Let burn in hell: I was molested father
My history Anastasia Bortnikova tells.
Childhood
My parents are programmers. Mom met dad at MSU: she studied at the Faculty of Mathematics, and he - at the physics department. I was born when my mother was twenty; shortly before this, they got married, and it seems to me that they did not plan a child. When I was three years old, my mother only wrote a diploma. She never graduated from MSU: it was a difficult ninety-second year, I had to go to Volgograd, to visit relatives who could help with the children.
Most recently, I learned that before mom my father had another wife. She spent a year with him and ran away, unable to bear the pressure. The last straw, from her words, was the episode when she ran into the break between lectures at the dormitory to warm up his lunch: “I put everything on the table, poured tea, put sugar and did not stir. He said: it doesn’t stir me sugar in tea. ”I said,“ Well, I don’t need it - I went, ”she gathered and left, and never returned." She showed her wedding photos, and also said that after her mother once went to a psychiatric hospital - it seems that with a nervous breakdown.
When I was three years old, I had a brother. We moved again, this time to Astrakhan. They lived in poverty, in a wooden house with a crooked floor, in which there were mice, a gas stove, and homemade sewage. As a child, I did not attach much importance to this, but now I am very angry when I think about it. How can you have children in such conditions?
Recently, we met with my brother. Now he is twenty-one, he is agnostic, and he also rethought many things from our childhood. He shared an important thought with me: how hypocritical was our family
At some point, parents became interested in Orthodoxy. We began to pray before the meal and after it, we fasted strictly, went to church services every Sunday, and then my brother and I went to Sunday school. Every summer we were sent to an Orthodox children's camp at the Anatoly Garmayev School. On the Internet, it is called a sect.
I was a very reserved child, up to the age of sixteen I had almost no friends. The family made many demands on my studies, and at school I was a typical nerd: I was charged off, I was teased, teased for their appearance. In the seventh grade there was a case: in the lesson the teacher asked who we want to become. “Actress,” “seller,” “president,” everyone said, but after a pause I seriously said: “Nun.” It was a mistake that I regretted for a long time.
Later, two more children were born in our family - my brother and sister. There are four of us. Then I went to study in St. Petersburg, and now I live and work in Moscow. I would never return to Astrakhan. Recently, we met with my brother. Now he is twenty-one, he is agnostic, and he also rethought many things from our childhood. He shared with me an important thought: how our family was hypocritical. No matter how bad it was, everyone always smiled and pretended that everything was wonderful. Everyone pretended nothing was happening.
Father
My father, to put it mildly, is a very conservative person. In the house he was the sole owner, and all decisions needed to be coordinated with him. I remember how we went to the market to buy clothes and always worried about whether dad would like it. If you did not like it, it was impossible to wear it.
If he was offended at something — and he was often offended — the whole family went on tiptoe around the house. I don’t remember being beaten, but the emotional pressure is the worst. I remember how he screamed, mom cried, and then wiped her tears and returned to the mode of submission and self-irony. I remember how often he spoke condemningly about her food, despite the fact that her mother alone cooked, cleaned the house, took care of the children, and worked in parallel.
One day my mother told a story: it was late evening, winter, and my father never returned from work. Mom was worried, called her grandmother, and she suggested: "Maybe he is a girl what?" “It would be better for a girl than on the street,” said her mother. “But he feels good and warm there.” Sometimes he got drunk. Once I came home very drunk, right before the evening train to another city. Mom screamed and slapped his cheeks.
He seemed to consider all of us as his property. We even talked with him about it, and he said that before the wedding, every woman belongs to her father, and after - to her husband. Nobody appreciated personal space either, the doors to the rooms could not be closed. In the tenth grade, I accidentally found a place in the city that I dreamed of all my childhood - the shipbuilding circle. We made ships and swords from wood, shot at targets in the backyard, and in the spring we planned to go on a trip on a yacht. These were two weeks of my utter happiness. And then dad found out about it. He forbade me to go there under the pretext that I need to prepare for the exam.
How it all began
I was eight years old when my father first molested me, or it was the first time that I remember - my mother went on a business trip to another city. “I’m lonely, let’s you sleep in bed with me today,” said papa. I went to bed - it was huge and did not creak at all, like mine, and there was no need to climb to the second floor. "How cool," I thought. And then he hugged me and climbed into my panties. I didn’t understand what was happening, I was horrified, I whispered that I would tell everything to my mother, and then I ran to my room. But my mother returned, and I still did not dare to tell her.
Now, after a while, I sometimes think about why I didn’t talk to her then. It seemed too scary and embarrassing. It seems that I even said in passing that he behaved badly while she was not there, but she did not clarify the details. Later, I read articles on child abuse. Many agree that the mother should notice a change in the behavior of her child. And if she does not see them, perhaps she does not want to see. I do not know if this is true, but it is difficult for me to forgive her for the fact that she did not protect me. In addition, such cases were repeated.
This did not happen very often. The memory of these moments is very fragmentary, and for a long time I kept it deep inside of me - probably, this is how the defense mechanisms of the psyche work. Sometimes in moments of doubt, I thought: what if there was nothing?
