I try to be hopeful, to look forward to the future. I try to tell myself that all my problems are temporary, and that tomorrow is another day. A day to make positive things happen. I try not to feel alone. And I try hard to not cry.

But I fail. At all of it.

Not all the time, but often enough that I know I have a problem. Tonight, as often, I feel like I am getting no where, as if I'm in the same place I was a year ago--even ten years ago. I'm still broke==still overdrawn. Still begging friends for help. Still not able to see daylight. And it never seems to get better.

There are days that once in a while something good happens, and I am momentarily happy. But it seems that those days are becoming less and less often. And all I really want to do is go cry in my bed.

I know I'm probably criminally depressed. And I know that I need to find some kind of help. But one of my issues is that I have no money and I have all kinds of medical bills. I sure don't want to go find another health professional that will make my finances even worse. And my friends sure do not want to listen to me whine and complain. And, as I've always done, I stay silent and pull the pain inside.

I do not blame the incest of my childhood on my current mental depression. But I do know that I learned through the molesting times that I needed to keep some things private, and that I have to solve my own issues. And I think that the process of keeping things to myself has hurt me--but it helped me to find a strength to keep going.

But that strength seems to be sliding away. I try to grab on to it and to hold on to it. But it seems to be getting further and further away.

I did try to find a 12-step kind of group that was based on either depression or incest or childhood abuse. I can't find much. I did find a site that I can write to in snail mail and get some addresses, but I suspect those addresses won't be much more than I can find online.

I can see a logical reason that a 12-step process doesn't work. I don't know that I'm addicted to anything, and that's what the 12 steps are facing...an addication.

So, isn't there a support group out there that doesn't mind listening to whining, complaining people that are so depressed they can't think straight? I guess that wouldn't be too hopeful, huh?

I have to do somehting, though. Or else I will do nothing. Nothing, as in absece of anything. And, in the absence of anything, existence is doubtful. There must be something. Something I can't seem to find tonight.

I will sign off by telling myself to believe that tomorrow is another day...and that life tomorrow will be better than tonight. I have to hope for that.

I'm not sure how to approach a subject that's been on my mind, so I think I'll just write until the words come out. You would think that a child that is the victim of sexual abuse would never want to have a voluntary sexual experience with anyone ever again. But it doesnt' work that way. At least, it didn't work that way for me.

Sure, for a few years, I didn't want anything to do with sex. But, then how many young girls between about 9 and 17 want to have sex? I think there's some out there who are curious, but probably not really ready to "go for it." No, when I finally said "no", the actual intercourse stopped--but the raping continued for a few more years, and I hid from it all whenever I could. He'd grab my breasts, or pull me into a small, hidden area and totally "feel me up," he'd watch me from the ceiling register whenever I entered the bathroom. He was always there, and there was nothing I wanted to do more than to hide from him and all his horrid activities.

But, after I moved with my mother--and he stayed behind--for a few years, I was able to stop hiding. And I started to become a bit more sociable, but I never expected to have a boyfriend. I was overweight, and I was not feeling like I was like any of them. I felt different, and I didn't think any of them would understand me. So I interacted as a person in their midst, but never partook of the complete activity.

And, then, I was waiting on the corner for a bus when a big man stopped and got friendly, talking nicely to me. And he met me there every day after I finished my work. One day I had to make a phone call and told him I couldn't talk because I needed to find a phone. They didn't have cell phones then. He invited me to his place to use his phone, just a couple blocks away. He had been so friendly that I agreed. As I walked with him, I have to admit that I wondered if he would try to encourage a relationship between us. But I never imagined what really happened.

He lived in an old hotel that was being used as "convenience apartments." He immediately showed me the phone, and as I talked, he walked up behind me, put his arms around me and pulled me back against him. After a minute, I relaxed, and then his hands began to caress me. I finished my conversation, and he immediately leaned over my shoulder and asked me if I had ever "done it." I didn't expand, but said only, "yes." I knew he wanted sex, and sex meant nothing to me as far as holding my body sacred and treating it as a temple. My body had been desecrated so many times, I never even hesitated to allow him to take me within minutes. He let his hands continue to caress and wander afterwards, telling me how beautiful I was and how he had dreamed of feeling himself inside me.

