"When trouble comes we tend to lean harder on our Daddy God, realising that we just can’t “do life" without Him, and recognising His sovereignty in our lives. God isn’t above reminding us of these things."
I don’t remember exactly when the abuse started, however my first memory of “things that weren’t quite right” was as a 8 year old and not long after we moved to Australia. It was a strangely impressionable memory, given the nature of the experience, and would also be the type of experience that set the style to come. It happened one night when Mum was doing a late shift at the hospital and I was ‘safely tucked in bed’ at home with my new father minding me. Not an unusual occurrence as Mum often did the late shifts. I’ll never forget the feeling, even though I was quite young, for I woke up with a start and looked up to see him sitting on the side of the bed looking down at me. I remember specific details about that moment so clearly, so I knew instantly that I was not dreaming. The door was ajar and so the hall light illuminated the orange and yellow wallpaper patterns and cast light onto my furniture and the profile of this man. The fan which was standing at the foot of my bed droned familiarly and the white sheet that barely covered my half naked body was kicked off to the side as it so often was during those hot summer nights. Without a word he placed something under my nose and I felt a sickening sensation race through my body before I passed out unconscious. I think he had hoped that I would completely forget about waking up at all but it was to be that memory relayed in later years that sparked off alarm bells with those I confided in.
This man was not just a child molester, he was a child molester that took full advantage of his position as a doctor.
Consequently his style was hard to detect, prove and even remember although there were many occasions when he slipped up and slowly but surely I began to register what he was doing. Often he would say to me “Its all right Becky, I’m allowed, remember I’m a Doctor”. Or “Trust me Becky, I'm your father, I love you and when you love someone this is ok”. Those were the two most frequently used lines. Said often enough they began to sink into my childlike mind and set firmly within my consciousness. However my unconscious mind or I guess it may have been my spirit, never quite swallowed the bait. I was 15 years old when I decided to confide in my friends and then finally my mother. 7 long years of torment - half of which, I was forced to spend alone with this man as he and my mother had long since divorced. I was told by police that if this case ever made it to court it probably wouldn't find him guilty due to lack of evidence amongst other things. I didn't want to face him anyway, so buried my head deep within the sands of disassociation.
I lived this way for several years, and as time went by, instead of facing the pain and working it out, I learnt how to push it deep down inside. Nobody really knew or understood what this kind of hurt was cultivating within me. Those who paid close enough attention were privy to some spectacular manifestations and previews, as every now and then I would erupt under the enormous pressure. But even then, those who witnessed it felt more comfortable putting that down to typical teenage behaviour.
Sometimes teenagers are just being teenagers.......but sometimes there is a little more to it than just that!
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