Wednesday, 8 February 2012

This is who I am

Hi all,

My name is Johanna. And for my friends I am "Jo". I am 24 years old and am currently living in the United Kingdom. I am actually an navy brat, when I got born, my father was in the army and was at that time currently based in Greece. I am 50% Greek (mother's side) and 50% German (father's side). Yet because he was in the Dutch navy, I have the Dutch nationality. And to be honest: I am not really proud of it.

My life was not easy at all, and some people are surprised that I am still kicking and screaming. Yet I am here, and I suppose I should be thankful for that fact. But sometimes I wish I wasn't a fighter. Let me tell you something more about me. And please note: I do not want to hear how good and strong I am. Because I do not feel strong. And I do not feel good. Everything I am going to tell here, has made me the person I am now. Screwed up at times, an emotional wreck, having mood swings, insecure, afraid and distrusting of everything that is breathing and has legs.

On March 17th 1987, I got born, for 2 years I had a good life. From what I could see on pictures. Then when I was too, according to my mother, she left my father, because he was an alcoholic. She had given him an ultimatum and he did not take it, on which she left with me. From that point forward, hell started. I got put in between two worlds, and in the middle of a war. The advantages that children often use, or parents for that matter, when parents are getting divorced is a lie. Yes there are 2 birtdays, there are 2 christmass's and all the other celebrations, but no one looks at the pain that is being given to the child. The insecurities it gets when mom and dad cannot be in the same room at the same time. While at times a child needs their mom or dad, and is not possible to do so. I HATED that life. Because I felt it was all my fault. And no one ever though of ME and no one asked what wanted/ needed. They used me to get back at each other. My mother was such a woman, that when I turned 3 she had a new man already, at that time the divorce was not even taken care of yet. That would take another year. My father was a Catholic and Catholic's do not believe in divorces. And resisted for as long as he could. But when I was 4 he gave in, he saw that there was no reason to fight something like a divorce. He did fight for custody, which he lost as well. My mother could be a bitch at times, and used his alcoholism as an excuse of being in improper father.

When I turned 6, my mother and my stepfather married. I still do not understand why. He used to beat her up every time he felt like it. The first memory I have, is that we were living in a caravan and they were having a fight and that I had to go to the toilet and when I came out, to go back to my bedroom, I saw a lamp fly passed me, inches away from my face. I took a few steps forward, dropped my bear on the ground, so when I bent down to grab it, the television flew over me and hit the wall next to me. I got some pieces of glass in my foot and in my side. The fight would stop at that moment, and my mother would pick me up, clean me up, give me painkillers and put me in bed. And 5 minutes after she would have left again, the fight would continue. But they got married. After that life went from bad to worse. From that day, not only she would be beaten up, but I as well. I was not safe anymore.

And if that was not the worst thing: my own mother started to beat me up as well. Whenever he did her wrong, I did wrong. And I would see every corner of the house. And when she did wrong towards him I did wrong. Again I would see every corner of the house. Then he wanted to have showers with me, to "save water". Understandable when a mother showers with her daughter, to show her how to clean every part properly and water was expensive in those days. But a man with a girl? Today that would be seen as something horrible, and to be honest: I believe it is. The first time I had to shower with him, is when it happened... And it would not be the only time... We were taking a shower, and I was washing myself. And as some 6 year old's do, I looked at him and saw his private parts. And asked him "Sir, what is that? Why do you have that? And I don't?" Instead of explaining it as a normal parent would, he let me kiss it. And then would let me take it in my mouth. And after he had his satisfaction, cum all over my face. I did not know what to think of it. I was 6 years old. I didn't know it was wrong. And he made perfectly clear that if I told someone, I would be seeing more then just the corners of the house. He promised he would kill my mother, me and the persons knowing. And for a 6 year old, that is a big threat. Also I would be locked up in my room from time to time, was not allowed to go out and play with children, was not allowed to watch television, otherwise from the things that they would be watching, or listen to the radio. And when they would be watching things, it were sexual related things. Erotic movies of some sort.That is how I got introduced to sex. By seeing it on television