After that, each day I would meet him after work. I was under his spell, and I wanted his attention. I wanted to feel beautiful and worth something to someone. And he always told me how much he wanted me and loved me. And those first couple days, to me as a teenager, seemed to be a forever kind of time, and I thought I loved him--and I wanted to please him so very much.

And then things began to change. He knew how much I craved his attention and how much I wanted to please him, and each day he did something that seemed to test my loyalty and my love. Soon, I was pretty much his slave. I needed to sit in a chair, naked, by the bed, facing him so that when he awoke he could see my large breasts and blond hair and blue eyes and make hiim feel good. I would sit there for hours. And then he started having me come into the room, get underessed as soon as I entered, and stand in the entry way until he gave me permission to enter. And then he would tell me how to position myself--and it took no time until he was doing some very nasty things, and I let him. As time went on, there was bondage and painful repercussions if I displeased him. And I still wanted to please him so much. I remember him taking calls that he would tell someone to send "her" down to a certain corner--and that he needed to know how many "girls" that "they" would be expecting. And then he'd hang up, and he'd continue to play with me and tell me how to please him some more--and he'd punish me if I didn't do it right. Then he started to accompany me on the bus to my stop, openly feeling me up in front of everyone. It started to become embarassing, but I still wanted to please him and make him happy. It was only when he started to declare loudly and publicly that we were going to go back to his place and make a baby together that I began to wake up. Suddenly, it was like I was totally turned off. And I refused to see him. He tried to enter our home one night, but the dog scared him off. The next day he came dressed in a tux and a big old black car...and flowers. I wouldn't go with him. And when I saw him at work (where he would sit in the public areas and just watch me) I had to threaten to call the police. Because I was a minor and he was an adult, he finally left me alone--but I walked in fear of seing him around every corner.

With one other experience while in high school, that I might talk about later, I had no other sexual intercourse until I was nineteen years old. And then, in one night, I got pregnant. A month later, not being able to find the father, I began to date indiscriminantly and would sleep with any single man that looked like he'd make a good dad. One night, after meeting a man in a bar and knowing all he wanted was sex and that I had led him to believet hat I would give him sex, I went outside with him. We drove down the road, and out in the middle of nowhere, I got out and provided him with oral sex. And that was that. No more sex until I found a man that cared enough to ask me to marry him. I ended up not marrying him--I found the real father of that baby and my life has been even more miserable ever since. And the nice man that turned me down? He died about ten years later after combining alcohol with prescription drugs. But he was a wonderful man.

When my marriage fell apart a few years later, I was renting from a wonderful man that I love to this day. But he was about thirty years older than me and married--and he was Catholic. He helped me with many, many things--and I would to this day give him anything he wanted. But I didn't let that relationship develop and couldn't let anyone enter my heart. Finally, about ten years down the road, I finally understood that I was using the older man as an excuse to not get involved with anyone else. And I discovered the internet.

I began to use a singles site and met several men. Not necessarily for a long term relationship. I wanted to feel like my body meant something to someone, and I met with men that would enjoy spanking me, or punishing my tits for their pleasure. I wanted my body to feel the pain, to absorb it and know that it was alive.

And then, through another site, I started to meet men for true dates. I went on many dates, not finding anyone that I felt comfortable with. And I finally decided that after the one date I still had scheduled, I would end the search and not worry about men any more. And that's when I met a quiet, shy man that has a good strenth that I can lean on. And he respected my body, and when we finally did go to bed, he began by asking me to "make love to him." And he was so gentle and careful, yet fully knowing what he wanted, that I have never looked at another man. He has some very strong sexual interests, but when we have tried to do anything even a little bit kinky, I think he must feel guilty because he cannot perform in those instances. Over the past five years, he has been my rock and my companion, and I love him dearly. He understands anything I tell him, and he's never judgmental about anyone, or at least he doesn't think so. And he has taught me so much about how normal families work, and how good it is to plan and to have some self control in everything--but to enjoy all that life has to offer.

He is a good man. I wonder why I cannot tell him about any of my sordid past...though I've told him about the internet men I've met, I could never tell him about the incest, about the pain....

I was reading back through some of my posts, and it caught my eye that my perpetrator has never had to pay in Court for his crime. And my mind then took off to wonder why this was not something that was pursued in Court. I did report it a long time later, many years later when my then-husband was told about it and insisted that I report it. The county talked with him, and he had to work with a counselor for a very short time (maybe three months), part of which resulted in an apology to me that was very brief and not too satisfying on my part. I cannot even remember what the details were, except that he did seem to be genuinely sorry at the time. But, now, years later, I know it never really sunk into his head what the real problem was.

