The Incest Story
Incest Stories, a very horrible story A story of incest which is really sad to hear and read incest stories are full of sadness and this incest story is very terrifying, Well, I just turn and see this young mom jump in the pool, grabbing her 3-year-old daughter. They go into a tight hug, starting to just bounce up and down, playing around. You can tell this kid totally trusts her mom-she’s all about that love and protection.
mom tries to put the kid in an inflated toy ring. Well, this little one starts kicking with her feet while holding on to her mom’s neck as if that were a life-saver. Mom attempts to tell her she is not going to float out there all by herself, but that just does not get through.
Smiling through the fear, Mom flings the ring onto the deck and plants a sweet kiss on her daughter’s cheek. The kid’s face then breaks into a bright smile of success and relief.
And I remember being a small child, I’m swimming in a lake with my arms around my father’s neck. I could almost see in my face now the same kind of joy that I just saw in that child a second ago, and then my father places his hand on my swimsuit, and everything changes. That look of joy in an instant is now shame and fear.
Incest Stories, It struck me today, along with this horrific, betraying image.
The other one’s really powerful, too, and it’s about my mom, not having my back with my dad. And then, of course, when I’m looking at that little girl playing in the pool, I just wish I would’ve had that sense of safety around my mom, just like she does with her mom now. And the tears just come, so I just jump in the pool.
It’s hard for me to expose my vulnerable side to other people; now I can just let it out by crying. For such a long time, I just kept all that pain hidden under the walls I had built due to the incest.
Terrifying
He started sexually abusing me when I was 3 years old he continued until I was almost 16; he had been a cop.
His molestations escalated from touching to oral, anal and vaginal stuff. When I was still younger, I didn’t know what my daddy was doing. It’s just like he gave the love and care kids really needed from parents. However, when he started using the term “secret,” that’s when I knew what we were doing was wrong.
My father never forced me to have sexual contact with him until I was a teenager. His force, however was emotional. He was my father, I trusted him.
So, from the time I was 13 to 15, I could tell four people-my mom, one doctor, one teacher, and my best friend-but none of them ever believed me. Yet again, the way I behaved at that time showed that something was really messed up inside the house.
I was desperately crying for help — through bedwetting, truancy, poor academic performance, attention-seeking behaviour, self-destructiveness, hypochondria, chronic depression, fatigue and eventually drug and alcohol abuse and promiscuity.
Sexual Abuse
You could totally have seen the signs of sexual abuse in me upper respiratory problems, continual kidney and bladder infections, gynecological complications, rectal bleeding. It was like my whole body and mind were literally screaming for someone to notice just how much I was hurting. So, when I was 16, one day, I just could not stand the abuses anymore, so I ran away from home. One week later, my father found out where I was and took me home and then beat me up, actually throwing me onto the sidewalk. Honestly, I think my mom was more worried about the neighbors seeing that.
It was then that I realized, whatever was to follow-to my death, if need be-I would never go home. Setting aside my lingering terror of disbelieving ears, I found a social worker through the county mental health center. For the first time, somebody finally understood I was telling the truth.
She saw some bruising around my face and told me that she was legally obligated to call the Department of Social Services in cases of child abuse. Again she asked me if I would be alright speaking with a case worker. I simply said “sure”; she got on the phone.
As she spoke with the case worker, I felt my heart pounding inside me. I freaked out, wondering what was to happen next: was my dad going to jail; was I going to be sent to a foster home?
That phone call got my dad indicted and brought him to trial. By then, even though I was happy being out of my parents’ house, having to testify against my dad in court freaked me out: it meant breaking the silence he had always wanted me to keep-it felt like some kind of betrayal of him. I just felt so ashamed; somehow, it was my fault for the abuse, and I should have been able to stop it.
As I testified, I saw the hate in his eyes. My mom sat next to him; I’d been abandoned. The idea that she was supporting my father really reinforced this notion that I was such a horribly bad person.
He was, after all was said and done in court, found guilty of criminal sexual conduct in the fourth degree, received two years’ probation coupled with psychiatric treatment, and was made to pay a fine of $750.
My sentence spoke volumes of my immediate feelings after the abuse.
It’s been a decade now, and at the age of 26, it suddenly hit my mind how tough the road to recovery was. My healing from the childhood scars actually took a lot more than just waiting around.
Honestly, for most of that time, I was in denial about my feelings. I mean, I fully knew I had been a victim of incest stories, and I had faced physical and emotional abuse. But deep down inside, I just felt nothing. Whenever I would share what happened to me, it sounded just like I was talking about somebody else. I moved from crisis to crisis, did not have a healthy intimate relationship, and continued abusing alcohol. I was irresponsible with money, persistently depressed, a compulsive eater, and almost always lived in a fantasy world.
At other times my behavior was just the opposite: super-responsible, perfectionistic, mature, overachieving, and ambitious — right to the edge of exhaustion. Actually, the stuff that I picked up as a kid to protect myself from my dad was still hanging around. Sometimes at night, I’d wake up yelling for my dad to back off. Usually, I would lock bathroom and bedroom doors for fear that someone would get in and hurt me.
The worst thing about this abuse was this heavy feeling of guilt and shame which hit me on a daily basis. I just couldn’t stand myself. I tried so much to be fine, but those thoughts of shame and how I was worthless kept popping out. Always seeking some kind of acceptance from some person. I thought that if I could make them happy, perhaps someone would find me to be a good person. I did, and still do, almost anything for a friend or my employer to garner approval, be that through overexertion or neglect of myself.
