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My name is not Franki. It is Lisa. I will be changing it soon, legally, to Franki, and I will be taking a new last name, because I do not want to carry Sperm Donor's name for the rest of my life. Sperm Donor, or SD as I fondly refer to him, is my father, Raymond, but in sperm only. This is a man who should have been castrated at birth, not circumcised. While I was growing up, he was always around, except when the Navy took him out to sea. When he was out to sea, I could be happy. I could be peaceful. I could be normal. When he was home, things were less than the perfect family life crap that people in the outside world saw.

When I was 8, my mom gave birth to my youngest brother. The night he was born, SD was not out to sea. Unfortunately. He came home from the hospital late that evening, picked me up from the neighbor's house, began telling me about my new brother, and suggested I sleep in his bed with him. My daddy was the man I trusted most in this world. ANY 8 year old girl should be able to trust her daddy the most. I was a normal, healthy child with normal healthy needs for acceptance, and closeness and love and affection. He took advantage of my natural trust. He used my trust. He brutalized my trust. He broke my trust, although at the time, I didn't understand what happened.

That night, lying in bed with my father, listening to stories of this new baby, MY new brother, coming to live with us, and things we would do as a family, I was molested in my parents' bed, by my father. He molested me. He sexually abused me. He committed incest. He raped me. No matter what the term is you chose to use, it still means the same damn thing. He stole the innocence of an 8 year old girl. He killed the child the little girl was. He stole every ounce of potential from me. He stole my self worth. He stole my sense of security. He killed me.

All this so that he could get his rocks off. Was it WORTH the orgasm you asshole?

I wet the bed that night. I got my ass beat the next morning, and a stern warning that I better not tell mom I slept in her bed, because then she would know I wet it. SD reminded me... or put the fear of Mom in me... that mom would be pissed that I wet her bed, and would dole out her own brand of punishment. I fell for it. Even though, I don't remember her ever really punishing me.

Over the next 8 years or so, he manipulated me, and twisted my thinking, and had me believing what WE were doing was natural. I was 12 or 13 before I found out it wasn't. By then it was too late. During that time, when he was trying to fuck me, he was sweet and tender and loving. When he wasn't trying to shove his tongue down my throat for a "mommy kiss", or grabbing a feel of my undeveloped breasts, stroking my nipples, slipping a finger between my legs.... his temper would come out. He'd be mean, degrading, belittling. He wouldn't beat me... unless of course... I deserved it. And according to him, I always deserved it. Before he would "spank" me, he would turn his Navy ring around so that the stone would be on the palm of his hand, which would leave knots and welts on my bare ass. If mom wasn't home and I was deserving of a spanking... he would jerk off after, making me help him. On the lucky days, he would only make me watch. Oh yeah... he liked the kinky shit. As if being a pedophile wasn't enough.

He wasn't always an asshole. Nope. He had to make sure my mom, or the neighbors, or the people at church, or GOD... didn't catch on to his abusiveness.... And they all believed he was a good father. When I found out what HE was doing to ME, I wanted to tell someone. I knew it would be useless. Nobody would believe me. He made sure I knew that. He also made sure I believed I would be called crazy, and locked up in a rubber room. He made sure he pounded that into my little trusting brain. 

He would manipulate my mother and me... causing us to fight. He would tell me to do something that would get me into trouble, and then tell my mom he saw me doing it. He would distract her after telling me to get money out of her wallet. He would make up shit and tell her I did it. He would do shit, and blame me. My teenage years were hell for my mom. HAHA. (They weren't exactly Disney World for me either.) When he was out to sea, my mom and I got along MUCH better. Oh man I loved those med cruises. Better than sex... let me tell you! Well, better than sex with your father when you are 8 or 9 or 10 or 11 or... 

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Part 2

I had been a bright and gifted student. I was enrolled in programs and classes for the gifted child. Somewhere around the time I figured things out, my grades went down. (Just like sperm donor). I started skipping classes. I started skipping whole days. I became the student from hell. I was full of potential before all this crap! At 7 I wanted to go to William & Mary and be a lawyer. Last year, to help put my memories in some kind of chronological order, I requested my school records. You can see in the records the pattern. I went from A's and honors to... being a bad student. Skipping school, grades slipped....