Almost everyone gets lost, not knowing what to say. People understand that a child cannot agree on such things, cannot provoke such behavior.
I am ten, we go to the bath, because there is no hot water at home, and my mother goes somewhere, and my father washes me. I feel ashamed and unpleasant that he touches me everywhere. “What are you ashamed of?” He says, smiling. “I'm your dad.”
I am fifteen, and we go on vacation with the whole family. Father drinks and asks if I can kiss. Promises to teach. I am disgusted. I don't want to talk to him. At such moments I felt a mixture of fear, misunderstanding, contempt and shame.
At seventeen, I read the story of Charles de Lint "In my enemy's house" and immediately recognized myself in it. It was a very strong impression. It seems that the first time I felt so much anger for the first time. "Someone from the visitors wrote in the book of reviews at the exhibition:" I will never forgive those responsible for what they have done to us. I don’t even want to try. " I, too"".
Conversation
The first person I told my story after many years was my psychologist, the next one is my close friend. I was very lucky, they made me feel that they understand and support, so I began to believe more in my emotions. This is a topic that is not usually talked about. And I really wanted to hear the reaction of people whom I trust, to see everything from the side. Is this really a terrible situation? Or is it nonsense, because nothing really bad has come to anything? It was as if I could not assess this situation myself.
I talked with my mother about what happened only last year - it was a correspondence. I found the strength to do this because I have a younger sister and I didn’t want something like that to happen to her. I made a promise from my mother that she would talk with her sister on this topic. She even sent her good articles, like this one. Mom believed me, but I didn’t quite understand her reaction. It seems to me that she was amazed, but I don’t know if she never really knew about it, considering that she has been living with this man for twenty-five years.
I do not know how exactly the conversation of the parents ended, but I know that the father did not deny anything. A few days later he sent me a message with a single phrase: "People never change for the better through hate"
I do not know how exactly the conversation of the parents ended, but I know that the father did not deny anything. A few days later he sent me a message with a single phrase: "People never change for the better through hate, condemnation or sentence. We change through forgiveness, love and faith in our own strength." Yes, let it burn in hell.
Now I do not communicate with any of the relatives. I feel that I do not have the strength and desire for this. It was as if I had raised an internal barrier in myself that protects me from what is unsafe and can harm me. I do not trust relatives and do not want to tell them information about my life. And I still feel a lot of resentment and anger. Maybe someday I can let it go, but now I have little faith in it.
I love my little sister very much. I even had thoughts to take her to Moscow, to pull her out of this terrible place. But this is a crazy idea: I understand that I cannot take responsibility for raising a teenager. Most recently, we met up with a brother who is currently studying in the magistracy of Moscow State University. Suddenly I found a like-minded person in it. I'm glad that in many things he agrees with me. I think we will continue to communicate.
People
Of course, I do not tell people my story immediately upon meeting. Sometimes, when it comes to my childhood and my parents, I carefully say that this is a difficult topic. But often I say bluntly that we do not communicate and I broke off relations with them. At such moments, people are very easy to convict me. I do not know who they represent in their head, looking at me, but many are starting to read morality. Do you know what I think about this? For me, there is no one more than parents.
Sometimes I tell people how it was. That father pestered me when I was a kid. Usually, people immediately change their faces. Almost everyone gets lost, not knowing what to say. It seems to me that in the case of pedophilia, victim labeling is less than usually happens in stories about violence. People understand that a child cannot agree on such things, cannot provoke such behavior. But the very topic of sexual abuse in the family towards children is very taboo. People are afraid to talk about it, it's hard to admit even to yourself, not to discuss with others. For me, this is a sign that I need to say.
When the flashmob began on Facebook, I’m afraid to say, I decided to write an open post. Friend support was very valuable. Sometimes it hurts me so much that I cannot bear to even bear the name of this person. All childhood memories, all the music that sounded in our house, as if poisoned. I look in the mirror, recognize his features, and I want to take a knife and cut my face.
All childhood memories, all the music that sounded in our house, as if poisoned. I look in the mirror, recognize his features, and I want to take a knife and cut my face
Last year I drank antidepressants and now, under the supervision of a doctor, I reduce the dose in order to completely stop taking the pills. But I have the strength, energy, joy, I like my life, the feeling of inner freedom and the kind of person I become in time. In my life there is great sex and adequate men. True, I find it a little difficult to trust people. To ask for help, to believe that you can truly love me - I do not feel that I deserve it. I am afraid of repeated violence and nervously turn around when I walk down the street and hear footsteps behind me. I am worried about my own family, perhaps children. Can I love if the concept of love is embedded in me in a distorted way? Sometimes it seems to me that giving birth to a child is irresponsible. I do not know how to protect him from danger and at the same time give him freedom. I do not want my child to ever come to me and say: "Mom, I do not want to live." And with me it was.
At that time, it would be useful for me to read about the fact that such stories happen to others - in order to know that I am not alone and that I have the right to feel what I feel. But I had nothing to read. So I decided to write myself. And I also want to tell my story in order to free myself from it.
