When I was a kid my parents divorced.

My Mother remarried and within a year this guy bought a grocery store that was very profitable.

We moved into a huge three story mansion built in the 1800s.

Great right?
In some ways it was magical, but in that way you might imagine of in a disturbing gothic movie.

I already had a pediatrician abusing me. I was too ashamed to tell anyone.

With this new move came a new family. And one of them who thought I was a punching bag.
I held off saying anything for maybe a year. My Mom was so happy and everyone else was enjoying things. I felt like I was a dark spot that, if I spoke, would stain everyone else.
I was also painfully shy. Born that way. The kid in every group photograph that had to be told to smile. The dark spot. Even before innocence was destroyed.
When I finally did confront my Mom, she was very upset. But more because she wanted it not to be true than anything else.

I remember her asking if I was sure? Could I be wrong?
He would slug me in the gut so hard I& #39;d lay on the ground drooling and gasping while his friends watched and laughed. And when I& #39;d try to get up they& #39;d pin me down.
Then, pinned to the floor they& #39;d have their girlfriends strip and dance or make out or fondle me.

Then they& #39;d yank off my pants and laugh at the physical response I could not help. And I& #39;d hear them howling as I lay there sobbing.
Yes Mom, I& #39;m sure.
She& #39;d ask me to describe what he did.

Never did I tell the truth. I just said he hit me. I could never tell her the full stories.

She& #39;d ask to see bruises but funny thing about gut punches and pin downs - they don& #39;t tend to leave a lot of marks.
Anyway, many talks resulted in her just going to him directly and asking if he& #39;d hurt me. Of course he said no.

Meantime if started skipping school heavily. They call that, and a lot of trouble I got into - acting out.
And it is.

When you are holding onto a lot of anguish -- it has to go somewhere.
I never ever did tell her about the doctor. But I persisted with telling her about my step brother.

The more trouble I got into with school, the more friction that created between mom and stepdad, and the less she wanted to confront him. And the easier it got to blame me.
After all, by now I was a troublemaker.

I ran across her diary one day and read a bit - as kids do. In it I found out she did at least sort of believe me but she just couldn& #39;t tell stepdad - she didn& #39;t want to ruin things between them.
The courts ended up removing me from home for truancy.

By this time my step dad was throwing me around a bit too and oh God he hated me. All of my troublemaking had led to councelling and that was costing him money.
And my real dad is a malignant narcissist. He hadn& #39;t been around much when I was younger but now, to prove how awesome I was, he agreed to take me in. Dear lord the verbal abuse from him was worse than the gut punches
So when the courts threw me into a group home I was so stressed out I caught pnemonia the very first night.

My doctor had labeled me hypochondriac. It& #39;s something I later came to find abusers will do to control their marks - disable their cred.
I spent almost two days begging this place to take me to the hospital. My chest hurt - it was more pain than I& #39;d ever experienced, and I was having a very hard time breathing.
Finally they did bc the guy that ran the place didn& #39;t want to risk a lawsuit.

I knew it was serious when the ER doc came back and was talking to the two councilors across the room -- their faces just sunk with guilt.

It was just pnemonia but two days of begging...
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