Facing the darkest moments of the past, the moments that you strive to bury, is never something you want to do. I've lived well over 16 years sweeping those moments under the rug, hoping that they would not be found. I still seemingly blame myself, finding fault in me rather than the one who committed the act. The abuse complex. I can sit back and point it out for what it is, but for some reason, I still cannot escape it. Writing it all down, reliving it in all it's vivid details makes me shudder...and tears stream down my face as the words coalesce on this page...but I am hoping...praying...and begging that somehow getting it all out will help me somehow... Summer, 1992 It had been a long day. For the first time ever, I went to a theme park, and it was fun. I remember being so excited to see shamu, and pet the dolphins...it was almost like a dream for the poor kid that never got to do anything. Up until that night, mom's new boyfriend was kind of cool, and I liked having him around. He got me things, and took me places, and let me ride in the hot rod cars that made the other kids jealous. I was tired that night, and I fell asleep fast and hard. It was the kind of dreamless sleep that you fall into after totally exhausting yourself. The summer made it warm in the house, despite the air conditioning, and I generally slept on top of the blankets. I would often wake in the night and roll around until I was comfortable again, and then drift into another cycle of sleep. This night was different...this is the night that my world changed forever. I remember waking, like I usually did, but this time, I was unable to move. At first I was scared, and in fear, I froze, trying to put together what was going on before I took any action. The room was pitch black, and I remember thinking that my night light had burnt out or was off for whatever reason. There was something holding my hand in place...and after a few moments, I realized that it was another hand... Frozen, I pretended to be asleep. Nothing like this had ever happened, and I was both scared and confused as to what was going on. At some point, he must have realized I was waking, however, because the hand that held mine in place returned it to my bed and he left the room. I remember thinking...why is my hand wet and sticky? I got up and washed them and returned to sleep... ***God...this is still so hard to think about...so hard to type or talk or think...especially in the darkened room. Even this, where it all began. Sure...it gets so much worse...but even this point is something I dont want to face. I feel wrong for thinking or talking about it...like it is something dirty or wrong. How can I ever get over it if I can never face it?! Frustrating...*** The next night, I awoke to the same sensation, my hand being held in place and moved along what I came to realize was something no child that age should ever have to touch, feel, or be a part of...this time he seemed to feel me wake, though I tried to be quiet and not move, but I could feel the grip on my hand get stronger. Again, when he was done and had left, I made my way silently to the bathroom and washed my hands... As the days droned on, and this continued, I was increasingly unable to look at him. I stopped talking to him, incurring the wrath of my mother, who had been trying to get me to call him dad since we had moved in. Instead, I would retreat to my room, or hide in the backyard...refusing rides to school in the hot rods, and staying as far from him as possible. I could never wrap my mind around what was happening, or if I had done something wrong...but fear of being made fun of kept be quiet, and the nights kept happening. A few months went by, and it became routine. I could almost expect him in my room on certain nights, even though my mother was sleeping in the next room. One night, however, in early january...and I remember it vividly...things went beyond this norm. Instead of the waking up to what I had gotten almost used to, I was jolted awake, unable to breathe. At first, I thought that I might be drowning, but it was not long before I figured out that I could not breathe because there was a hand over my nose and mouth. I tried gasping for air, but it felt like I was suffocating. That was when the pain shot through me like a knife. In the moonlit backdrop of my room, I could see his shadow over me...I wanted to scream, but I couldnt...I want to scream now, but I cant. Visions of the night dance in my mind, haunting me, but I cannot bring myself to write them down here. Its like something is stopping me, aside from the fact that it is getting hard to see through the tears...It hurts...and the phantom pains return... Time to change the subject and the soundtrack. Perhaps tomorrow I will be able to write more...but for now, I have to stop before I break. Oh, how I want to face this and heal...I want so bad to get over the hurt and the pain and the suffering...I dont want to bury it anymore...I dont want to be afraid anymore...