Daddy

I always wondered why my father never called me or wrote (in the 80's) as a teen.

I also wondered why I cried so uncontrollably at his funeral with only a couple of people there. The few that were there looked quizzically at me.

This unfortunate memory of early childhood abuse by my father - sexual abuse as a toddler - is new news to me as of 2020. During the thick of my torture at the hand of my captor, the suppressed memories came into light like floodgates opening.

I’ve read other peoples accounts of early childhood abuses. Survivors weren’t given tools by which most make a “normal” life from. In the 70’s we were punished and demeaned for our obvious and clear signs of abuse in the home. Most of us would be in jail or prison for the acts our own families inflicted upon us. when I say “us” I am referring to adults that lived with the unthinkable. We were helpless, impressionable, precious children. The norm was to hide it and keep it in the family. I was told that I ”fell against the fireplace” and treated with Thorazine. (An early anti-psychotic, largely replacing lobotomy, electroconvulsive therapy, hydrotherapy and insulin shock therapy in the 1950-60’s)

Thorazine was initially given to me in the hospital as a toddler for uncontrollable hysteria, both laughing and crying. I was there for a laceration next to my eye. I still have that scar today.

I’m sure that medication was also given to me longer-term in efforts to wipe my memory about the abuse altogether. My parents were good friends with a doctor/ neighbor and his wife at the time. No rules existed then.

That was also about the time I was taught “Children should not be seen or heard“.

I know I’m not the only one. On all accounts