If you think now: but is that all? No, I am not there yet. Pffft far from it even. When I turned 7 I was still having naps during the day, I hardly went to school because of the bruises. Yet now I am very intelligent and educated. But one day, I was taking a nap, I always had to take a nap with my stepfather. And he would take me.. break me.. hurt me.. and tear me open.. I would cry and I would be in pain. Then the day came that my mother discovered. She came in the bedroom one day, while he was on top and was about to cum. She saw it and dropped what she had in her hands. Looked at him, looked at my face that would be covered in tears and turn around and walk away without saying a word. And he would keep on going until he came. That same evening there was a fight. But the next day it all seemed to be okay between them. And that evening nothing happened. I hoped it was over. Boy, was I wrong. The day after I that, I was at home, sick from flu and mother let me sleep in their bed. During lunch, he came upstairs, undressed and joined me. I started crying. He started to touch me, kiss me and started to press himself inside of me. I kept crying. Then my mother came into the room and undressed and came to lay with us, on my other side. Started to touch me, kiss me and do things to me as well. She made me touch her and do things to her. And for the rest of 2 years, that is what happend as well, next to the usual beatings. He stopped beating her up. They stopped having fights. They started abusing me. Molesting me. And violating me. And I could not tell anyone. Because who would believe me? And I thought this happened in every house.

When I turned 8, my mother became pregnant of twins. She stopped coming to the bed, she kept hitting me though. I seen a lot of hospitals, and none of the doctors decided to investigate the situation, my mother was able to let them see how clumsy I was. Due to the beatings and the concussions, I have memory problems. I seem to forget things quite easily, like I have dementia. But I am drifting... He would keep on coming to my bed at night, and after my brothers got born, I got the cans that were used to have baby food in it. And I could put toys in there. Instead, every night he would come and cum in my mouth, I would wait for him to be gone, and spit his cum in the can and put it away safely so no one would ever find it. I still do not know until today why I did that. But I turned 9 and I had gotten a friend that lived in the same street, who I was allowed to see. She was 13 and my best friend. Her name was Fatima. She was a muslim.

One day I was at her place, we were having a good time, and my mother was at work, and she said something (I cannot remember what). And I made a comment. A comment that would change my life. She knew. Immediately she knew what was happening. But she couldn't do anything. So she called her parents. And they started asking questions. I got afraid. This was not supposed to happen, and I told them that too. Social services were called, the police were called. And I had to go to the station. But I was so afraid, I peed myself. The police understood, the people understood. I just didn't. My mother came there, she had been getting a phonecall at work. And when the social worker told her what happened she acted surprised. She was a very good actress. I could not tell that she was in it as well. I would lose my brothers, I would be alone. And I did not have evidence (Yes I loved the police series). He got arrested, they found the can because I told them, they saw the bruises, they saw that my private parts were torn too much for a 9 year old. He got 4 years of jail time. My mother and him were still having contact until I was 10. We had to go to a refugee house, for women who were abused and violated by their man, and of course the women could take their children. I got rebellious. Towards her. And she would beat me up even worse in private. It seemed that she was pregnant again. But this time she did an abortion. Shortly after that she got cervix cancer, and had to have surgery and lost her "womanhood", meaning womb and all that.

And at the time that I was 10 1/2, she already had a new man again. She kept beating me up til I left the house. He used to touch me as well. This time I knew it was wrong and I told the woman I saw as a second mother, only much better than my own. She told my mother, who flipped, but didn't leave him. At 11 my father called me, I had visitations towards him once a month, and he asked me if I wanted to live with him. I told him no, because someone had to protect my brothers from those people. And he said he never wanted to see me again,and choose for God. I didn't speak or see him until I was 12 1/2. At 12 my mother had tried to kill herself 4 times in one year. And every time failed. And all the four times I was the one to find her when I came home from school. And see her lying there half-dead. Let me tell you, that is a huge shock for any kid of that age. Doesn't matter how many times it happens. She had herself admitted on a psychological ward. And she stayed away for 2 years. In those 2 years I saw her once. My brothers 5 times. I had to do everything when she was gone. Cook dinner, get brothers to school (they have a mental disorder and went to special education), prepare breakfast, lunch for her boyfriend for work, do the cleaning, the laundry, the dishes, go to school myself and do my homework and  I had to take up a job to deliver newspapers early in the morning. (4am) Then when she came home, she thought she was the boss again. Which I did not approve of. But I would quickly give it up again, when she started to beat me up even more and even start kicking and biting me, pulling my hair and throw me through doors which would contain china behind it and I would have all the plates, cups and all those things falling down on me.

I turned 15 with much trouble and a lot of bruises. I got trouble at school, but yet I got good grades. Very good grades actually. I only had one B- and the rest was A+ or at least above the B-. But that was not good enough to my mother. She used to beat me up if I did not get home with at least an A. So I started to skip school more. And when she discovered that, I got beaten up even more. There were no conversations. I felt so much things, but I never got explained and taught about emotions and how to control them. Or even how to express them. So I started to built up rage, anger. And I got anger attacks. And every time I had those I got beaten even more.