And I don't think the county did, either. There must be some kind of rule out there--understandably so--that some issues are family based and can be addressed and resolved without legal action. Apparently incest is one of those situations that need to be examined to see if criminal action is really warranted. And, in this instance, it apparently was not.

It makes me wonder what the difference between a family member being so horrible to me, raping and more (all of which, admittedly, I did not report to the officals), well, what is the difference between him and a stranger or a neighbor doing the horrible things? Why are crimes excused becaue of relationships?

I recall an incident a few years ago at my son's high school where my very large son and another boy (much smaller) were both suspended because the small boy had attaked my son for an innocent comment my son made--and my son tried to walk away about five times, but the smaller boy kept at him and finally forced him to trip over something and almost cause injury to another child. My son took the smaller boy down to the ground and pinned him there simply by holding him (no hitting, no kicking, etc. by my son--he was about two feel bigger and about a hundred pounds heavier than the other boy) until a school bouncer could come and take care of the situation. Both boys agreed that this is what happened--but both boys were suspended for fighting. I thought it was terribly unfair that my son was punished for defending himself and others from this small child that was itching for a big fight--and which my son was not going to participate in. But, because of a zero tolerance in school, my son was suspended for being involved in a fight. And, for the two boys, who were actually friends and spent their suspension playing together and joking around, it was not a big deal.

A short time later, a child was suspended and taken to court because she got angry and knocked over a desk when she stood up too quickly. The school said she was "disturbing the peace" and they didn't want that kind of behavior--and, again, they had zero tolerance for aggressive behavior. The county attorney said they would prosecute because they needed to make an example of the girl.

Why am I talking about this--and I could talk about a lot more--and how does it relate to why my perpetrator was not taken to court when non-family members probably would have been? Well, it seems to me that there are bigger consequences for getting upset in a public situation than there are for terrible injustices done in the privacy of one's own home. And that even when such horrible things are reported, there are no real consequences for the truly guilty--but for those that are accused and inncent, there are great consequences.

I know I'm generalizing, and I know it doesn't make sense. I think maybe part of my frustration lies in the fact that my "innocence" was taken from me and I had no choice by to learn fast how to survive--and all the time, my perpetrator volunteered to participate in a dominating, shaming and power-filled position that hurt another person greatly. I paid the penalty, and he got counseling.

It just doesn't seem fair. And I think about things like statutory rape, and some people I know (in their 30's now, with teenaged children) can't move to the home they want because he is registered as a sex offender and he doesn't want to have to go through all the paperwork and public notices that he thinks he has to do to get a home in their desired neighborhood. His crime? When he was nineteen and his girlfriend was fifteen, her parents pressed charges because they broke up and the parents were mad because their little girl was no longer innocent. The man was found guilty and did a short time in jail--and then was released to marry the girl about eight months later. They've been married almost twenty years now, and he is still paying for his crime.

I hurt back then, and I screamed, and I was ashamed, and I couldn't even sleep or function. I still can't. But, because we were two members of the same family, rather than pursue criminal charges, he got counseling for a couple months. And he is smart, he knows how to manipulate people. I have no doubt that he said all the right things to make his counseling as short as he could possibly make it. In my mind, he got off scott-free. And I paid the penalty.

I keep coming back to the thought that justice needs to be served, but not through the social services programs. And not through local officials that can't tell the difference between criminals and good members of the community. I want my perpetrator to truly understand the horrible nature of his crime, and all the horrible things that have transcended time and continued into my life today, more than thirty years later. And I want to know that he knows the truly horrible things he's done. I don't want some counselor to call me and tell me of this wonderful man's progress--and I don't want an empty apology. I want to see results that make me feel better.

I think maybe I want him to make me whole again. For him to give me back all the goodness that was in me. I want him to wipe out all the bad things he did, and I want him to be that wonderful person I thought he was when I still had my innocence. And, no matter how hard they try, neither the courts, the counselors nor social services can ever figure out how he can do that, how he can make me whole again.

