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For the purpose of privacy, I will not be using peoples real names, and original places. All accounts are memories.
*I have a dissociative disorder, so whatever I type is only part of these events.

                   1, 2, and 3 years old.
         Why are mom and dad pushing each other? Why are they yelling?" Silly questions in the scheme of things. I mean, if they were fighting so much, why not get divorced? That's a better question. If two people are really that unhappy together why not fix the situation? The problem isn't being solved, obviously, so change the situation. No one is remotely happy in the house, and only the adults have that control.

         I loved my mom, much more than my dad. I never really saw my dad except when he was fighting with my mom. He worked all day, was always somewhere 'more important'. But the fact was, as I've learned in the past few years, he wasn't to blame. Someone had to make a living. Someone had to be my mom's scapegoat, and since my brother was the perfect child, and I was too young to try to fight back, dad was chosen. He was chosen because he could fight back, she could embarrass him without other parents calling her a bad mother, she could shape things into lies, no matter how true something was.
                   4 years old.
          The year my dad moved out, the first year of being abused. (Notice: Eric is aqbout 4 1/2 to 5 years older than me.)
          My brother, Eric, and his friend, Daniel, where stuck to each other like glue. I, not having proper social skills, even for my age, ended up being stuck with my mom, or with Eric at all times. Daniels' mom and my mom were friends, well, at least Daniel's mom was my mom's friend (she has a habit of not being able to stop talking-even more than your regular run-of-the-mill mom). Eric, mom, and I were often at Daniel's house. One sparkly, lovely day (and I am saying that in the most sarcastic way possible) I was hanging out with my brother and Daniel. They decided they wanted me to come upstairs with them. I wish that I had said no, that I went and played in the front yard, that I had done something besides go with them. Too late. They wanted me to show them something. I bet you can guess what. If not, let me make it perfectly clear: My vagina. Of course, I was young, I wasn't weirded out by being nude. But I did not know this was going to be a show-and-touch. I did not know that my own family member was going to hurt me. I did not know that they were going to ask to see that part of my body, I did not even know that area was a sex organ. Well, now I know. They touched me, they played with me. I screamed. I don't remember the rest.
          My mom knew what had happened but didn't feel the need to tell my dad, or to punish my brother in anyway, because, to put it bluntly, she is a manipulative bitch (can you tell I'm a bit resentful?). She taught me that it wasn't a big deal; to keep quiet. This translated into this being my fault for years, even up till now.
                   5, 6, and 7 years old.
          I developed OCD from the first experience of being sexually abused by trusted people. My obsessions where surrounded by the fear of becoming pregnant through toilets, floors, anything my brother or any one with a penis had touched. The compulsions included, not sitting on any toilet (especially ones in my mom's new apartment), putting toilet paper on the toilet sit even though I didn't actually sit on it in the first place, wearing flip flops in the shower, avoiding showers, double checking underwear before I wore them, washing my hands at every chance incase somehow there was semen on them, and other things. A year or two later, when my mother became a "born-again Christian" and I was forced to go to church and attend after-church Sunday school, as well as go to Christian camp in the summer, obsessions where added into my head. They were of course, church related, as well as making sure my mom was happy, and was worshipped. Compulsions that were added: Saying phrases in my head (i.e. "I love god x infinity, I love my mom x times infinity), Kissing the air (...?), tapping things, and god knows what else. Not only was my mom imposing every belief of hers on me (money shouldn't be spent unless she's spending it, soccer and girl scouts are very important and quitting is not an option, my dad is the most terrible person ever, it is okay for her to say anything she wants no matter how rude or vile it is, that I must maintain a certain image or she will not be seen as the perfect parent, unless I do everything she says I am lazy and no good, etc.) she was also, most likely, purposely "grooming" me ( not in a pedophile way) to worship her, be under her control, and of course, never let on that something is wrong. She could say anything she wanted, but I couldn't say a word.
          Funny enough, my brother was never treated the same way I was treated. The only times he was remotely in any trouble was when he would hit me or punch me. But even that wasn't 'real' trouble. She would yell at him and drop it. She threatened to call the police once, but when we got out of the car she started to talk in a normal voice, not pertaining to what he had just done. I know what you're thinking, "It's just sibling rivalry". Yes, actually it was, but not in the sense you're thinking of. Punching your sister in the stomach while his friend is watching is not normal. Hitting your sister, twisting your sisters arm, is not normal. I probably didn't know it the time, though.
