by Kathy Jolly

Created on: May 30, 2008

Surviving The Trauma Of Incest

Incest is an ugly word. It is a dirty word. It is something that is kept in the back closet and never brought to light in polite society. It is something that is never talked about in the family, unlike an uncle's alcohol abuse or another family member's propensity to hit whoever it is in his path like his wife or kids. No, incest is never talked about. Incest has many costs. The one thing that incest does cost the victim the most is trust.

What is trust exactly? I wonder, is it when you believe in someone else? No one in this world is perfect, myself least of all. It is not easy to trust in someone else in your life, or believe in them when all you have known has been betrayal from early childhood. I learned from an early age that the only person who truly cared what happened to me was, well, me. I learned that the only person who would take care of me emotionally or physically was me.

I grew up with my mother being a single teenage mother, who worked hard to take care of me and loved me so much. This was my life until she met a man who would become my stepfather and father to my baby sister. This occurred when I was approximately six years old. At that point, life changed.

My dad loved me. He took me fishing and hunting. We laughed and he spent time with me that was precious. My mother took care of my baby sister and bonded closely with her. My mother had a difficult time delivering her and became very sick and was bedridden basically for almost a year after her birth. In that time I became dependent on my new dad. I was a daddy's girl and I loved doing all the things he did.

The years moved on. I was a preteen. My mother and I did not get along. I looked more and more to my dad for the love and acceptance I needed from at least one parent. At this point, my life took a darker turn that at forty, I still have not recovered from. My dad's love turned from being that of a parent for a child to something dark and unnatural. I did not want to loose my dad, but at the same time, I could not let what was happening continue. So I told my mother. She raged and cried and said she believed me.

What followed was a year of hell that I barely remember. That I don't want to remember. I remember my mother telling me it wasn't my fault, that I was a child. I believe I was about eleven years old at the time. Then I remember my mother telling me it was my fault that the family was torn apart. I look back now and realize she was torn between being a

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