First off, I would like to say that I’m sorry that this post will be so long. Second, that this post could be triggering to some, as it deals with intrafamilial sex (I don’t know if it’s abuse or not). The things described below are excerpts from journal entries, so that is why some things sound as though they are just taking place.

He’s my uncle and “Red” is all I am now, at least to him.
He owns a couple of trailer parks and pays me ten dollars an hour to clean them out before someone moves in. There used to be people that would help me, but lately I’ve just been alone. It’s during these times that he pulls me aside and says I’m beautiful – my legs are long and my body slender, at least to him. He seems to be fixated on my hair and abs though. Before, when I only thought that he was making accidental comments, he would always point out that my abs were rock solid. It was strange that he wanted to touch my stomach, but we go to the gym together and I suppose I thought he just wanted to know my progress.
I remember sometime in January, he pointed out some Santa themed lingerie as we were shopping. He said that I should wear it, just for him, while we work out. It scared me, but I would just pretend that he didn’t know what he was saying, that he didn’t mean it, that the connotations I heard only came true in my nightmares. He ruined it though when he said he was sorry for his inappropriate behavior. I remember almost crying, because it meant that those nightmares were possible. He said he wouldn’t do it again, but he did.
So, so many times.
He said I was a “dangerous girl” for him and I can’t help but to believe him. Maybe if I looked different, more like his daughter, more like a boy, none of this would have happened. Maybe if all my hair was gone – he loved my hair, so if it was gone, things would be normal. To him, I’m a red-head, though every time I look in the mirror it’s either blonde or brown. Despite telling him I dyed it, he seems convinced that it’s natural. I used to be flustered whenever he pointed out the red (My hair is blondish-brown!), but now I just feel numb to it. He said I would have to prove that I wasn’t a redhead or do something else. After a while, I did prove it – it’s just hair, right? It wasn’t enough though, so my pants were pulled down further and further. I kept my eyes closed the entire time, trying to pretend that what he was doing was just a massage.
Occasionally, he’ll ask how I feel about these arrangements and I’ll try to be as honest as possible – that I’m scared of him, that it needs to stop, that I have a boyfriend that I love, and that he has a wife and kids my exact age that I love.
Honestly, it seemed to bother him more that I was scared and wanting to stop things than he did about his wife and kids. He would always reassure me that I could always ask to stop things and he would listen, but he never did. “Give me a week,” he would say, and things would only progress. Recently, he said that I had never asked to end things, but I know I’ve done so multiple times and each time I became more and more reluctant to tell him since it wouldn’t result in anything.

He scares me, but I love him, not in a romantic sense, but I do love him.
It’s impossible not to – he’s been a present figure in my mind for the entirety of my existence and he’s helped me so much. He gave me my first job, he helped me with transferring banks, he would listen to the things I’ve experienced in life and much more. In my mind, I owed him and the other option of telling him no always upset him.
And I’ve always cared more about other people’s well-being than my own self.
So I eventually started to get used to and enjoy the things he was doing to me. I barely ever remembered the details of his explorations, the only reminders being whenever he would tell me how I would react, so I didn’t mind too much. Eventually, as I knew would happen from everything I’ve read, we had sex. I remember thinking of the things I’ve read, every source telling me that he only wanted my body and, once he had experienced it, that he wouldn’t want to be near me anymore. So with a nod of approval, I let him do as he pleased.
When he still wanted more, I would give a desperate nod. It happened again and again and again and again and again.
Everything I had read lied to me – nothing changed, except now it might as well have been that he owned my body. For the longest time, when he asked, “tell me what I want to hear,” I would blankly reply: “I’m yours and only yours.” When he told me to put some emotion behind it, to sound like I actually meant it, I did – I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
I don’t consider what happened as rape, but I don’t want to classify it as something as nice as consensual sex. I had lost my virginity only a few months prior to all this and sex with my previous boyfriend was nice – I could actually remember the details, remember the two of us awkwardly fumbling around, him being gentle, me being surprised at the lack of pain, the mutual love and care.
With this man, the one I would sometimes accidentally refer to as “Dad” in conversations, it wasn’t the same. I think he tried to be like my prior boyfriend, tried to be gentle and caring, but he never succeeded. Sometimes, I would think he did – after my boyfriend decided things weren’t working out, I would find myself craving my uncle’s company, wanting to be hugged, wanting to make him happy by doing things for him. Then, two days later, I would hate him for wanting me, but mostly I would hate myself for feeling the way I did, for allowing these things to happen again. Then, I would go back to feeling somewhat normal, then aroused, then back to hating myself.
Sometimes, I think I’m crazy because of all of this. Maybe I’ve been crazy all along – the psych ward gave my parents an address to see a therapist about my depression and suicide attempt about two years ago, but the building my supposed therapist resided in wasn’t even there. Maybe being “numb,” what I had called my depression for years, stunted me emotionally or mentally. Maybe it’s the reason why I think yesterday was a month ago. Maybe, because of how everyone reacted after my attempt, I didn’t want to upset anyone ever again.
People were upset though, because I finally told someone. Like with everything, I read about it, all the details telling me that everything would be fine and that everything would get better. Of course, most of these articles and experiences were about rape or child sex abuse, but the feelings the people experienced were similar to mine, so I supposed that it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Everything I read said that people felt immensely better, that they wished they had told someone earlier.
I wished I killed myself instead of telling someone.
When I told my friend, I just wanted someone to talk to, someone to help me figure out how to end things without causing too much drama and hurt feelings. I told her multiple times that I didn’t consider it rape, maybe sexual assault at first, but not rape. I told her that I wasn’t even all that mad at him, that I just wanted things to go back to normal. But, since I never wanted it to start, she was convinced that it was rape. So she told her brother.
I was counseled by them and, essentially, forced into telling my aunt later that day. I actually didn’t end up having to tell her – her husband told her when he read the text I sent asking her to meet me. I cried, but she was eerily calm about the entire thing – I assume that she was in shock or, as she’s a devout Christian, trying to follow Jesus’ example and forgive both myself and her husband.
But now it’s just a waiting game. I’m constantly being told by them to convince my friend that it wasn’t rape, and he tells me that I haven’t told her because she’s still so angry. I’ll be having a semblance of peace when he comes in to remind me that I enjoyed it, so why haven’t I told her that?
It seems as though I’m crying everyday and begging God to help me. I just need some help.