Oprah’s 200 Men

Okay…..I know I am months, upon months late….but it took some time and some courage for me to finally get the nerve to actually watch this.

As a female who was molested by her own father, I can only imagine what it could feel like for a male to feel like he had to keep the secret of being abused, in any fashion.  In my blogs The House My Father Built and a Molestation Survivor Speaks….you can catch a glimpse of my struggle. And even after speaking to my biological father in NOvember for the first time in 15 years….he told me that I made it all up in my mind and that I was brainwashed by family members. WHO DOES THAT?!!!!!!!! He couldn’t face the fact that he was a perverted bastard who once molested his own sister and then continued with me…..he had to attempt to make me feel stupid and as if it was my fault. I refuse to own that, but it is very hard for me shake this part of my past; I don’t even know if I am supposed to.

So I recorded this on my DVR months ago and something is now telling me to watch it….on this EASTER Sunday( I know this is not when you will read this…but it is when I wrote it). Something is about to be resurrected….hopefully the real me. I feel safe enough to watch this. It is time for me to face this beast….and what better way than to watch this episode of Oprah and possibly help some other people.

Now, I didn’t watch the Tyler Perry Episode… I guess I should find a copy of it….but I will deal with what I have thus far.

Take 2 in 5, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, #Heal

The House My Father Built

       It occurred like a script unfolding in real life. It was as if I read God’s mind, wrote a blog & then He got jealous at my telepathic skills and decided to put me to the test. “How dare I pick up on God’s plan” is what this lesson was teaching me. How  dare I be so in tune with the powers that be that I set myself up in the cross hairs of this lesson’s aim. But here I stood, or laid rather. September 17th, 2010, just 9 days after I wrote a blog about being molested by my father……I wake up to a Facebook message of a woman telling me that she worked with my father and he was trying to find me.  *glass shatters* Fear riddled my body as if the Nazi party had ratted me out to the KKK for kissing a white man in Mississippi after running away from the plantation without my freedom papers. No amount of words could describe this experience.

        It had been almost 16 years since the last time I had set eyes on, heard from, or even smelled my biological father. It wasnt even anything that I missed. But here is was, invading my Blackberry and oozing into the privacy of my house. I closed the application just because I felt that it was giving too much information about my whereabouts. There I was… wrapped in my covers having not even stepped out of bed for the morning….and I was no longer the 29-year-old woman who I was supposed to be; I was now a 9-year-old crouched in the corner of the bed waiting for my father to turn the bedroom door knob after having smoked a Newport.

        How do you compete with that? How do you explain to yourself that the emotions you are feeling are validated yet you fight so hard not to experience them? Why was I on the brink of crying? Why was I feeling heavy all of a sudden? I was grown, right? I had done well for myself without him, right? He wasnt even on my radar. The last time , before the blog, that I had even thought of my father was when I was in high school searching obituaries just so that I could finally know that he had died. It was as much of a ritual for me as Muslims pray throughout the day. It was my sanctuary of revenge.  Housed inside of my facade of happiness hid the fear that he would one day find me.

        So from my bed, the first thing that came to mind was. I rent, so the house isn’t in my name. The phone is shared with my roommate and it isn’t in my name. Other than my taxes, only a hand-full of people know my exact location. I go by my stage name so that should people in Baltimore ever reference me in his presence, he wouldn’t even know that it was me. I never take the same route home or mode of transportation from and to different locations; I’ve become my own CIA agent. I have a google voice number so that no one can ever track me down and connect me directly. I know 4 escape routes out of my house just in case I need to flee. But why was it that….with all of this hiding, he still managed to find me . In my home. In my bed. Waking me from my sleep. I managed to still be exposed. This time, I couldn’t escape.

The correspondences with the coworker went as follows:

•  
  • Gina September 17 at 6:26am Report
  • 2Deep,
    My name is Gina and I work with your father. He has ask me to send you this message he would very much like to see you and sit down and talk. We are currently in Baltimore, Maryland. Please send me a message on what you would like to do. He knows that you don’t want to see him but he request that you at least give him a chance to explain. Thanks Gina
  • 2Deep September 17 at 6:29am
    Are you serious?!!!! How’d you even find me and where does he work/live? Etc. Let me think about it b/c I really don’t see what there could be to explain.