I keep thinking about him and how unfair this all is--how he got away with criminal activity because he was part of my family. And I want everyone to wind back time and tell me it's all going to be good, the way life is supposed to be for every little girl.

I think, for me to feel right and whole and good, I'm going to have to stop concerning myself about him and how unfair life is when you compare him to me--and I need to think about only me, not him. But, after all these years, I think that's easier said than done.

Today I pondered on why I have such difficulty breaking out and finding good friends. I read that today people are becoming socially isolated, and we have fewer friends than ever before. Most people have an average of two friends, other than their spouse. This is down from three of ten years ago. And apparently that's fewer than ten years before that.

And I thought about people on my street and how many I know. I know none. I know some of their names, and even nod to them if I see them in the grocery store. But none visit me, and I don't visit them. I'd be ashamed if they did visit me. My house is broken down and pretty scummy. It's the oldest house on the road. And I am the poorest person on the road, and I just don't have the social status that anyone else does. I don't think I ever will because I just don't have the energy to keep the house as well as most would.

And I never have lived in a nice house with people who cared enough to take care of their homes. Now, I try. I really do. But I just can't do any more than to vaccuum and wash dishes and do the laundry. There's no energy left to do more, to go beyond that. And, if I did have energy, there's no money to fix all the things that need to be done.

But money doesn't fix much. Not when secrets are involved. Not when all your life you've kept things to yourself, even the things that weren't secret. My mother was mentally ill, and we kids knew not to mention all the things that were going on in our house to anyone, anywhere. She loved us and we loved her. And we would not betray that love, so we didn't talk about the way things were in our house.

True, some of it was pretty obvious. Our clothes were not too clean, and we took a bath as infrequently as we could. At least the younger ones of us that didn't know more than to just let our mom sleep and not bother to try to keep things clean when the filth was piled too high to get it even halfway clean with even the greatest of effort that a child can give. And the older ones knew how to wear clean clothes, so the teachers were never sure how to react--or at least that was my take.

I tried to believe the teachers cared--and I would share with them the hurt I felt when other kids made fun of me. And then, when I was really getting feisty and telling both my classroom teach and my music teacher how hurtful it was, both of them turned to me and told me that they couldn't help me because I was too dirty and the other children would always make fun of me if I didn't keep clean. That hurt. Very much. I never wanted to go to school again. And I didn't want to talk to the other kids, or the teachers. I just wanted to stay home and be alone. And so I pretended to be sick...and it was easy. The schoolwork was easy. I'd miss a week and make all the work done before I finished school on the day I returned. I really hated to go to school.

And then we moved when I went into high school. A bigger school in a big metropolitan area. I did better--and I knew to try to keep as clean as possible. Still, I was not the social butterfly because the house was still filthy and my family was on welfare. We just didn't fit in with the people around us. So I just concentrated on school and getting ahead with different afterschool activities that didn't involve popularity. But I never spoke of the conditions in my home, and I never invited the kids to my home.

And I still don't.

One day, I will be able to share my life. I have never learned to budget money, or keep a clean house (but it's cleaner than my childhood home was), but I earn a decent living now. I am in debt, but if I could get child support, I'd be fine that way. And I think I will, soon. I have to hope for that.

But, maybe, to get ahead, I'll need to start sharing my secrets.

I just noticed I didn't mention the biggest secret. The secret of pain and shame. And that is natural for me, to keep it in. To block it out and not mention it. Even amongst all he horrible conditions, that one part of my life, I keep even more secret. And I don't know how I'll ever share that secret, or if it will help. But at least I"m writing it here, and maybe that's a start.

I watched a "chick flick" yesterday in which a man with amnesia was beginning to remember some horrific memories, and the psychologist that was working with him was beginning to see some clues as to the complete situations. The subject asked the psychologist whether a person who had been traumatized by something like rape or terrible abuse in their childhood would be the same person if that action had never occurred. The response was that the "core" of the person never changes. The theme of this fictional movie was that an amnesiac that seemed to be the most well-adjusted, intelligent person had actually been a very horrible person prior to the amnesia--and eventually returns to that same behavior.

It made me wonder whether a good person that is horribly abused will ever return to being the same person after the abuse--or is it possible the abuse or traumatic even makes that person into a whole new person? And, in addiiton, I wonder if the young child who is molested has developed enough of a personality to "return" to a good personality--or would that personality develop in such a way that, as an adult, the entire personality will need to be redirected into a new personality that never existed before?

