I Want To Be Free

By Tonia Harrison

This book tells of one woman's struggle through physical, verbal and sexual abuse by a family member. It tells how she felt all alone in her struggle and how with no support from her family she managed to make it through the abuse and get away from her abuser. Her story tells how she was made to take on responsibilities that were not hers and how it caused resentment. It also tells how she has never been free to live her own life and how she yearns to be free of a totally dependent family member who has caused her a great deal of pain and shows no apparent remorse for her actions. The book points out her personal views of the damage abuse can cause and how she feels she will never be completely free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634178402

Book preview

Preface 

I always said that I wanted to write a book before I turned forty, but it didn’t work out like that. Instead, almost ten years later, it has finally come to pass. After sharing my story with others, I was convinced by a true friend to tell my story. She feels that my story could somehow help other victims in some sort of way. I was also advised by my psychiatrist that it could prove to be therapeutic to me to write the book. So after years of battling with myself, I finally decided to put my story into words, in hopes of maybe helping someone or letting victims know that they are not alone. For years, I thought that I was the only one going through physical and sexual abuse, but as I grew older, I learned that I was not—and sadly enough, it occurs in staggering numbers. I am not proud of what happened to me, but the truth of the matter is it happens every day. 

•      More than four children die every day as a result of child abuse.1

•      A report of child abuse is made every ten seconds. 

•      It is estimated that between 50%–60% of child fatalities due to maltreatment are not recorded as such on death certificates. 

•      Approximately 70% of children that die from abuse are under the age of 4. 

•      More than 90% of juvenile sexual abuse victims know their perpetrator in some way. 

•      Child abuse occurs at every socioeconomic level, across ethnic and cultural lines, within all religions and at all levels of education. 

•      About 30% of abused and neglected children will later abuse their own children, continuing the horrible cycle of abuse (http://www.childhelp.org/pages/statistics/). 

These statistics are really scary. I can’t explain the reasons for abuse, but I have so many questions as to why one would behave in such as way. Why does child abuse in any form have to happen? What can possibly anger an adult to the point where they completely lose control and cause serious harm to a child? What makes a man want to have sex with a baby instead of with a grown woman? If there are more women in the world than men, what could possibly be the excuse? Why can’t the cycle be broken? Just because it was done to you does not make it right. God blessed us all with a mind and free will to choose right from wrong; why don’t these abusers use these? We need stricter laws against child abuse. Jail is too good for these perverted, sick people. I feel no mercy for anyone who molests children or those who know and do nothing about it. When a child is molested, they are damaged for life. What is done to them can’t be erased or undone. It is permanent and is with that person until the day they die. It is really sickening when a mother or father molests their very own children. 

Introduction 

It was summertime, and on this particular Sunday afternoon, the weather was beautiful. The sun was shining, there were no clouds in the sky, and the temperature was in the lower nineties. It was a joyful day for me; you see, the day of my departure had finally arrived. This was the day I had been impatiently waiting for since I was twelve years old. Living in that wretched house was a complete nightmare for me. I endured more bad memories than good ones, and how I survived with my sanity intact truly amazes me. It was my final Sunday there, and I will never forget what took place. 

Grandmother had picked my brothers and me up for mass, and afterward, we gladly went home with her. The night before, she and my grandfather gathered all the things I had for college and stacked them in the living room. After we changed clothes, my grandmother sent me to the store to fill my gas tank up. Since I had shared my desire of going to college with them, they were so very happy and proud. While growing up, my grandmother always preached the importance of education to my brothers and me. Our grandparents wanted more for my brothers and me and did not want us to have to struggle through life. When I returned from the store, we all started to pack my things into the car. Once my things were loaded in the car, they made sure that I had everything and provided me with spending money. I hugged their necks, cried, and said good-bye even though I knew I would see them later that evening. 

