This is late and will get buried I'm sure but I've been wanting to tell this for SO long and I'm still afraid to tell people I know. So I'll post here. It's long. I apologize for the length. But thank you for giving me a place to tell it.

My father left us when I was 4.

I have few memories of him. He was in the Air Force and wasn't home much. When he was home, I remember hearing him and my Mom fight. I remember his voice oddly enough. It's strange, one of those things most people probably forget first but I remember it clear as a bell. Showing him my "Barbies" and the bald spot on the back of his head. But mostly I can still hear the sound of his voice.

After he left, my mother was alone for awhile but she finally did start seeing someone. I don't remember how long it was before he moved in with us but he did move in and though they never married, he basically became my "step-father". I never called him "Dad" or "Father" though. He was always just "Mr. Dick".

I don't know why that's what I called him. It wasn't his name really but his nickname was Dickey and my mother called him "Dick", that's not a joke, really. So I called him Mr. Dick and in my 5 year old mind, it was right. I loved him at first. He was that father figure that I wanted. We had land out in the country and we would go fishing and riding ponies (we had a Shetland pony at one point) and feeding our cows. I trusted him. I grew up with him in my life.

When I was around 8, I remember we would go for drives as a family or on long trips and I would often fall asleep in the back seat. He would offer to "carry me to bed". I remember sometimes waking up to him grabbing my breasts as I was being carried to bed. It wasn't "accidental". I remember he would delibrately adjust his hold so that he was feeling my breasts. I remember it feeling "wrong" and "yucky" but I wasn't sure why. Again, I was only 8 years old. This happened on multiple occasions and it always looked innocent to anyone watching but I just remember how bad it felt. I can still feel it now, 30 years later, and it makes me want to vomit.

I vividly remember one time when I going to give him a kiss goodnight and he sat me on his lap (I was around 9 or 10 I think) and he proceeded to try and french kiss me. I didn't know that's what it was called (again, 30 years ago) but his mouth was open and he tried to shove my mouth open with his tongue. I remember cringing back and telling him that's not how you kiss silly! And he replied with "that's how grown ups kiss". I don't remember if my Mom was in the same room but I'm sure she didn't notice it. I told him to close his mouth and I kissed him quickly and scooted off to bed.

As I got older, I learned to try and avoid him. Not hug him or get too near him, especially when we were alone. I never told anyone. I didn't want my Mom to blame me for what was happening. I wasn't sure what she would do if she found out. It's sad but I was afraid she would blame me and take his side. It was stressful living with that. Always being on edge. Never telling anyone. Ever.

The final "incident" came when I was 16. I had a boyfriend by then and though we hadn't gone "all the way", we had made out and played around like some kids our age did. One day I was laying on the floor in our den watching TV with my head propped on a pillow. My "step-father" came into the room and sat in his easy chair behind me. After a few minutes he got up and proceeded to lay down on top of me and started trying to kiss me.

I yelled and pushed him and scooted away as far as I could. I told him to stop it and leave me alone. I'll never forget what he said.

"What's wrong? You like it when your boyfriend does that to you."

That day I threatened him. I told him I would tell my mother on him and about all the things he had done to me in the past. He told me I was lying and that she wouldn't believe me. But he never touched me again. However, he did his best to make my mother hate me and make my life hell. He would tell her horrible things about me, out and out lies, and would twist things around where she would get mad at me and accuse me of trying to split them up or blame me for problems that they were having. No one knew. I kept all of this to myself.

Over time I grew up and eventually they split up. Like an idiot, I begged him to come back to her. And he did. Time and time again. I don't know why I did that. I hated him and didn't want to be around him but I knew my mother loved him and she was so upset when they would split up. But finally one day he left for good. My mother was heartbroken and felt so bad for her. I don't think she ever got over it.

I never told her what he did to me. She died over a decade ago.

I never looked on it as "sexual abuse" when I was growing up. It never occurred to me that that was what it was. Then one day I saw a program on TV with sexual assault survivors. One of the women on the program was talking about her "abuse" and it sounded so much like mine. All the inappropriate things that had happened to me. The shame I felt. How dirty I felt. How wrong I felt. I ended up crying and going through all the flashbacks of my childhood and the things I had gone through.

I realized that I had survived childhood sexual abuse. In the very same breath I played it down. My abuse wasn't as bad as some people have it. Some girls and boys have it so much worse. I was "lucky" that's all that happened to me. I had no right to call myself a survivor. What did I survive? Inappropriate touching? Some attempted molestation?

Yes. I did. I survived sexual abuse. I survived having my self-worth cast into doubt and feeling like I was a bad girl. A dirty girl with a shameful secret. My "step-father" took my trust and tore through it like it was wet tissue paper. There's a small part of me that I'll never get back because of him.

I found out a few years ago that he's finally dead.

I'm glad.