                    8, 9 and 10 years old.
          My OCD wasn't getting any better. In fact, it was just getting worse. My mom would make fun of me for it. It was funny to her, and I resented that. I loved her, of course, but I was extremely scared of her. One wrong move, I was made fun of, yelled at, called names, blamed for whatever she felt. She took my ability to be my own person away, I was a silent child. I would cry when someone talked to me, once I was alone. I barely said a word, most likely because I was afraid I'd say something wrong and get in trouble.
         Being close to mute, I couldn't say no. I couldn't speak my mind, reveal a thought, ask someone to stop. Now, I don't remember this next incident. I just know what I was told happened. I know it did happen, because I get snip-its of screenshots from it. What I know: My brother (who had moved in with my dad by this time) came to my moms house after band practice. I assume it was a Friday because that's how split custody worked in my house. Eric would stay with my dad on weekdays, and every other weekend he'd come to my mom's. It was the same for me except flipped (Mom's on Weekdays, dad every other weekend, but also Wednesdays. So basically I'd see Eric on weekends and Wednesdays, which I did not enjoy.) So, back to my brother coming home from band practice. If I am guessing right, mom was not home. Eric and I were in the kitchen. I don't know if it was rape, or what had happened the first time. I just know he thought it was consensual (because obviously your little sister who is 5 years younger than you would think it was consensual????)
         Writing this makes me cringe. I want to remember, but I also don't. It's complicated. I do blame myself sometimes for everything that happened from 4-9, but then I remember I didn't have the ability to say no. My mom made sure that I couldn't say no, and my brother made sure I didn't say no. But I was 8 or maybe 9. That is not an age where anything like this should've happened regardless of anything I said. But who knows, maybe I did say no. Whatever he had done, he had done something similar before and I think I made it very clear I did not want that, so why would I want this.
         My mom either didn't know or didn't care. I'm sure I was very happy that I didn't see my brother everyday.
         At this age I still hated my father with a passion. I still loved and worshipped my mom.
                   11, 12, and 13 years old.
          I moved with my mom when I was 11. The neighborhood kids were friendly and all of them were around my age. They asked facts about me, said hi when we moved in. After a few months the kids weren't that friendly anymore. They would make fun of me for whatever I said, whatever I liked, whatever I did. I was a very avid Harry Potter fan, maybe a bit too extreme in some instances. That's one thing that a girl named Ivana loved to laugh at me about. No one really liked her, but not as much as they didn't like me. So these impressionable little assholes children decided to join her. I enjoyed a song? They jumped on me about it. I liked to play soccer? I was not allowed to like soccer because I must have been terrible, according to them (though, I don't think they even saw me playing until I was a bit older-long after they had started with the whole shitting on me because of liking soccer) Sometimes Ivana would pull my hair or hit me, sometimes a little boy a year or two younger than me would chase me around trying to kiss me and stuff like that (the farthest he got was pulling down my shirt and kissing right under my collar bone, thank god), while the other kids would laugh and encourage him, because they thought it was funny because it was me. Because no none could possibly like me. The neighborhood kids would talk about me to anyone who knew who I was (but most people didn't). They did not say pleasant things about me. Ivana made a joke about my name, instead of being Emily, I was Emoly, which I have to give her credit, it was a very interesting thing to come up with. Jane was her little side kick. Jane would pretend to be my friend but then become Ivana's friend and then go back to me. Every time she'd hang out with Ivana, it would give her new things to spread to others, as well as ways to hurt me.
         I started to sway on my grades a little. I was always an A, some Bs, student. The moment I got a D in seventh grade my mom freaked out. It wasn't unusual for her to call me a bitch when she angry, so when she said I'd never be anything but a stripper it didn't surprise me. I have nothing against strippers, I found it cool that they have the confidence to do what they do. But at 13 that's not something you want to hear from your mother. We started to get into fights a lot. I remember telling her I should kill myself, and she just said "Fine, do it." This was after I started to cut myself.
         I don't know what made me start to rebel against my mom, but it was not a fun time. She would either be sleeping or yelling at me, or not home. I preferred her not being home or being asleep. If she was awake I'd have to take care of her, and anything I said would turn into a yelling match. I wonder what the neighbors thought.