The Nightmares

SO where was I…

Oh yes, I was a rebellious child. Not the type that drank, or snuck out of the house late at night. Not the violent or mean kid. I had a mouth; I had a very stubborn streak. The type of stubborn that would drive anyone nuts. I would live to disprove my mother and father. I would speak out of turn and say the most brutally honest thing I could think of, I was harsh. I still am to this day and would rather speak the truth than not speak up at all.

But things were changing and that’s when hey took a turn…

The nightmares.

So life was pretty good at my age. I felt loved and, somewhat normal minus the drama. I started having the nightmares when I was about 10 or 11. I don't remember exactly what they were, but I remember waking up terrified and screaming. I remember seeing how man in my house in the dreams, and he was touching me, and it didn't make me feel very good. I could see the tablecloth and the people in the house. I could smell the room, and I knew it was my house, and I was younger. I was wearing a dress, so I had to been younger. I started stressing and stopped sleeping or eating. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know if they were just dreams. But this man in my dream was touching me in places I knew were wrong.

At the same time I started learning the piano and singing more and my mom took me to voice lessons weekly. I loved singing. I was very shy about it, so my mom put me into a children's choir. I always loved music in general. I think music and singing and writing saved my life. I had a four octave rang at that age and wish I would have done more with my talent.

The dream is back again, same dream over and over same house. Same touching, and I still wasn't sleeping. I started getting angry and acting out with rage, and was in so much pain. My parents decided to take me to a therapist and from their hypnotist. The doctors would take me through my dream over and over again. And we finally figured out who the man was in the dream. I started withdrawing from everything. I started getting really angry because I didn't know why the dreams were happening to me. Or how I was supposed to feel was it my fault was a bad? I thought maybe I was going to hell for the dreams. There was something sexual about them and like I told you before, I was not comfortable with my body, so I was not sure how to feel. My best friend at that age 11. He was my mother's best friends, son. I look to him to protect my friend and me. So one day at the doctors, while you're going through the dream I had him save me from this evil man. And I felt better I let go of it, but it didn't let go of me.

My body was continuing to change and my breasts were starting to get big. I was all ready, a C cup and the other girls noticed. They torment from the other girls was enough to make anyone want to die. On top of which I was having issues with the nightmares and trouble relating to other children my age. My mother and I started to argue more and more it would get violent. The other kids in the house hated me. I was always causing problems and arguing with my parents. This all began to spin out of control and I did not understand what was happening.

The doctors told me I'd been molested, and I did nothing wrong, but sometimes when you're a pretty girl, people who are sick, and touch you in bad ways.

How do you deal with that when you are 11 years old? How do you understand evil in the world at that age, when you've never known evil?
I don't remember my father ever talking to me about it. I can't imagine how it felt for him to know his little girl was hurt like that. I don't know if I ever really dealt with it. If I've ever really healed and as for my mother she didn't deal with me. She was on a mission to hang a person who hurt me. My mother and I started fighting more and more. The fighting got so violent, and so out of control. We'd hit each other and the kids would all run into a room and hide.

I was so sad and so ashamed. I was confused why my mother didn't love me anymore. Why she hit me when I told her my secrets, and I told the doctors my nightmares, and now, they were hitting me for it. They hated me for it and I thought maybe I did do something wrong. I started writing at this point. It was only way I could deal with everything. My first entry in my journal like this:

The small girl standing by the windowpane would love to go outside and play. But she can't run laugh or play this little girl is waiting to die someday. Yet she has already died, and doesn't even try and stay alive. The pain on the outside does not compare to the pain left on the inside. The bruises the welts the scars or cuts do not compare to the painful tears she cries. The way they hurt her with the swift hand or fast belt will heal some day, but the deep wounds in her heart from the words of hate will eat away at her childhood dreams and memories until they slowly disappear inside a child without any dreams fears or feelings at all because someone did not care enough to say. You did nothing wrong, so she feels it is all her fault for something she never did for a crime she never committed. So she sits there at the windowpane, waiting for some kind of change and will never see the day when the bruises go away.