My mother's boyfriend had a few good friends. And one of his friends I could talk to. He was a good man, so I thought. But in December 2002, he raped me, in his home. He was the first man I trusted. And he betrayed me, hurt me and broke me. The next day I told my mother's boyfriend. My mother was getting crazy in that time again and was seeing a psychiatrist. My mother's boyfriend said I could not tell her, or else she would try to kill herself again, and that maybe this time it would work, and that this time I would really lose her, and with that my brothers. Because social services would not let us be together. So I did not tell her. And to keep pretense,  I had to go and see that guy, my mother's boyfriend made sure that I would. After a month, on her birthday, she found out. And I got beaten up and she beat her boyfriend up. She called the guy's wife, and when she did that, the guy confessed to her. But made me look like the guilty one. And I got made the guilty one. I turned him in and he got charged for rape. But when your own mother testifies against you in court, then there is no way that he would go to jail. Which did not happen either. He got community service for 480 hours. They made me look like a liar and attention whore. The worst part was, that after 3 months, we found out, that I was pregnant. And it was too late to do abortion. My mother started to lock me up in my room, not letting me out, not seeing friends. Not talking to friends. Just in case I would tell them something. I would get beaten up every day, in the hope she would kill the baby. But that did not happen. And after 9 months, I gave birth to a boy. My mother had taken care of the fact that he would be adopted. Illegally of course, because if social services would find out, she would be in big trouble. And I did not have a choice in the matter. I never have seen my son.

When I turned 17, I decided to leave the home, especially after my brothers did not have to fear from her anymore, because they got placed out of the house, because she couldn't take care of them. Because of their mental disorder. So when I left the house, it was only her and her boyfriend. I had my own boyfriend, who I met at work, and until I was 18 I had to live under guidance. Which is through social services. And I was fine with it. Nothing could be worse than living at home. And I felt free, I felt myself. I finally had the chance to get to know myself. I found out that I was polyamouris, bisexual and a straightforward person. People liked me for that. They didn't judge me at all. And I was happy. Then I got into a poly relationship, my boyfriend and a girl that was a good friend of ours. We were happy with the 3 of us. And I turned 18 and I was pregnant. On accident, but it was so wanted, by all of us. Then I gave birth and it seemed that the two of them had been lying to me. Cheating behind my back, talking behind my back about me, talking about me behind my back in a hating manner. Then they stopped spending time with me, and he did not even look at his son. We had to move out,because he had not been paying the rent. We had to live with his parents. He was never there, because she could not come with us, so he always went to her. I went crazy, got into a depression and when I had to see a psychiatrist for it, and he wanted to meet my other half, my other half said "I am not crazy, I am not going there." That was the end of our relationship. And seeing I had a fulltime job at that time and he was at home, or with that whore (because yes the love was over. She had been making trouble between even friends that were there before her time.), I decided to leave my son with him, because if I had to take my son with me, I would end up in the gutter not being able to pay my rent or anything. I sent money to my ex every month, so he could get things for him.

I remained single for a year. I was not in the mood for any kind of relationship. And when I thought I could never love again, I met him. His name was Martin and he worked for the radio. As a technician. I loved spending time with him,and he made me feel like a woman again. The bad thing was, he was with someone. And had been for 17 years. So I kept my distance and we stayed friends. Then one day she left him in a horrible way, she had been cheating on him with an old school friend. So he saw chance to get involved with me. We started a relationship, and that same year we went to see my father,  he had been terrible to me in my teens, wanting me to convert to his newer religion. And it was religion that stole my father from me. I HATED religion, I still do. If there would be a God, he would never do this to his "children". My father always tried to manipulate me.

But Martin convinced me to go and see my father. He told me how proud he was of me, and how I always stood my ground, how I survived the things I did, and that I was a true "Huisman". I never gave up, and I never quit fighting. Even though I had been tempted often to end my life. 3 weeks after that conversation, and after we made up, he died suddenly and unexpectedly. On one side I knew it had to do with his drinking, that he had been doing since I was 2 until I was 13. The family thought though that he never quit drinking, but wanted us to believe that he did. It hurt very much that he died. And it hurt even more, when I found out that everything my mother told me about him,was a terrible lie. And that he had never been that man as she said. Yes he started drinking, but he did that after she had left him. According to my grandmother, he listened to classical music, to make me calm and that worked, but my mother had hated it so much. And started to tell lies to people. I do not know why my gran waited that long to tell me, and I will never know.

