Last week, I told you about my family dynamic, and how my stepsister had just moved back in with her mother.

Her moving was the reason my stepdad changed and one of the reasons he abused me. He was broken before, but this was just too much for him to handle. But we were all so good at pretending we were a happy family, we simply carried on. He went quiet and stopped talking as well. Later, he  became aggressive. I remember the first time I saw his erected penis. My mother was working as a nurse and often did night shifts. It was one of those nights. I was hanging out with my stepfather and we were watching TV. I can’t remember what we were watching, maybe some kind of Stephen Spielberg movie. I was laying on the couch, he was sitting in an armchair about two meters away from me. I noticed something sticking out of his pants, it took me a few seconds to recognize what it was. It looked huge and disgusting to me. I saw him touching it and moving his hand up and down, his eyes were fixed on the TV. I tried to find a position on the couch that would prevent me from seeing his penis, but one where I could still see the TV so I could pretend I was still watching. I didn’t want him to notice that I saw it. I tried to slip away from the reality I found myself in. In my new position, I could only see his feet. He wore sandals and no socks. So I guess it must have been spring or summer. When he came, I saw his toes curling up. He grabbed a tissue and then he went to the bathroom to clean himself up. I felt unable to move or breathe, I was in complete shock and didn’t understand at all what was happening. When he came back, he apologized to me. He was aware of the moral implications of his doing. But that wouldn’t stop him from repeating this routine over and over. Except he only apologized that one time.

I tried to find a position on the couch that would prevent me from seeing his penis, but one where I could still see the TV so I could pretend I was still watching. I didn’t want him to notice that I saw it. I tried to slip away from the reality I found myself in. In my new position, I could only see his feet.

What did my mother do? Didn’t I phrase her as the bad one at the beginning? Well, she did nothing. She was busy pretending to be happy with the baby and newly found stability in her life. And I guess she was just so glad my stepdad wasn’t drinking. I wish he had been drinking. He would have been too tired to perform sexual acts in front of me or anybody. Everything went downhill from that moment on. He took it a few steps further on many occasions. He would give me massages on my back and my front. Sometimes right before my mother came home from work. I had to hurry and put my sweater back on. He told that we have to hide it from my mother, that she would only get jealous because he doesn’t give her any massages. I was getting special treatment, I was his number one. Finally, someone was paying attention to me. This is what my brain must have been signaling me during that time. Something should have felt a little bit off to my mother. She never asked me if I was okay or if I felt uncomfortable spending all that time alone with my stepfather. We never talked about anything for that matter.

I wanted to forget that my trust in people, my childhood and my innocence had been taken away from me.

I opened up about it to my first boyfriend when I was 15 and to all the boyfriends that followed. After talking to him, I confronted my mother. I told her what my stepfather did. She looked at me and was in complete shock and disbelief. I remember a tear rolling down her cheek. She didn’t talk to me that day either, nor did she show me any kind of affection or empathy. I guess she felt more betrayed for herself than for me. They had a fight, he drove away in his car, she cried, I went on a walk by myself at 11pm on a school night. I was so afraid he was going to leave and therefore I was relieved when we all went on pretending the next day. Nobody spoke of it ever again until I decided to reopen this dark chapter of our lives two years ago. The abuse didn’t stop there, but as I grew older I spent as little time at my parents’ house as possible. At 16, I starting drinking every weekend. By 17, I experimented with drugs. I didn’t want for any of this to control my thoughts. I wanted to forget that my trust in people, my childhood and my innocence had been taken away from me.