He treated me like a whore. He bought me presents to keep me silent. I got this great little gold boombox from somewhere over seas. He would give me cassettes, and a walkman, and clothes, and stuffed animals. Anything I would say I wanted, he'd get it for me, but then I would hear how spoiled rotten I was. Oh yeah. Spoiled. Money was always a good gift. And if he didn't have any money for me... he would distract my mother, while I would take it out of her wallet (even though I'd get into trouble afterward). Oh yeah. He taught me all the good shit. I learned to lie and steal, and manipulate from him.

After he would molest me, he would take me out for ice cream, or some other comfort (junk) food. Food became my best friend. It allowed me some pleasure. It provided an escape. And it helped stuff feelings down that I wasn't allowed to have. I have battled weight problems since I was about 12. I weighed as much as a full grown man at the age of 12. If you didn't grow up being a fat cow, you are so lucky! Kids (and adults) can be so mean.

I started smoking when I was 13. Enough said.

When my parents were gone, my friends would come over and I would put his stuff on the sacrificial alter. I'd give away his crap. I'd steal his prized possessions. I would open up his liquor cabinet and offer up the good stuff. I wasn't an alcoholic, not at all, but hell, if I was going to get into trouble... I was going to have fun and be cool doing it! We would fill the bottles back up with water. He wouldn't even notice until... sometime later, and I would be in big trouble. I usually paid with... one of his kinks... one of his perversions being taken out on me. Always. It would happen anyway.

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Part 3

Boyfriends. I liked boys. I was a "normal" 14, 15, 16 year old girl. I liked boys. I had crushes left and right. I wasn't willing to have sex with any boys. Or even make out with them. There was no way. They couldn't know I was uncomfortable with them! I couldn't risk them finding out I wasn't a virgin, and I had NO idea how or if they could tell if I was or not. I didn't know if I was or not! I didn't know what to look for, or what the signs were. I couldn't ask anyone, because I was terrified MY dirty little secret would come out. I think if any of my friends found out I was being fucked by my father... I would have DIED! I felt so stupid. So boyfriends weren't really banging down my door. Plus I was fat and ugly anyway.  

When I was 17, I figured out that, even though I was sexually abused, I was still a virgin. I found out the night I was raped on the bathroom floor in my best friend's apartment. For the longest time I felt like it was my fault, or that I deserved it, because I flirted with him all evening. Flirted. I wanted so badly to be liked, to be accepted, to be wanted. And here is this 28 year old Navy man (is there a pattern here?) flirting HARD with me. We had been drinking, so I guess that made it ok for him to lead me into the bathroom. (NOTE tone of sarcasm.) If I had self esteem, or self worth, I would have been able to say no before he was in my panties and plunging into me. I guess my screaming and crying and begging him to stop was really me saying Oh yes... take me now on this bathroom floor. Cuz its just what I fucking deserve. His name is "Jerius, but please, call me Jerry". Curly dirty blond hair, and hazel eyes. About 5'10 or so, and would be 46 now. You never forget your first, do you! If you see him... tell him my friend Paul came and picked me up and took care of me.... and helped me clean up the blood. That's how I found out I was still a virgin. Paul also tried talking me into going to the hospital, and to file a police report. I didn't. I couldn't. They would know I was being sexed up my dear ol' dad. They would lock me up in a rubber room. They wouldn't believe me. They would BLAME me. I couldn't let my mom find out. I wasn't worth the trip. It was my fault. I had all the excuses down.

Guess what. Being raped didn't help with my self worth. I didn't abandon my feelings of being unlovable... or ugly. Instead, it just added to my self hatred, and my self abusing ways. I was raped because I had/have such a skewed up vision of myself. Oh wait... I was raped because HE was a monster. I wouldn't have even been in that situation if I had more self worth.

My body betrayed me. I hate my body. And I beat the fuck out of my body. I smoked (today is 34 days without smoking). I am a compulsive overeater. I have thought about doing the whole binge and purge thing, but throwing up makes me throw up more. I have tattoos and a pierced tongue. Some say that is a sign of self abuse... although I think I disagree, but I've been wrong before.