A year later my son, the one that I kept but let stay with my ex, died in a car accident that my ex caused. I hate him even more now, my ex that is. I lost my precious son. And that year, I had a fight with Martin, it was so bad, because Martin hit me. In my face. And I ran away. Went to see a good old friend, that I still knew from school. I stayed with him for a week. And at the end of that week, when Martin and I reconciled, he drugged me and raped me for an entire evening. And there was nothing I could do. I didn't tell Martin, because I did not trust him. I mean if someone hit me, the trust there was would be totally gone. So I kept it a secret. I hid it away, deep inside of me. Martin and I had been trying to become pregnant before that time, and when we found out 1 month later that I was pregnant, we were delighted. We celebrated it and enjoyed our pregnancy. Then 8 months later I gave birth, another boy. And such a sweetheart. Then when my son was 2 months, something snapped in Martin. He got jealous, possessive. I could not go out, could not talk to friends or family, without having him controlling me. I was a prisoner in my own house. And one day I couldn't take it anymore, and I told him the truth. And he lost it. He went to the kitchen and threatened to kill my son. I went to him and tried to stop him, he grabbed me and before I knew it, he cut my throat. I lost a lot of blood, he threw me on the floor and let me bleed, my son was crying and he just walked out the door, to go to work. Luckily I got found, but I was unconscious, I had lost a lot of blood and there was a trail of blood from where I was left behind to the crib where my son was laying, and I managed to put my blooded hand through the bar and was holding my son's hand. He was even sucking my pinky, so I got told. I spent 3 months in the hospital, in a coma. After I woke up, my best friend was there. Peter. He was the one who found me, and after another month I was allowed to go home. Of course my ex got sued. But again my mother testified against me, and told the judge that I had suicidal thoughts. And he got away with it, with probation and 480 hours of community service. Again my mother fucked up justice for me. And Martin wanted revenge, he wanted a dna test. And I was convinced my son was his. Until the results came back. My son wasn't his. And that is when it hit me. I got pregnant around the same time that I got raped that evening. So my son was from that rape. Since then my view on my son changed. I tried very hard to love him and not to see the rapist in him. And for a little while I succeeded. But then my gran died after 6 years fighting against cancer, and I lost it. I lost myself.

Then I turned 23, me and Peter had a short lived relationship and we still lived together as friends, and one day I had cps at my doorstep, there had been complaints. It was early in the morning and we had just woken up. It was about 8.30 am. So I had to get my son dressed, myself dressed and we needed breakfast and everything. It was cleaning day, so it was bit messy. And that woman complained about everything. Also they had news from an insider, she did not say who, and she told me that she knew that my son was from a rape, that I lost my other son in an accident, and that I had been pregnant at 15. But that no one knew what happened to that child, that I had suicidal thoughts in the past and that I had making up stories to get attention, telling people that I had been raped, while that all was a lie. That resulted that they made me choose in: or my ex, Peter, would raise my son, and I had to leave the house, was only allowed for short visitations (no longer than a week), or my son would be removed out of the house under force, to foster care. I had friends and some family testify for me, that what they had heard were all lies, which they were. But CPS did not believe me. I had 2 days to decide what I was going to do. In this time I had found a man in a friend that I had for a long time now. We became a couple in February last year, and it was long distance for a while. But we both knew it was worth it. I talked to him a lot in those 2 days. And he said that I needed to make the decision based on if I wanted to see my son at my ex's place and could contact him at any given time, or needed to have permission to see him from total strangers. Who would not trust me and judge me. While I would know that my ex would never do that. And the other problem was, that I needed to leave there and needed a new home. And he offered me to come live with him, to start a new life.

So I decided to leave my son with my ex and to leave and live with my boyfriend. And he is good to me. He loves me and I love him. But my past has ruined a lot. I trust my boyfriend, but I do not trust him completely. Yet I have never trusted anyone as much as I trust him. I am afraid every day of what might happen. And even though I do not try to, I look at things from a negative perspective. I had to sell my body so I could earn money to give my son, who I left behind, food and clothes. And all I have ever done I did for others. My brothers, my children, my family. And never have I asked for something back. And now, I am finally thinking about myself, and now I am being called selfish and evil. While all I did, and all I wanted, was survive.

I have a heart problem. And it is not sure if it will be getting worse or better. For now... it is going okay....

I hear and read a lot about girls/women who are so careless with their life (drugs and sex). Girls who complain when their nails break or their skirt is torn. And then complain that life is hard on them. But they have not survived rape, sexual abuse, molestations, beatings, a coma, loosing a child, loosing parents, grandparents and even being judged for what one has been through in life. And yet I am still kicking and screaming. I do not feel proud. I do not feel superior. I needed to survive. Because I did not have another choice. I had thoughts of giving up, but I couldn't. I thought of the people I would leave behind. This does not make me strong, or at least I do not feel strong. This makes me feel vulnerable. It makes me feel weak. Maybe one day I will be proud of what I survived, and maybe one day I will be stronger than I am now. But right now, I am here, but that is about it.



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