     
  • Gina  September 17 at 6:53am Report

    2Deep, he works at [employer], our number is 410-[###-###] not that I am pushing the issue just wanted to give you the number just in case after you think about it. Thanks for answering me, he does not have a computer

     
  • 2Deep September 17 at 6:55am

    I don’t mean to be rude, as this is not directed at you, but why is he looking for me now and does he know where I am? Is he dying? Because this sounds like a guilty man dying.

     
  • Gina  September 17 at 7:11am Report

    Believe me I understand and I know it is not directed at me. He was off yesterday and he came in this morning and said that a situation had come up and I guess someone told him to check on Facebook , in conversation I told him I had a Facebook account and that’s how he found you. He said that he has been looking for you, and it is important that he sees you. and no he is not dying. he just said to me it is important to him. I do not know the story nor am I trying to get in your business or his, but I understand your feelings because even though it may not be the same situation one of my family members did not see their child for years, and when they tried she did not want to see them. so I do understand. He just knows that you may be in Maryland, at least that’s what he said.

     
  • 2Deep September 17 at 7:13am

    Well, I will think about it. Thanks. Have a blessed day.

    Sent via Facebook Mobile

     
  • Gina  September 17 at 7:17am Report

    you too!!!

        Wow! What a way to start the day, huh? The sad part about it was… I put on a good front. I stood my ground and appeared sane. If only for a moment I felt proud of myself. I got up and took a shower, ate, and took over an hour to decide what I was going to wear to work, how was my hair suppose to be, and should I wear make-up. BAM! I caught myself. I caught myself making sure I was “perfect”. I hadn’t done this in years. My father, without even being in the same house, had managed to creep into my psyche and revert me back to the child who double checked everything before leaving my room. Part of it was to make sure that I was well covered so he wouldn’t be attracted to anything on me. The other half was so that I could cover up to the world just how worthless and ugly I felt from what was going on behind the walls of my house. It was dress up. And even though I still havent seen Tyler Perry’s interview, but have heard of it….. I dressed up to run away from the moments that weren’t so pretty. Everything could be dressed up. Everything could be made into make-believe and make-believe made real. And 16 years later, I stood in my house playing dress up for the day.  And I sat Indian style on the floor and cried. I made myself look in the mirror as I did this, made myself self say “fuck the time” as I was already late for work, and I cried.

I cried that the emotions I had dressed up had taken it  upon themselves to undress without my permission. They had chosen to come out of the closet and drape over my camouflage and force me to pay attention to the situation at hand. And I wasnt ready. I wasnt ready to go out on stage. I wasnt ready to speak the lines that were literally written on the page, but rather summarize the thesis. But curtain call was calling me to come and hold this situation’s hand and take a bow….the run on Broadway could end, but for some reason… I was a member of Cats and I identified myself with this long drawn out version of my existence. Who would I be if I didn’t have this as a crutch to fall back on when needed? Who would I be if I didn’t have this hatred in the back of my heart? Who am I?

So I got up, wiped the make-up from my face, pulled my hair back in a simple pony tail, and I went to work comfortably for the day. I was ready to be a big girl. Despite the walls that my father had helped me to build around my fears, around my self-worth, around my heart, I too knew how to handle a tool or two. And this act of defiance, this unwillingness to dress up on this day, shook the very foundation of my father’s house of cards that once seemed like Alcatraz wrapped around me. And a few days passed……

• 2Deep September 20 at 2:23pm

  Hello,

  I still havent decided on myself, but you could at least tell him that I passed his information on to my sister. She has been looking for him.

  I guess what is stalling my final decision would be.. what “situation” occurred that made him wish to look for me. If that cannot be answered on your part, I completely understand.

  I humbly appreciate your patience and understanding as well as your participation. God bless!
  ~2Deep

• Gina September 20 at 4:01pm Report
  2Deep I am at home now so first thing in the morning I will tell him about your message. We also looked for your sister on here as well and we did find a [My Sister’s Name] on here and I sent a friend request to the young lady but have not heard from her maybe she is not the right person or because she doesn’t know me she did not accept my request. I am sure he will want me to send a message to you in the morning but I don’t want to wake you in the morning so let me know what is a good time because I think that I may have woke you up the last time we spoke thru messaging. Thanks Gina
• 2Deep September 20 at 4:14pm
  I wake up around 6:30am every morning so I was just waking up last time. Yes, that is her and I have no clue if she still has an account here on FB, she an I are currently not speaking. Like Father, like child. Have a blessed evening.
• Gina  September 20 at 5:02pm Report
  YOU TOO!!
• Gina  September 21 at 9:15am Report
  2Deep,
  This is what he said to me. YOU ARE MY DAUGHTER AND I LOVE YOU AND WANT TO SEE YOU. When you decide to see me I will explain everything. that’s what he said to me. Gina
• 2Deep September 21 at 9:21am
  LMAO!!!!! Boy, I always wondered where I got my twisted humor from. Now, I see that I got it honest. Thanks for the message. I pray that you have a wonderful day. Mine is going beautifully. God bless!~2Deep