I have written many, many suicide notes. I have tried to slit my wrists, but only got about a 1/2" into my right wrist before I decided pain wasn't the way to go for me. I have the little scar as a reminder. About a year later, I tried pills. I took EVERY SINGLE pill in the medicine cabinet. I woke up the next morning and said OH FUCK I CANT EVEN DO THAT RIGHT. My lethal combination of antibiotics and aspirin didn't cut it... but at least I didn't have an overdose induced headache. Or a cold for a really long time.

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Part 4

Over the years, food has been... right there for me. It allowed me to gain weight when I didn't feel like dealing with men. Didn't feel like dealing with them? No. Absolutely couldn't because I was terrified of them! Or when I was scared. Or frustrated. Or wanted to scream. Or wasn't having a perfect day. (Is any day really perfect?) The closer I would get to a man, the closer to being intimate with a man, the more I would eat. Eventually, I would be too fat, and he would leave. (IF my neurotic psychotic lack of confidence didn't send them running, first.) My heart would hurt, but the rest of me was safe. Rejection meant safe. People ask, "Where is your willpower?" "Cant ya stop?" Well duh... if we could, we would.

Yes, food became my major coping mechanism, my best friend. Food was there for me when no one else was, or could be.  It kept me from having to get close to anyone. It kept me from feeling feelings. It kept me happy, when I had to put on that happy facade. It kept me from splitting off into multiple personalities. It kept me comforted. It kept me from killing myself. Well, it kept me from a quick death, anyway. It's still killing me, but I am learning to manage it.

Ok, so being sexually abused gave me a food addiction. The prick also robbed me of any self esteem, self love, self worth, self <fill in the self goodness of your choice here>. All of it. I couldn't do anything right. I was all about failing... even though I was doing great in appearances to the outside world... I was failing in my eyes. Oh hell, I am still a failure in my eyes. I was a failure in his eyes. He made sure I knew that. He made sure I believed him.

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Part 5

I couldn't keep a relationship to save my life. Not that I've tried too often... hell no. That meant being with a guy! The relationships I have been in... I would eventually fuck it up. Either by my lack of trust, or you know... lack of confidence and self esteem and ability to love myself. That's just not attractive to guys! There are some things that I have done... been... that I'm not willing to discuss yet. I don't want my mommy to think I am a freak. You know how that goes...

One of my biggest dreams is to have a child. I want a child so desperately. My biggest fear falls right into line with that. What if I become an abuser? I have heard over and over and over again that if you were abused, you WILL BE an abuser. Well hell... take me and rip out my uterus now, cuz I don't wanna be an abuser! Now that I am confident that I won't be abusive... I am afraid I will be too vigilante. I will be over protective and stifle my child's growth until he hates me and is throwing shit at me and begging me to stay the hell out of his life. I can't win!

When my parents finally divorced, I started breaking. I didn't know what the hell was wrong with me, but I couldn't focus or concentrate. I became weepy, and I just wanted to stay home. I was in school, but I dropped out because I was flunking. I tried finding a job, but I would break out in a panic attack in the middle of the interview. So much so, that I would begin crying hysterically. I knew I wasn't good enough or worthy of being hired. At least, that's what I thought. Not many employers will hire you when you sit and cry like an infant during the interview. After about 40 rejection letters, I just stopped looking.

So, I spent the next 7 years in a depression and isolation that I didn't... couldn't understand. I wanted to be able to go out with friends and meet new people like I had before, but I... couldn't budge. I didn't want anyone around me. I didn't want anyone to call me. No. That's not true. I wanted people to call and stuff, but I wouldn't call them because I really felt like I would be interrupting, intruding, burdening them. I lost all of my friends. I discovered the internet. I could go anywhere I wanted to go, do anything I wanted to do... and be anyone I wanted to be. I could convince people I was well adjusted and normal, while sitting in front of my monitor crying. And generally eating. The internet became an escape for me. I had friends all over the world, and they couldn't hurt me. And if they tried... I'd just change my screen name. Poof. No more. I could have a *normal* life online. I could have a life that wasn't spinning out of control. Well... it didn't spin out of control online... but damn it was spinning in reality.

