Before long my muse was my pain and frustration as I began to write. When my mom came everything happened so fast. I ran for the bathroom as he ran outside. Time seemed to stand still as I sat alone with my thoughts.
Without warning the door to the bathroom burst open and there she stood with anger in her eyes.
“What are you doing?� she asked as she stood at the door.
“Going to the bathroom.�
“When you get done I want to talk to you.�
After I finished I did go back and she did talk to me, in a very loud voice. She accused me of enticing him and then she made me get down on my knees and ask God’s forgiveness
Which I did, but only because she was the parent and I was a scared child. She then left me to my own thoughts while soothing the one who did this.
Days later when nothing was said I thought things had died down. That was until she ‘suggested’ we go for a drive. Before long we were pulling into a church parking lot. Inside was a psychologist waiting to talk to me. After talking to me, he learned the truth when his first words were “So why did you entice this sixty-five year old?�

After he finished talking to me he talked to my mom again and before long we left. My guess, he told her the truth because I never went back to see him.
Over the next few weeks and years, things only got worse as he soon moved in and I no longer had the freedom of leaving his house and going home and to my room. He was allowed to move in and my daily nightmare was now a hell I could no longer escape.
No matter what I did or accomplished it was all dashed and before long I was giving up and all I thought about was getting out. But I didn’t know how. But I was not going to be hushed. So until I could think of something I had to play nice.
Before long I got good at zoning out just waiting for the right moment to strike, which I did –at seventeen. But by then it was too late. The damage had already done and getting back apart of who I am deep down inside would take time. When I was seventeen, I went on a trip to my aunts who was a social worker and the only one I trusted, when I got there I told her and that was the beginning of the end, of both my life and my abuse. When I got home long story short because too many people knew about it, my mom had to leave him. And I was forever the black sheep of the family. But I didn’t care. I was able to finally stop the abuse, now it was time for a long road of healing and dealing.

Stay tuned for the third part of this story, statistics of child abuse.