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I see that yesterday I got my first comment- from Heroine Girl. That thrilled me to no end, since it was Heroine Girl who inspired me to tell my story in the first place. Thank you, Heroine Girl- you mean so much to me. We are sisters, in a way, even though we have never met.

I didn't intend to arrange this blog chronologically, but other than my entry about my flirtation with crack, it seems to be happening that way. It might not continue like this forever, but let's just get the rest of the molestation story out of the way, then we can go on to other things like drugs and promiscuity and prostitution and all that stuff.

The spring before I turned twelve was a rocky, difficult one for me. As I said before, my parents had split up the previous autumn. During that entire spring, my mom practically forgot we existed. My father had been very strict, so once he was gone we were pretty much allowed to run wild. My mom had far more pressing worries- the divorce, our dire financial situation, her new job. Us kids were the lowest priority on her list, for sure. My mom mourned herself right into a physical breakdown in the end- she collapsed at work one day, and spent two weeks in hospital. Even when she was released she couldn't be bothered to care about anything we did.

I remember several incidents between my brother and I that year, and they were becoming more intense. He would come after me every time my mother left us alone, which was frequently. One afternoon in early summer he had me kneeling on the floor in his bedroom, sucking his cock. He yelled at me when I grazed him with my teeth and I complained that my jaw hurt. He lifted me up by putting his hands under my armpits- in the same way one would lift a toddler. He always lifted me up that way, and it was very painful for a child of my size.

As soon as I was standing he pulled my pants down. He laid down on the bed on his back and tried to get me into a "69" position but I complained that my jaw still hurt, so he had me straddle his crotch, and, for the first time, he penetrated me vaginally. Such terrible pain- I guess I should consider myself lucky that he waited until I was past puberty to try it, but still, for me, it was more painful than being anally raped. He had his dick about halfway in when I gasped and said "I think I hear mom coming home" and pulled away from him, grabbed my shorts and ran to the bathroom.

There was blood everywhere, much more than I usually got with my period. My mom, of course, was not really home, so after a minute or two my brother stuck his head around the bathroom door. "You made me bleed!" I said accusingly. He gave me a funny look and said "No, I didn't". Denial, of course, always denial.

The next words that came out of my mouth changed everything- "You could have gotten me pregnant!" Apparently that sentence hit home for him- he never touched me again after that day.

But that was not the end. Not at all. First, I lived through three weeks of fear, thinking I might be pregnant, and what the hell was I going to do if I was? Since I was a voracious reader, I was familiar with the biology of sex by then- I didn't think he'd cum in me, but I also knew that he could have leaked some sperm into me without actually coming. I spent those weeks in agony, imagining having to tell my mom, thinking that if I was pregnant by my brother, the baby would surely be a deformed monster. Finally my period came- such relief, I could not stop thanking God for saving me from such a fate.

My mother was close with the teenage girl my brother was dating at the time, and a couple of weeks after I lost my virginity to to my brother, his girlfriend told us that he was cheating on her with a 12-year-old girl from the poor side of town. At first we didn't believe it, since it seemed so far-fetched. But then my brother moved out of our house to move in with the 12-year-old and her mother. This was the American South, so it was not at all unheard-of for a mother to try to have her daughter married off at 13 or 14, though the idea was completely shocking to my mother, who had grown up in the North.

I have to stop for now. Later I'll talk about why I was finally forced to tell my mother about what had happened, a year later, and what happened after that.