Sometimes, it built up and made me suicidal. I just wanted the pain to stop, and indeed, the pain and life became so interwoven that I wanted somebody to save me from my pain. Well, it was making other people into parent figures and fantasizing that they would take care of me that got me through life. If I could keep pretending that one day I’d have the parents I really needed, then I did not have to deal with my losses.
Realization
I finally came to the realization of really needing to see a professional counselor again, having done so previously during the court stuff and then again five years after. So, this time, besides treatment, I joined a self-help group for incest survivors. Being with people who had gone through similar experiences, I was able to convince myself that I wasn’t the only one fighting for healing. Listening to victims share sadness, fear, anger, and confusion, I finally opened my feelings.
We supported one another with acceptance and understanding as we allowed ourselves to understand that it was okay to grieve. We recognized together how much we had to learn ways of parenting ourselves. Everything our parents were supposed to teach us when we were young was just plain missing. Essentially, we were growing up all over again.
She helped me in therapy to get to know the little girl that’s still inside me-you know, the part of the personality that had been hurt by her parents and really needed the adult part to love and accept her. So we began to look at the way I was treating that little-girl part of myself.
The more she cried for help, the more, well, I’d shut her down, really, just as my parents did with me. Soon enough, I began to realize that I was venting my frustration on my little girl because I didn’t want to acknowledge she was there. She’s needy, defiant, a brat-that’s what my parents led me to believe, wasn’t it?
To help me get to know my little girl, I had chosen a name that sounded very affectionate; I had named her “Punky” since this had been my aunt’s pet name for me. During therapy, what I concentrated on was helping Punky feel confident that I would not shut her up if she wished to open up with me about her pain or my social worker.
Figuring out how to finally really listen to her opened my eyes as to what I need, how I feel, and how I act. In the end, Punky got that it was okay to trust me-and other people too.
Incest committed by a father is a perversion of the trust a child’s life is based upon.
You don’t have loving relationships without trusting. To peel back all of my defenses and show raw pain was super scary. Only getting close to the feelings, and then pulling back, really allowed me to grieve. It was trusting that I could take a break when it got too much that allowed the grieving to come up.
I was afraid to lose control due to my grief. Ironically, I found out rather soon that I was perfectly able to manage the reactions to my emotion if I could just exert the inner strength to do so. For the first time, I found myself crying, and I really didn’t know if I’d ever stop. As a matter of fact, I ended up crying on and off for a few months. I had to keep going back to those memories of the abuse so I could accept them and finally move on. Those memories had been running my life and scaring me forever, but now I was the one in charge of them.
Beneath the hurt was anger at my parents for what they had done, and I was fearful of this anger as my parents’ anger during my childhood would typically be followed by violence. The rage, too unsafe to utilize out of fear of the violence and rejection that would eventually come from them, was directed inside toward myself.
It was behind my shame, guilt, and all that self-saboting stuff I have done I would freak out with any criticism, get in fights with my coworkers, whine all the time, and let people walk all over me.
Through therapy, my anger fell where it needed to be–at my parents. At the encouragement of a friend, I telephoned them and screamed at how hurtful they had been. I wrote letters to them during angrier moments. Though I sent only one, the act of writing helped me to export my emotions, to put them where they didn’t harm me.
I felt such a huge relief as slowly the pain and anger were let go. A great amount of energy was utilized in keeping it submerged. Now, I could use that energy in taking better care of myself.
Victims
Usually, in any case of incest stories, there are two victims one who is experiencing the atrocity presently, the child, and the parent who had a traumatic experience in his or her childhood. I have not found any sexual abuse history in my parents.
But it seems that they might have experienced some emotional abuse during their childhood, as my mom might have been physically abused and my dad’s dad was an alcoholic and was apparently pretty rough. When I really understood what my parents went through during their own childhoods, this really facilitated forgiveness later on. They were definitely victims of their own past. I mean, it does not let them off the hook because ultimately, we are all responsible for our own actions.
Now, I understand the incest stories, that they did not actually mean to hurt or mess me up they were just so ill and needed some help. Incest-families are totally capable of bouncing back from that with some family therapy. Mine didn’t make it. It’s rough to give up, but I knew that I needed to cut those ties and really start in working in life without them. Now that I am well into recovery, issues remain but my past no longer haunts me. The flashbacks, such as the one triggered by the child in the swimming pool, still come but they no longer paralyze me.
Conclusion
incest sorties are not just like story its all about real life incident, this incest story is not my identity it was my experience. Fortunately I let that experience lead me to strength, knowledge and healing. Being able to recover and rediscover the beauty of having true and loving friends has been such a gain in my life. I can just be myself and give openly now without all those fears of getting hurt or left behind.
this incest story is very similar to other incest stories, Of course, I still fear closeness, especially with guys, but they no longer stop me from taking risks. The biggie? Well, I’m all into celebrating a new love for myself. Sure, I don’t always vibe with my behavior, but I’m getting better at accepting my flaws and dropping the whole perfection thing. Sometimes my inner child, Punky, is still sad, but we’re totally in this together now. I really love Punky, and I appreciate her soft and sensitive side, having stopped thinking of her as a “rotten little kid and also like this, there are lot of of incest stories are also exist in this world that we should talk about incest stories to aware people and also people should read incest stories to feel the this type harshness.”
