Whispersfrommyheart's Blog

I was afraid of him. Even though his three daughters were my friends, I didn’t like him, and I certainly didn’t like to be alone with him. My father worked with *John aboard the USS John King. I was 7 or 8 years old when we lived in Norfolk, Virginia.

“I don’t want to spend the night.” I told his oldest daughter the evening they had dinner at my parent’s house. I thought it was settled until my father told me to get my stuff when they were ready to go.

My eyes widened with fear. I could hear my heart pounding. “I don’t want to.” I told my father. Silently, I plead with my father to understand my words. Don’t make me go there!

“Why don’t you want to go?” My father asked.

“I just don’t want to. I want to stay home.” I told him.

“That’s not a reason.” My father told me, “Go get your stuff.”

“No!” I screamed running from the living room. “I don’t want to, please don’t make me go!” Fear had taken over.

I had to think fast.

I can’t go.

He can’t get me.

I have to stay home.

“Cheryl Ann!” My father yelled at me. “What is wrong with you? Go get your stuff. It’s already settled and you are going, now stop acting like a baby!”

That night, John snuck into his daughters’ bedroom. I heard the floor creak and instantly my body is rigid with fear. I begin pleading with God to save me from this monster.

His footsteps are closer. “Oh God help me please! Don’t let him come and hurt me!” I screamed in the silence of my mind. I couldn’t breathe. My heart was pounding so hard.

“Pretend you are asleep” I told myself as I felt his weight on the bottom bunk. “Oh God,” I cried, “Please stop him!”

He didn’t.

John began his assault on me while his wife slept across the hall, and his daughters slept in the bunks above me.

He raped me.

When I cried out from the pain, he hurried out of the room and back to his wife’s bed. I limped to the bathroom and locked the door. My privates burned. I checked to see if I was bleeding. I slumped to the floor holding myself; tears falling; willing the pain to go away. I wanted my mom, but I was too afraid to call home. After the earlier fiasco, I was afraid I would make my father mad.

A knock on the door provided a friendly voice. His daughter heard what happened. She was sorry her dad hurt me. Another knock struck fear in my heart. Her father told us we had had enough fun for one night, it was time to go to bed.

He got away with it.

The next day his wife went to work and we put on our bathing suits to swim. His daughters begged me to ask him for soda. “He won’t let us have it, but if you ask, he will let you have it.” They told me. “He likes you, so he will give you whatever you want.”   I finally gave in to their pleading. He went to the door and told his daughters to stay outside, that when I was finished I would bring the drinks outside. He had me pour the soda while he molested me underneath my suit bottoms.  It was surreal that a grown man was getting off while I poured Pepsi into four glasses, like nothing was out of the ordinary was taking place.  

He did apologize for hurting me.

There was no other repentance.

From the time I was 7 or 8, until I turned 15, I was molested and raped by 8 different men and boys. It didn’t matter how far from the original abuser my parents moved. Somehow, there was always someone waiting to pick up where the other on left off. I began to believe that men’s sexual gratification was the reason I was born. My cross to bear. No wonder I was mad at God! No wonder I was depressed! No wonder I wanted to hurt men before they hurt me! Now it all made perfect sense.

Now what?

How do I begin to overcome sexual abuse? How do I trust God again when I blame him?