touching me in uncomfortable places and such, I recognized when it was "bathtime with daddy" and started wailing, crying, screaming and clinging to mom.

Why didn't she understand what small me was trying to say? Trying to stop getting in the tub. Trying vehemently to stop the incest.

But mom just got upset and frustrated with my fighting. It turned her against me and made her want to hand me over to dad even more quickly.

It was a brief moment when I realized that the harder I fought, the more difficult the event would be.

So I quit fighting.

I realized it didn't matter what I wanted.

Resignation.

My life would always be dad groping and abusing, and I was helpless to change that trajectory.

I felt it in my chest, like a large dinner plate, kind of rectangular shaped in the upper chest, a few inches off my body. Grey in color, lifeless, dead, not numb rather non-existent, something missing and replaced with surrender. When I realized I was nothing but a body to be handed off when I became disagreeable or displayed the wrong emotion.

I quit things before I can lose. 

I don't start things I'll probably lose at.

Limp and numb.

It feels like loss and sadness sitting together, forever. Neither one willing to get off the bench their clothes are nailed to.

I didn't matter.

I wasn't human or a person just a thing to be used whenever others wanted.

It's like having no feet, no wheels, no way to get up and move forward.

I will lose, is the mantra, so I will not try.

It's screaming in a dark forest and no one ever hears you.

It's trying to stomp your foot in disgust but your foot just flails through the floorboard, impotent.

I was the dust on the wall; the cobweb in the corner.

Surrounded by paper walls, I could not punch through.

It's being invisible, turning on an invisible spit, roasting, just waiting for someone to come along and take a bite.

Fodder for the horses.

It's tough to make decisions when you are empty air.

What is human will? Do I have choice? Can I pick a direction? Do I have a say in my own life? Do I own me?

Can I own me?

What is human will?

Can I have some? How do I get it?

This large grey space near my chest.....how to fix?

Processing Early Incest Childhood Sexual Abuse Memories

Yesterday, we talked about our earliest memory of being molested by our father.

Today, I have episodic tears alongside glimpses of that memory. I'm kind of stunned, really. So much information to process.

I think I need time alone to come to grips with this.

We also remembered a five-minute period of time, when we were under two, and our mother was singing a song to us, smiling, happy with us. That is a rarity. Not sure what to do with that. Mom had brief, erratic, and well spaced out, small increments of time wherein she loved us. Granted, 90% of what we remember about her is negative or neutral, so this specific memory throws a wrench into the black and white, evil or good only, theory.

Can we love her 5 or 10% in light of all the hurt, pain and neglect she caused?

My dad, so sick. He'd come home from work smelly like engine grease and hope in the shower. After that, he'd call for mom to bring small toddlerish us in to get bathed with him.

Resignation 

Losing the will to fight

Defeated

Disgusted