My brothers reluctantly got in the car with me, and we headed to my parents’ house so that I could gather the rest of my things. When we arrived, we all got out of the car and proceeded into the house. They went to get our mother, who also helped me pack. My mom was good at stacking things and getting the most out of the available space, so she organized the packing. We all grabbed bags and began to take them to the car. As we were loading my car, I noticed the distinctly sad looks on my brothers’ faces. Looking at their sad faces was the only depressing part of the day for me. I knew that I would miss them dearly as well as worry about their safety and well-being once I was away from home. 

I can clearly remember that Daniel (my biological sperm donor and mother’s husband) came out of the house as I was loading the last of my things. This shocked me because he was completely against me going to college. He did not like to see anyone make positive progress, and he never had anything good to say about anyone. I knew he was outside for a reason and that whatever he was planning was something bad and negative. I couldn’t honestly believe that he could have even remotely thought that I had any intention of staying under his roof, allowing him to continue to rape and beat me. He stood on the patio with a sinister grin on his face and yelled at me, Let the back door hit you in the ass, and don’t look back! He also made it a point to shout at me saying that he was not giving me a dime toward my college education—and he didn’t. I turned around to look at him face-to-face with pure hatred in my eyes, and I can recall shouting back at him, Don’t worry. You will die a lonely old man. I made sure that I stressed the word die. I was so excited at that particular moment in my life that his words were completely futile to me. I had decided that nothing and no one, especially him, could ruin that day for me. I wanted to cry because I was leaving my brothers and grandparents but refused to give him the satisfaction of thinking I was weak, so I held my tears in. 

As I said my good-byes to my brothers and mother, I blissfully glanced at the house that held so many of my horrible secrets and memories, realizing that I would never return there. I knelt to hug Max (my brindle boxer) on the neck and let him lick my face. I knew that I would miss him dearly and, without any reason, feared that I would never see him again. After miserably existing in that house for seven years, I realized that I was finally free. I felt guilty about leaving and cried inside because I knew my brothers would not have me there to stand up for them against Daniel. During my tenure in that house, I served as a link that helped my mother keep her husband, and one that enabled my brothers to spend time with my grandparents. This caused me to still worry about them while I attended college. You see, I am a worrywart, full of motherly instinct, and I truly can’t help it. I possess these tendencies to this very day, and I am nearing fifty years of age. I had taken care of them for so long that it became natural for me to worry and care more about them than a normal sister would. I realized that as of that moment, I would be starting the first chapter of my life. I would finally able to live my life for me and not the life that selfish people made mine. 

Chapter 1 

Daddy’s Girl 

As long as I can remember Daniel always called me his girl. For a normal family, this would be something good, innocent, and pure because most dads often spoiled their little girls and let them have their way while mothers tended to bond more with their sons. Well, this was not my case. I can remember being five years old when Daniel began to do things to me. At that time, we lived in a house that was about a half a mile down the street from our maternal grandparents’ house. This was a wonderful thing because we got to see them a lot. 

As part of being a daddy’s girl, I got to spend a lot of time with him. We watched sports, mainly football and basketball, together, and during the games, I can recall sitting in his lap. My brothers would either be in their bedrooms, outside, or at my grandparents’ house during those times. As we watched the games, I was allowed to sip out of Daniel’s cup, which contained alcoholic beverages. I got drunk on more than one occasion. I believe that is why I probably don’t consume much alcohol today. Now I drink maybe twice a month. I experienced my first hangover before the age of six. Let me tell, you there is nothing good about a hangover. It is an unpleasant condition that I don’t recommend or wish on anyone. 

My mother’s work shift often changed, and when she was there, she would either be sleeping or in her bedroom reading a book. On most weekends, Daniel would be home all day in his lounging attire, which consisted of a robe with nothing underneath. He would make me sit in his lap with my legs open while he pulled my panties to one side as he rubbed my vagina area with his fingers. Even now when I am having a nightmare about my sexual abuse, I can recall the incidents as if I had gone back in time and was actually there. I can recall the tickling sensation and the fact that what he did to me felt really nice. Daniel would be in his chair listening in case my mom’s bedroom door opened. When this happened, he would immediately snatch his hand out of my panties and push me off him and onto the floor. It was cruel, and sometimes I would sustain a scratch or bruise in the process. It was as though he was trying to hide something. Being only five years of age, I couldn’t understand why he would toss me to the floor or why he didn’t do what he did to me in front of my mother. Most of all, I knew that my dad would never hurt me or allow anyone else do so. 

