Ah, but the incidents in the neighbors basement, where my father attanged for the men to "visit" has grown. It was not the only occasion where men paid to see me naked and performing.
The new memories so hard to fathom yet the visual flashback so clear that I cannot wish them away as dreams.
The vivid yellow 2 story motel where my father made phone calls and men knocked on the door. The bargaining which took place, the description of prices and acts and me, all of 10 and 11, being photographed. A black and white picture of me that I cannot erase from memory. The hotel room bed, the phone by which dad called soliciting. The knocks at the door. The men wanting photos of their own and more. Making money for groceries so my siblings could eat in the leanest of times. How mom never questioned where the money came from. My dad's lies that it was from kind relatives. No credit for me.
Degrading as I lay naked on the hotel bed performing tasks for foreign cameras or worse, acts of excitement as my father sat in the bathroom monitoring, callously the transactions.
It still seems so blessed unreal and far away yet the vividness counters my denial, messes with my mind and devalues my worth as human.
I was but a child of 10 and 11 as I made money for my family because dad couldn't find a job.
In therapy, 11 felt so strange in clothes, asking therapist if she had given the clothes to her. Some parts of me spent most of their time naked with hands in proactive positions, performing, a puppet being pulled by visible strings and a well trained pimp.
The feelings surrounding are like wagons circling a bonfire with hostile reality trying to weasel in.
I don't know if or when I'll be able to acknowledge and accept these acts as my own or of someone living within me. I wish I could categorically deny it but the pictures, the memory film procludes that.
My therapist is handling the extreme switching and disturbing memories well. Methinks she be another gift from the universe, from God, via the heavens as she doesn't flinch as painful memories are surfaced, spoken and delved.
My emotions regarding this long string of events continues to be stymied and fogged, unable to grasp the gravity of what it feels like for a father to repeatedly, actively prostitute his own daughter.
I sleep rarely, fitfully and with great consternation.
What shall happen to my heart and mind once I integrate, process these experiences.
Oh how it gets worse, the growing litany of egregious actions perpetrated on the children within.
Truth is continually leaking out and I don't know how to handle this foreign, egregious recent twist.
