My Father Was a Pedophile

By Bella Randall

This is the story of rape, incest, broken bones, blackened eyes and murder. Murder, you gasp! Yes, the murder of innocence of three children in North Carolina in the 1950s and 1960s. To say it was a dysfunctional family is much too kind. But it has been said that a young child remains dependent, even devoted, to the parents who brutalize him or her because they are the only parents and the only experience the child knows.

I am telling only my story. My sister and brother have a story that is only theirs to tell. Now that my story is finally told, I hope I will be able to put it to rest at last. If I can use what happened to me to help others, that is the biggest lesson I have learned. Maybe my suffering can be used to save other children and women. That is my plan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514486825

Bella Randall

Bella was born in December of 1949 to blue-collar working class parents in a small town in North Carolina. Her childhood was very tragic and left wounds that can never truly heal. Bella started writing at age seven, hidden in a closet with a flashlight. She poured her heart and dreams of a better life out onto paper and hid them. She was a good student all the way through school. Knowing that knowledge was all she could control, she soaked up every bit of it she could. Graduating from high school as Salutatorian, she was granted a full scholarship to college. She went on to publish three poetry books and a book on animal rescue. Life and relationships were always a challenge for Bella, as her upbringing followed her like a dark shadow. Animals were her best friends. She married, had two daughters, divorced, and remarried. Life for her was one of deep depression, and she struggled daily just to survive. Today, after much therapy and healing, Bella is working to help other children and women much like herself. There is a light shining at the end of that dark tunnel.

Book preview

MY FATHER

WAS A

PEDOPHILE

Original poetry provided by author

and her husband, Jon

Bella Randall

Copyright © 2016 by Bella Randall.

Artwork provided by daughter Mimi Shelley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

All names are fictionalized for the protection of the author.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/16/2016

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

736485

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Chapter One

Hell Begins: The First Memory

Chapter Two

Hell Continues

Chapter Three

Respite

Chapter Four

Hell-bound, Once Again

Chapter Five

Terror Has a Name

Chapter Six

Taking the Next Step

Chapter Seven

Two Steps Forward, Four Steps Back

Chapter Eight

There Is a God

Chapter Nine

Blindsided

Chapter Ten

Could It Be?

Chapter Eleven

Lurking in the Shadows

Chapter Twelve

Exodus

Chapter Thirteen

Why Am I Still Here?

Chapter Fourteen

Putting On My Big-Girl Panties

Chapter Fifteen

Finding My Brother

Chapter Sixteen

Finding My Stepdaughter

Chapter Seventeen

Living Again

Jon’s Chapter

My Wife

Mimi’s Chapter

My Mother

For Jon

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Love

There will be time enough for love,

If only for a moment.

We must seize that moment

With all that is within us . . .

For true love is a treasure

Not discovered by all.

                —Bella Randall, 2-10-01

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my wonderful husband, Jon. He has been my rock and the glue that held me together through the years. No matter what!

My shaman healer, Miriam, has taught me to love myself and has shown me how to accept the things I cannot change. I am now able to embrace my past and go on from here. With her loving guidance and Indian teachings, she has helped me to connect with the earth and to become one with it.

I owe my friend Denise for saving my life on the day I had decided I could no longer live on this painful earth. There are just no words.

My youngest daughter, Mimi, and her husband, along with their children, who never stopped loving me even when it got really ugly. Mimi volunteered to do the artwork for the book, and she chose the perfect way to showcase my life in doing so.

My granddaughter Ariana and her fiancé have been steadfast, always there for me.

My wonderful little brother Linn and his fiancée have worked nonstop to help me rebuild my life. I cannot begin to express my appreciation to them for standing beside me and behind me through my healing process.

God, bless the part of my family who tried to stay by my side while I was on my quest for sanity, but they just couldn’t. Even though they left and never came back, I can still love them from afar.

Most of all, I owe my life and gratitude to God. I thought he had forgotten me along the way, but he was allowing me to learn life’s lessons no matter how hard they were. He helped me realize the past does not have to pave the road to the future.

Excerpts

I don’t know how this is possible; I only know that it is. I stood up in my crib, soaking wet and crying. I remember a big man with a huge hand coming toward me. I blacked out. I was eight months old.

I would be told to kneel and say my prayers at night. As I crouched beside the bed, I would hear the creaking door open. Daddy would whisper, Shhhh. Don’t cry, Honey. It’s only Daddy coming to tuck you in. Now, be very quiet. I peed the bed when he left.

I stood on the floor furnace, watching my father try to pour castor oil down Momma’s throat. He was yelling he did not want any more girls and she better lose this baby. She was screaming, and all I could do was cry.

Once a year, Daddy would take all of us to Carolina Beach, where he would stay drunk the whole trip. Once, I refused to dance with him at the boardwalk bar, and he got very mad at me. When we got back to the cottage, he beat me and kicked me till I heard my ribs pop. Only then did my stepmother make him stop.

The closet was very dark, but I knew the spider was in there. I could feel it on my leg. I screamed and screamed, but Stepmother would not unlock the closet door. She said this was my punishment for sassing her. I stayed in there for hours.

Introduction

Pedophilia means sexual perversion in which children are the preferred sexual object.

Some of the things you are about to read seem unimaginable.

But I know that there are some lost souls out there just like me. They will be able to identify with me and say, Yes, that happened to me. Some may say, This is happening to me right now. The first step to making it stop is admission, no matter how ugly or humiliating it may seem. I waited until I was an adult to speak out, as the cops were all my dad’s friends, his drinking buddies. Who would believe me? In those days, parents were the law!

This is the story of rape, incest, broken bones, blackened eyes, and murder. Murder! you gasp. Yes, the murder of innocence of three children in North Carolina in the 1950s and 1960s. To say it was a dysfunctional family is much too kind. But it has been said that a young child remains dependent, even devoted, to the parents who brutalize him or her because they are the only parents and the only experience the child knows.

I am telling only my story. My sister and brother have a story that is only theirs to tell. Now that my story is finally told, I hope I will be able to put it to rest at last. If I can use what happened to me to help others, that is the biggest lesson I have learned. Maybe my suffering can be used to save other children and women. That is my plan.

Bella

Chapter One

Hell Begins: The First Memory

My first memory is one most people won’t find easy to believe, unless they have lived through it. They say your first traumatic memory can actually stay with you even if you are a small baby. It has been documented that infants, later in life, can remember some of the bad things that traumatized them. I am a living proof. Here my story begins.

August 1950 (I was eight months old.)

I only remember the part where I was crying and I saw a huge man coming toward me, his big hand stretched out. He was very mad. I blacked out after that, I guess. Many years later, as an adolescent, I overheard two adults