SURVIVOR CONFESSION: Little Girl Lost

Little Girl Lost

A Domestic Violence Story

Written By Victoria

Part One: The early years.

The earliest memories of what I have now come to know as Domestic Violence was at about 3 years old. I remember looking at my parents arguing so loud I would hide. I would cover my ears and I would actually see the dishes as they have gone flying across the house. Sometimes, mommy would be so sad she would just up and leave. And I would hide under my bed. My sister and I shared a room. Back in those days, our beds were pretty big. So, it was good because we could hide and cry together. We both were scared little girls lost.

I understand what now child abuse is because I remember the time I tried to pour water in a bathroom as I hated roaches. To this day, they scare the hell out of me. And I had a ruler cracked across my head. My mother was a nurse in Allentown, Pennsylvania back then. So, of course, she was not happy to see me come with blood dripping everywhere. Then there was the time I had drank out of a pop bottle. I was about six. And I got beaten into a wall. I woke up crying to my mom that my shoulder hurt. She asked what happened. I lied. I told her that I fell down our huge flight of carpeted stairs. Needless to say, I had a broken clavicle. To this day, I don’t forget as I still get pains if I move the wrong way or run to long.

I spent my days helping change diapers and playing with my brother and sister. And we all grew to stick up for each other. I never realized how much that meant to me until I grew up.

One day, the cops came and took us away.

Amongst, all the beatings and cheating with my parents, I was sexually assaulted as a child my sister as well. I can still remember the day, I heard her crying. And she came to me and said, “Did it hurt you too?”  We hugged each other so, tight. We were afraid to be bad. We thought we were always bad. And we tried so hard to be good girls.

So, you see, as a child, we didn’t know what child abuse was. We only knew what hurt and what seems scary and the nightmares, they went on for years and years.

So, the police were at our door in the middle of the night. Our door had those big dead bolts. The asked me to open it but, I couldn’t reach. They actually had to call my mom because we were home alone while she was at work. She had to open the door. They took us to the hospital to be evaluated and then sent us to my grandma’s house.

I felt safe at grandma’s house. Thus, I will care for her til her last breath as she did so much for me growing up. But, there was a day; we had a visit with our dad. And well, he told us all to get in to the car. So, we did. My poor grandma looking back as an adult I can only imagine what she was feeling.

My father took us to my birthplace. We hid at my aunt’s house. She was a nice aunt. But, I remember how my uncle would beat me with these horrible plastic stick things. It always felt like I was a bad girl no matter where I was. And I remember being hurt by another family member. But, I really don’t want to touch that subject. It never quite left me. As I still have bad memories of running through my aunt’s house and crying because there was nowhere to hide. And she wasn’t home to protect me all the time.

Then he had me call my mom and I only remember him buying pink stuff. I remember he convinced her to get into the car. Then she drank the pink stuff. And it hit me, now all grown up. She was scared for us. She was scared to leave. As I remember watching her handcuffed to the car. And then I wondered what would happen. I saw a gun on the floor of the driver’s side. And I just hugged my brother and sister. She said she had to go to the bathroom. So, dad went with her up a hill by the high way. And she tried to run. She failed of course. She was back in the car with the handcuffs back on. Somehow, trying to cross into what I now know as Canada, the cops pulled us over. My father was arrested. They took the scary gun.

My mother was all alone crying and driving with three kids. She took us back to grandma’s house.  We stayed there a long time. We had to go to bed early but, I didn’t mind. We went to church everyday. And we had ice cream before bed. My grandma made the best soup and spaghetti. I even made student of the month.  We use to visit my mom. Sadly, she didn’t seem to care much for being with us. She partied a lot and I mean, I know she loved us. But, as with many people, she was out on her own in an apartment. She didn’t want to be tied to three kids at that time. After all, she had me at 17 years old.

I use to be quite mad at her most of my life. But, I do get it now. And now, I just don’t know how she did it.

Now, I am about nine. I remember a big thing in the news over a man named Tony Toto. He had been shot. The papers said that he cheated on his wife and that he was shot by my father. My mother was very upset about this. She didn’t really talk to me about it. I only knew him as the Pizza man. My dad use to work for him.

To this day, I don’t know if my dad did or didn’t try to shoot him. I do know that he and my mom had a fling and every time I see that stupid movie ”I love you to death", I cry. That story was made into a horrible comedy of a really scary time in my life. At least I can say that guy never hurt me personally. So eventually, grandma couldn’t care for us anymore.

I guess I can understand as she had to be in like her 60’s. Well, we ended up in what is now known as foster care.

I may as well keep going as this is still part of the early years. So, we had to go to about six foster homes before we ended up in Quakertown. I know a weird name. I think it was an Amish town. I remember lots of fields.

I had a foster mom named Vicky. The dad was William. I guess they were okay to me for a little while. They made us do chores and eat healthy. But, there was those made days. My foster Father made me rub his feet as if he were some king on a thrown. I wet my bed a lot so, I was forced to wash my sheets in a bucket.

I was witness to my baby brother who had to be about 3 forced to lick poop off the walls. The memories of foster care are mostly horrendous. I remember dropping an ear plug in the tub and it was only because I told my foster mother the truth that I got to get my Raspberry Puff doll back. She took all my favorite toys. She even caught on to us hiding toys in our jackets to visit our mom. I was a sick kid. I had a lot of tubes in my ears. And I was sad when I wasn’t allowed to have my mommy with me. I use to be told never to talk to the social worker about what went on in the house. And I took my anger and sadness and I would draw and read for hours.

There were days that I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone as punishment. My sister and I shared a bunk bed. I remember her making the sign language “I love you” to me. I loved my sister. We really did go through so much together growing up. But, I have since talked to my foster mother and we made peace with it. However, it is still part of my story. My sister was dubbed the favorite, the good one. My brother the bad one and I was the ugly one. Sound familiar? The good, the bad and the ugly was a television show. We had foster siblings. I love my foster sis to this day. We actually found each other after all these years and can at least joke about times at the creek, Indian paint and my braiding her hair. She is an angel.

But, there are still the bad memories of child labor and hauling dirt, lifting heavy rocks, scrubbing walls. We had basically built my foster mother a creek from scratch. There was even a point where my brother was forced to eat a worm. As punishment for myself personally, my foster mother would force me to do 500 pushups at a time. After a while, it didn’t bother me. I got better than my gym teacher.

I had lots of nightmares growing up. I wet my bed til I was about 11. It was after a therapy appointment my foster mother finally understood me I think. The therapist asked me to draw pictures of something good and something bad. I told my foster mother as she got ready to drive away that I had this bad memory and I don’t know how to draw it. So, she asked me what it was. I went on to describe my sexual abuse. Of course, at that time I had no idea what the heck sexual abuse even was. But, my foster mom started crying. That was the first deep moment I think we ever shared. Of course, there was a trial and all that goes with it. But, I don’t care to get into that as it was at the same time as the Tony Toto trial. But, the memories never leave. Eventually, we did get to go home to my mommy. And it was the same day we moved out of state. She wanted a complete fresh start and she got it.

I was 11 years old.

To be continued.....

Save Our Children!! They don't deserve to be abused!