Pedophile, that ugly word that means so much more than its three short syllables can begin to express. In fact, words can't even begin to describe the disgust and repulsion I feel when I think of the horrible acts done by my Father.
A father is supposed to be your protector, someone who you can look up to, someone who takes care of the family. My father was none of these. Although, on the outside, he looked pretty fantastic. For as long as I can remember he was in church leadership. People saw him as a bible scholar, a man of tremendous wisdom and knowledge. At church, he was calm, cool and put together. Everyone respected him and thought he was fabulous.
They didn't know that he beat us before church. That I began to sing a worship song in the van on the way and he pulled over to belt me for being an annoyance to him. They don't know the other horrors he did. By the time I was four years old, he began coming into the room I shared with a foster sister. She was about 12 years old. She was on the bottom bunk and I was on the top. He would lay with her and "teach her how to please her future husband as mandated by the bible". I would make my breathing as silent as possible, trying to be invisible. I would lay as close to the wall as possible so he couldn't reach me and pretend to be asleep, all the while hearing every vile thing he said, and knowing every disgusting thing he was doing to her.
The terror that rose inside of me, on nights when my mother would get groceries was like none other. After two years of him abusing my foster sister while I pretended to sleep. she suddenly left. Another foster sister arrived. This time he built her a private bed in a closet, maybe because he hoped he could visit her alone.
By the time I was ten or eleven he began to notice me. I developed early. I don't know if that was because I had endured sexual abuse by the foster kids during the previous years, but none the less I was a little girl who was well endowed. He noticed. It seemed innocent enough at first, as he compliments the curve of my calf or the shape of my hips. But soon my breasts became his daily focus. I couldn't walk out of my room without him noticing and singing little jingles about them. Every joke was about my breast and he looked at me in a way that was vile. It like like he undressed me every time I walked into a room.
The first time I recall him grabbing me, and forcing himself on me was the day my parents had a date. I decided to surprise them by making the house extra spotless for when the came home. I was trying so hard to earn love. As soon as they arrived my mother walked down the hall into her bedroom and my father grabbed me, leaned me backward and stuck his tongue down my throat. I fought to get away.
I can't remember the horrors that happened in those years because my brain has blocked out so much, but I do remember how my father looks naked. I do remember what his underwear looks like. I do remember how his beard felt against my face.
There were other girls in our home over the years and they have confirmed that they were his victims. It feels so strange to admit that my father is a pedophile. But he's more than that. He is a man who violently beat me. he is a man who was cruel to me. who locked me in the garbage bin with rotting garbage and maggots. He is a man who became a pastor and yet tried to force me to be his mistress. i can't reconcile with the revolting truth. My father calls himself a Christian pastor but does abominable things.
The last time he spoke to me was when I was 32. He was claiming me as property now that I was divorced and talking sexual to me. He said I had no choice but to move in with him and I would be responsible for the cooking and cleaning. Then he talked about wanting to get his hands on me. He said I had no choice...... it wasn't up for discussion. He said under Jewish law I was his property. I did have a choice. I made sure he never found me and my children, that they were never exposed to his perversions. That my daughter wasn't made to be one of his victims.
The hardest part of that story, however, is that he was pastoring a church. He was supposed to be a man of God yet he was a man of disgusting perversion. I changed my name and disappeared to protect myself and have never seen him since.
So, am I the daughter of a pedophile?? Maybe not, maybe I broke that tie a long time ago when I said no more. Maybe when I broke that cycle and changed my name from his to Emmanuel I stopped being the daughter of a pedophile and instead chose to be the daughter of the King. I chose the name Emmanuel because it means God with us. God is my father.... not Tom. I choose to honor God.
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