Both of my parents worked for the same company; however, my mom’s shift would often fluctuate, and sometimes she would work the graveyard shift and sometimes the evening shift, but Daniel always worked the day shift. There were times when I can recall her leaving the house for work at about 10:00 p.m. On those nights, Daniel would wait until she left the house then he would come into my bedroom to get me. Sometimes I would be asleep, and other times, I would be wide awake. If I was asleep, he would pick me up and carry me to his bedroom, laying me on his bed where he would undress me. If I was awake, he would tell me to follow him to his bedroom. Either way, I did as I was told, and after my clothes were off, he would tell me to lie on my back on the bed. He would touch and kiss me everywhere, and he even licked my vagina. When he would lick my vagina, it would tingle and tickle at the same time. It felt so good that sometimes I would laugh out loud and squirm because of the constant sensation. About thirty minutes later, he would help me put my clothes back on then he would send me to my room. Once there, I would get into bed and fall right off to sleep. My dad would visit my room at least two nights a week. 

I was five and in kindergarten, and sometimes it would be very hard for me to wake for school the next morning because I would not have gotten enough sleep during the night. Thank goodness we were able to take naps in the kindergarten. The power naps proved to be effective in restoring my energy level. I loved going to school. I got to meet so many other children and made several new friends. We happily learned our ABCs, we were allowed to draw pictures and color, and we also learned how to count. Out of all my classes, recess was my favorite by far. During recess, we got to go outside and play. We played hide-and-seek, kickball, and basketball. On days when it would rain, and we were unable to go outside and play, our teacher would sometimes read to us, let us draw pictures, or play games in class despite the weather outside. Kindergarten was my favorite grade. I can remember the small desks and my first teacher. She would walk around the class making sure that we were writing our letters correctly. She also hung our drawings on the wall as a showcase for everyone who entered the class to see. I can never recall having a bad day in kindergarten. I attended a Catholic school, and the nuns wore habits and black dresses. However, my kindergarten teacher was not a nun. I attended this same school until I graduated from the sixth grade. Most of the friends I made in elementary school transferred to the same junior high school, which also served as a high school. It, too, was a Catholic school. Some of my classes were taught by nuns and others by regular teachers. 

One day while my brothers and I were outside playing with our toys, Daniel came home from work. We followed him into the house and went into the living room to watch television. He stayed in the kitchen with our mother. All of a sudden, we heard him shouting at our mother, so my oldest brother and I ran into the kitchen where they were and stood in the doorway. Our mother had cooked dinner and was preparing a plate for Daniel when we saw him knock the plate out of her hands. It fell instantly to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces. Then Daniel said to her, I’m not eating that slop. He furiously struck our mother in the face and began to choke her as well. She started to cry while asking him what was wrong. Terrified from what we were seeing and hearing, we all started crying, and he hastily shouted at us, Shut up! In an effort to help our mother, my oldest brother and I wrapped ourselves around each of Daniel’s legs while we hit and bit him. He swiftly kicked his legs out to get us off, and we slid across the floor, hitting the cabinets from the force of his kick. We were hurt and began to cry again. This was the first time we witnessed Daniel striking our mother, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. At that time, I can’t recall ever being beaten by either of my parents. 

After he let her go, she got the broom and mop and began to clean up the mess. In a state of shock, my brother and I sat in the doorway, watching her as she swept the glass and food from the floor into the dustpan. She arose to clean the countertop. As she faced us, we immediately noticed the blood and dark places on her face. We were all really small when this happened and found ourselves completely afraid of Daniel. Whenever he cursed and shouted at our mother, we commenced to shake