  Sent via Facebook Mobile
• Gina September 21 at 9:27am Report
  I am sorry if I sounded abrupt but that’s exactly how he said it to me.
  Gina
• 2Deep   September 21 at 9:36am
  Oh no, it’s NOT YOU. I heard his voice in my head when you said it. I believe that is exactly how he said it & that’s what makes it funny. Don’t mind me. Long story. Thanks again.

  Sent via Facebook Mobile
• Gina September 21 at 9:45am Report
  ok, no problem have a good one.
• 2Deep September 21 at 9:31p

        My sister, the one who would have a better shot at robbing Jesus of a Rolex & speaking to my father, said that she called the number you provided today around 4pm your time & no one answered. When is there a better time to call?I don’t know you, but I pray that this isn’t a prank,   for my sister’s sake. B/c this would kill her if she couldn’t actually get in contact w/ him. Thanks.

• Gina    September 22 at 6:40am Report
• 2Deep, this is not a joke!! I know your first name is [My Name] (spelling may be wrong) or at least that is what your father told me. He works 7 to 3:30 we close at 4:00 and believe me the girls in the office leave at 5 of. our answering machine does not come on until 5:00 pm
  she can call during th day at anytime. she did friend me and I am sure he will send a message. Thanks Gina
• 2Deep   September 22 at 6:43am
• Thanks so very much. I care more about her talking to her name sake than myself. My apologies if I sounded rude, I just have to play big sis and make sure that she isn’t being messed with. Have a blessed day.
• Sent via Facebook Mobile
• Gina September 22 at 6:48am Report
• I do not think you are being rude. Again I don’t know the whole story and of course what little I am hearing is one side. after working with your Dad for 4yrs I kind of know how he is, and after talking to you for just a few short days I can tell that you have grown into a fine young lady with or with out him. I can understand why you want to protect your family. Have a great day!!!
• 2Deep September 22 at 6:55am
• Wow! 4 years?! More power to you! I guess my curiosity only wants to know what he looks like. I don’t think that I am either emotionally or mentally prepared to hear much else at this time. Still praying on it. If I were to ever contact him I would have to feel safe & have all of my tracks covered. I am a secluded person, very secretive & private, & wish for not even friends to be able to find me or know where I live, all thanks to him. Been this way since my teens. So I will continue to pray about it & hope that he doesn’t feed my sister lies or false hopes. Thanks again for everything. God bless.
• Sent via Facebook Mobile
• Gina September 22 at 6:58am Report
• I hope he doesn’t feed either one of you lies and false hope. I will bring a camera in and take a picture and post it on my account for you. (if I can remember, I am old lol…) What ever your decision is I am just the messenger and I wish you well. I am sure we will talk again
• 2Deep    September 22 at 6:59am
• Thanks. God bless!

        Then one day, as if I wasnt moving on his time. I get a message that shook my defiance awake. It was as if this was a true test to my face! Bold, deliberate and outright disrespectful to my very being…to my existence. I woke up to a heading that read:  [2Deep], THIS IS A LETTER YOUR FATHER WROTE TO SEND YOU. HE ASK ME TO SEND IT THROUGH FACEBOOK,  and it read:

•  
  • Gina September 24 at 1:37pm Report
    [misspelled my name],
    It saddens me that you have to think about seeing your father. That tells me that the amount of poison that you have been fed has become lethal and my suffering will continue. On the other hand I am so very proud of you and your accomplishments!!!!! you appear to be a very beautiful young lady with a promising future. I will always love you and I look forward to the day that you can look pass my failures as a parent and try to start a new relationship with me..your father.