The hardest thing to do is to act like something you aren't. You have to keep up with all the lies and manipulations you have to tell. It was true for me in EVERY SINGLE PART OF MY LIFE! I began this practice at the tender age of 8. I had to ACT like there was nothing wrong. I had to PRETEND I was perfect because I couldn't risk anyone finding out MY dirty secret. I had to LIE about everything. I had to manipulate everyone. It was survival. Do you KNOW how exhausting that is? My mind was constantly on over drive. I am a good hearted person, I get that from my mom's side of the family. I was not a natural at being such a... manipulator. It was so exhausting.

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Part 6

Summer of 2005, I learned that all my fucked up, crazy ass feelings and behaviors were all normal. NORMAL. N O R M A L. What the hell??? Normal. What does that mean? I learned I wasn't alone. Many women (and yes, men too) are survivors of abuse. Many women had the same traits I had. The same behaviors. The same thoughts, and feelings and emotions. So many didn't know there is help. Many still don't. Depression sets in. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder takes over our minds and bodies. We are fighting our own wars... battling our own terrorists. bin Laden and Hussein have nothing on this crap. We might have multiple personalities, or we may dissociate (leave our bodies). I was fortunate, I didn't do either. Or maybe unfortunate. I guess depending on how you look at it.

I have learned about the the side effects of child sexual abuse... I just never put them together. I can't put my face under a running shower. I feel like I am being suffocated. I can't brush my teeth in the morning. I gag, and throw up. This has done wondrous things for my teeth... although I only have 2 cavities, I have lost two teeth.  There are so many side effects a survivor has, and they just don't make sense sometimes. Addictions and fears of sex, intimacy and the gynecologist... those are all normal.

When I began my healing, I was too scared to do the work. I didn't know how to do the work. I wanted someone to do all the work for me. It can't be done. I had to do the work. All I could ask of anyone else was for their support and understanding. I tell this to survivors all the time. It is the scariest path we will ever go down. Transforming from a survivor to a SURVIVOR is excruciating. We have to learn to trust people, when we couldn't trust them before. We need to learn to love and accept others differently. We need to learn to love and accept OURSELVES. We need to take better care of ourselves. Learning how to love ourselves, letting self esteem enter into our minds and hearts... its HARD as HELL! We have to learn everything that we should have learned as children, and learn it as an adult. Talk about teaching old dogs new tricks.... 

Now I can tell when something is spinning out of control. I can tell when I am kicking my own ass, and I am trying to learn how to fix that. I can recognize patterns and work on fixing them. I still have a long way to go, but I am starting to figure out what I want, and figuring out how to get it. Right now, I am a blank slate, that I get to completely reinvent.

The reinvention process has been long and hard. My life over the past year has consisted of doctor's appointments, many many many doctor's appointments: 2 counselors and a shrink, a regular doctor... real pill pusher. She didn't get that I was sad because I HAD EVERY DAMN REASON TO BE SAD.... a real "drugs'll fix ya" kind of doctor. UGH! Gynecologist appointments (I need to know the girl is ok. He told me it was not normal!). Nutritionist and Diabetes educators. Dentist appointments up the wazoo... gotta fix those teeth, yanno. Group therapy once a week. Survivors of Incest Anonymous once a month. And now, I am in OA (Overeaters Anonymous... but I aint so damn anonymous), and go to f2f meetings at least twice a week, and online meetings whenever that jar of peanut butter screams OHHH LISA COMEER!! 

HEY! On a lighter note... I passed my pap smear test! It was the first one... EVER! I just thought I'd share. 

And on that note... I think Ill close. This is long enough... and if you made it this far, still awake and everything... pat yourself on the back! Oh hell... send me an email. BRAG ABOUT IT!

If you know a survivor... honor the person s/he is. BELIEVE what s/he tells you. Support and congratulate the survivor for breaking her/his silence, and beginning the healing process. 

If you are a survivor... Congratulations! You are not alone. You can get treatment. You just need to want to be fixed, and be willing to do the work. If there is anything I can do to help, I am only an email away.

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