I knew from the very beginning that what my dad was doing to me was wrong. I was just two when it started. My dad Paul would come into my bedroom at night and sexually assault me. Even at that age, I knew he shouldn't be doing those things to me, but as I got older I never felt like I could tell anyone, least of all my mother Kathy.
I adored my mum. She worked hard as a senior manager, and I have fond memories of us singing songs from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat in the car and cuddling up together watching a film. Mum was so caring and trusting - although sadly that was a trait that worked to my dad's advantage, and she had no idea about the things he was doing to me when she wasn't around.
As the years passed, I'd pray it would be Mum who would come and read me a bedtime story and tuck me in, so I wouldn't have to face the disgusting touching Dad subjected me to.
Suffering in silence
But everyone seemed to love Dad. He was a larger-than-life character, charismatic, humorous - he knew how to charm - and people assumed, even Mum, that he was nothing but a devoted and loving dad.
By the time I was 15, Dad had become a stay-at-home foster carer, while Mum still worked. Without Mum knowing, he would keep me off school to abuse me. It continued for years, but I never found the courage to tell her what was happening.
By the time I was 15, the abuse had got worse and Dad made me go on the pill. Yet still, I never let on to anyone how much I was suffering mentally from Dad's abuse. I painted on a constant smile and made sure the rest of the world thought I was OK, but inside it felt like I was dying. The shame and confusion was eating away at me.
Esta historia es de la edición October 30, 2023 de WOMAN - UK.
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Esta historia es de la edición October 30, 2023 de WOMAN - UK.
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