    (2Deep, I was hesitant to send this to you because I feel that it is not my place, but he asked because he has no way to contact you and he kept asking me. ) Gina

  • 2Deep  September 24 at 1:49pm
    Thank you so very much. If there is an address (US Postal) for him where I can reply, I’ll address/reply to him personally. Since he is playing victim & suffering from a bout w/ amnesia, I’ll remain on the borders of the real issues as well. Again, you are heaven-sent & your efforts are genuinely appreciated. God bless.~2Deep

    Sent via Facebook Mobile
  • 2Deep  September 24 at 2:09pm
    P.S. Please tell him to learn how to properly spell my name, if that wasn’t a typo.

        There it was. He didn’t take responsibility for anything. it was this mysterious “poison” that I was supposed to have been fed. I felt hurt all over again, but this time I decided to fight back. I fought the urge to cry, I wavered on what I should do… so I did what came naturally… I called my dad (godfather).

I mentioned it to my dad and my mother over heard the conversation. She said to me, “Forgive him, and then move on. Dont confuse forgiveness with reconciliation.”  And that was that. Again, my mother said the simplest thing and it made perfect sense. I didn’t have to sit in turmoil over what to do. I just had to respectfully forgive. I would never be as outright as Tyler and pay for his bills, etc. But I could at least respect his position of who he should have been and close this for myself. I still havent done it yet… but I plan to. I don’t know if I want to write a letter, or to call, or to see him in person just to close this out for myself. But one day soon… I will be free. 

I wonder what it will be like to live in a new house. A house where I won the keys, where my name is on all owner’s documents. Because living in this house that my father built has brought forth some bitter-sweet memories. I am thankful that I survived, but bitter that I had to endure the construction of these walls all in the same breath. Each day I build a foundation of courage to speak my mind , the wisdom to know what to say and if I should ask questions, the strength to walk away , the understanding to not feel guilty, and forgiveness to truly mean it for good. Forgiveness: Extreme Makeovers: Home Edition.

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

What Happens in this House….:A Molestation Survivor Speaks

WARNING: This is a very graphic and tough topic. Personal experiences and sexual references are made and PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

        Somewhere, in some part of the world, there is a little girl snuggled in her bed pressed against a wall, head under her pillow with just enough space to inhale for the breath holding ahead and to peek towards the door knob awaiting the return of her personal boogie man. Monsters Inc prepares children for the monsters who reside under your bed and in your closets, but what about the monsters who pin you down to the bed and force you and this secret into the closet….what then?

        I was one of those children, and I don’t know if I have ever stopped being one of those children. To this day, I sleep with my bedroom door locked, a privilege that was not granted to me living under his roof. I have escape routes out of windows in my house just in case an intruder were to ever invade my safe haven. Windows covered in complete darkness resemble the rooms I had growing up because our neighbor’s house was so close and he lived by the rule of thumb that “what happens in this house stays in this house.” Who was I to judge his authority?

(Screaming!) He molested me! *exhales* There, I said it…outloud. Who is this “he”, you ask?

        He was my father, Charles S Carter Jr, and he was the man who molested me from before I could remember until the courts took us away from him when I was 12 years old. People say that I look like him, but I still need a DNA test to even begin that process. He was an electrical engineer with several degrees who spoke several languages, and a normal relationship was as foreign to us as him speaking Korean to me in moments of battle. I was his daughter. His first-born, born from the love that he had once married to my mother, but I would come to learn that although I was not his favorite I would turn out to be Daddy’s Girl. Late night parent daughter talks, asthmatic lungs inhaling the stench of Newports from his chest as the weight of a grown man crushed my prepubescent body into a mattress for no other reason than I was female, easily accessible, and he had a disease that yearned to be fed. Daughter perched on daddy’s lap became a moment to talk about whatever popped up, as eyes were turned to the roaming hands of a step brother who idolized him and my flat chest at the same time. This is where I lived and died daily. I lived with a military man who swore to protect his country but protected the secret of his personal habit even harder. Just ask my crushed toes underneath the Army boots that were now stepping on my feet for not wearing socks or houseshoes…as if being his daughter wasnt punishment enough.