I know people that a single event seems to dominate their entire world for the rest of their lives. A single, horrible event that perhaps takes only minutes can so traumatize that person so that they never seem the same again. But, really, are they different? Did they always have a tendency to lend great importance to different incidents in their lives and, now that a truly dramtic and significant event has occurred, their previous tendency now just focuses on the one event and--with that event taking such precedent in their mind--there is no room to let another event into their thought pattern?

Others have major, horrible events that take place over months and years, and they seem to adapt those events into their lives and continue as if it was just another part of life--and it is time to move on to another day. They never seem to look back, and their lives continue as if uninterrupted by such trauma.

Of course, there had to be some kind of response in their lives at the time of the incident. In the privacy of their own personal space if not in the public eye. There must have been some kind of review of facts, and then there had to be some kind of conclusion and a plan--formal or informal--to go forward, to continue their lives.

But how is that plan created? Why do some never recover from the trauma and others just seem to brush it off?

I think a large part of it is the way the person views the world and their relationship with others, and the personality of those other peoples and the influences those personalities have on the traumatized person. If you live in a world where your peers largely depend on the interaction of others, placing a priority in their activities on the way their personal actiona will affect others and their reaction to your action, then I suspect that the traumatizing effect will be a dominant factor for a long time in your life. The people around you will never let you forget it, and the mind will continue to work at the problem, and you will continually repeat it in your head until it never leaves your thoughts.

For others, who base their actions less on others' reactions and usually act independently of their peers, I suspect they will continue to act much as they always have--to follow their regular activities and not worry too much about how others react to themselves. With their actions continuing without constant reference to the trauma, the people that interact with the traumatized person will not continue to focus on that trauma, and that will not encourage the traumatized person to return to the horrible action and replay it in their mind time and time again. And this will reduce the number of vocalizations on the subject so that eventually it seems to onlookers that the person has escaped unscathed from the trauma.

But, just because the vocalizations aren't heard, does that mean the traumatization didn't cause change in that person? Is it that person's behavior to not comment, but the thoughts return again and again and--just as before the trauma, their every though was not expressed--those thoughts are not regularly expressed.

Then, as the vocalizations slow down, the surrounding activity that forces a forward action in all the daily activities eventually invade the thought processes of the traumatized person so that recollections and reactions to the trauma are reduced to a buried memory as time continues. Is it possible that this is the basis for those people that continue their lives as if nothing happens, and then one thing will bring that memory out from under all the other thoughts, and that memory will urge more introspective thoughts--and examination of the horrible nature of the traumatic even that is buried in the past? And does the depth of the burial within all the other daily activities and thoughts make it difficult to bring them to the top--but all the little attempts to bring the horrible thoughts up actually stir up all the thoughts since then--and before then--in trying to isolate that horrible time into a logical manner of reasoning? And perhaps that attempt to find some sense of it all begins to dominate the person's thoughts and, though they do not vocalize the problem, the isolated attempts to find the trauma result in activities that are distracting from the tasks at hand? And that is why, as some people try to recall the horrible events of their lives, they are miserable and they make those around them miserable.

Does it ever all stay buried? Is thee ever so many new activities and new thoughts that the original memory of trauma never rears its ugly head, and that person continues in ignorance of all the horrible reactions thay are supposed to have? It would seem likely that this could occur. So, in these instances, should those around them who know of the trauma push for them to recall the traumatic event? Should they push for that person to remember a time--and react to that time--that was so horrible that they buried it so far they never think of it?

I think not--for most people. If the memory will cause harm in an otherwise placid life, let the memory lie.

But, if the person seems to be all over the place, without being able to figure out specific plans or reasons for different actions--or maybe there are discrepancies in thoughts and ideas that don't make sense to anyone, and those thoughts and ideas cause negative situations--then perhaps we need to push for an examination of our thoughts, of the reasons that our minds cannot find peace and confidence in every decision.

I find myself examining my past and trying to make sense of it--and in this blog, I am trying to determine what effect incest has had on my life. And I think it is helping me to review my life and the world as I have affected it. But, now, I wonder whether this is beyond my introspective initiative--perhaps I need professional guidance, a counselor that can help me sort all this out. And I wish I could afford such a professional.

Until then, I will continue to blog introspectively.