        I remember being punished just for breathing too loudly; popped in the mouth for the escape of a smack reaching his eardrum. A simple tug of his beard meant I was in trouble. One time, he hit me so hard in my tailbone that I lost control of my legs and urinated on myself all in one swift swoop, just to turn around and get a whooping for messing up the floor. A call from the teacher meant that I would have to strip in front of my father and walk the house butt naked and if he saw me ,and felt like it, then I would get a whooping right then and there. I became a master at silently turning door knobs better than he could and dodging in and out of bedrooms and hallway closets just to go to and from the bathroom in peace. Doing number two (pardon the graphics) was the only time I could be in the bathroom in peace without anyone entering.  Fingers entering openings to ensure “cleaning” because I was filthy, followed by my father laying me on the bed to towel dry me off and rub me from head to toe with baby oil. Slow grinding on me was common place. Adolescent hips popping out of socket under the weight of his grinding, hurting, caused me to try to push him off because talking would make him lose his concentration and bring whoopings. He never listened to my cries and held my hands down. There I was, learning the best lessons of male and female relationships from my father. How lucky was I to learn about the birds and bees from my own father? Every girl needs a father in the house, right?

        One day in church I just didn’t want to go back to his house. My aunt couldn’t make me if God told me to go back himself. I’d had enough. Sitting in the police station with male police officers giving me different toys to describe my fathers penis proved unfruitful; I didn’t trust males. They had no choice but to send me back. I got a whooping until I blacked out. My father took me to a therapist to save face…maybe she could figure out where I was “making these stories up”.

        Off of Carmichael Road in Montgomery, Alabama sat my therapist’s office. A soft-spoken caucasian woman who listened intently as my father sat on the other side of the door.  That is until the day she asked me to re-enact with Barbie and Ken what I told the police happened….so, I showed her. She opened the door and invited my father into the room so he could see too. I never spoke of anything again. And yes, you guessed it….I got a whooping until I had an asthma attack and he had to take me to Maxwell Air Force Base to the ER. This time my Aunt believed me and she fought for custody…but she still allowed him visitations until she passed away when I was 15. He came to her house for her funeral and sat in the kitchen and told ever male there not to be trusted around me because I would lie on them like I had lied on him. And he vanished into street legend. I never saw him, or the therapist ever again.

        My father followed me, in theory. I heard stories of him doing crack from friends in high school, but he had taught me the best lesson ever; Never let anyone make you feel like less of a person. I walked those halls of my high school as a virgin…because I was. Guys from all around wanted to be with the virgin and every single one failed. I wouldn’t willingly give myself to someone until I was in college. You see….I was molested, but he didn’t take my virginity.

        Every guy is not my father, nor am I searching for him in every guy that I date….but through all that I wrote above and more that I didn’t write….I was still a human. A demon like him couldn’t touch the best parts of me. He couldn’t reach them with all of his might because his intentions were wrong. My virginity had nothing to do with sex…my virginity was me, my mind, my free spirit, my determination to rise above where people keep putting me, and the favor that was placed over me even though I was entangled in a generational curse. He tried, but I walked out of his house and his presence with the hymen of my integrity and the mission over my life in tack.

        Today, he lives in Baltimore. He’s never been prosecuted, never been made to suffer for what he put me and others through. One day, and maybe soon… I will walk to where they say that he works and tell him that he couldn’t break me. He couldn’t make me feel less than a princess even though my father wasnt a king.

        This is a part of what I went through, but it is NOT who I am. It helped me make decisions about not showing my body to just any guy. You’ll never hear tales of me sleeping with different guys all in the name of love without being in love. You’ll never see pics of me plastered on the internet that show more of my assets than I am showing I am worth. And you will never hear that I’ve stopped breaking the silence. I was molested but I was never a victim. My virginity never has to be born again because it never died. I found strength through this. Dont get me wrong, I’d never go back a second time…. but I made it out, and THAT is something to be proud of. Where I came from does NOT determine where I will go.

       So, to anyone who has been through similar stories….today is not too late to realize that they had the problem and not you. We are of a sisterhood that many will never understand. I salute you and all of your wonderful glory. I stopped holding my father accountable for what he did to me and the effects it had on my life the day I last saw him….that is not my battle. It weighs you down, trust me. I try to find love as much as often in my daily activities…..today.. I love you. One day you will gain the strength to no longer be ashamed of your story…until then I will speak for you, I dont mind. What are sisters for, right?

        My prayer is that, just this once ,you listen to my father: What happened in your house, stays in your house…..including the pain and the shame. We’ve got other little girls to protect. No time for living in the past. Here, take my hand…..I’m with you as we walk out of our molester’s house. God bless!

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

This is the house where majority of it happened. On Pinebrook Dr in Montgomery,AL