Tag Archives: Incest

The Essence of a Little Girls Loneliness and Pain

The Essence of a Little Girls Loneliness and Pain
Wordless, this photograph has sat framed, in my home, my entire life. No matter where I have lived, I’ve kept it close, hearing its horrifying screams daily, silently grasping for me, bellowing out all the words that you see  from the well of my deepest despair. Words boldly wrestling within my soul, clawing out those tiny eyes, like rusted barbed wire, embracing me, bludgeoning me, shredding all that was left of my vanquished tortured being. Continue reading The Essence of a Little Girls Loneliness and Pain

Dear Rapist, an Open Letter to the One Who Abducted My Innocence

www.kerrichronicles.comP Jr.,

This is not a letter asking how you’ve been or inquiring about what you are up to because none of that concerns me. My only concern is the future and in order for me to move forward, from this point, at any distance, I have to look back on those years that you were a part of my life and reflect on all of the sexual abuse that you committed against me. You didn’t just molest me, P Jr. or abuse me sexually, you raped me.  

Continue reading Dear Rapist, an Open Letter to the One Who Abducted My Innocence

My Very First Memory

My Very First Memory

Warning: The following story may be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

My first memory in life is at the age of two. It’s very vivid, as if it just happened yesterday. I was wearing these footed pajamas. They were the same color as my father’s truck and they zipped all the way up the front. I was holding on to my baby doll and sucking my thumb as I played in the bedroom with my brother and my father’s three older sons. They were visiting for the weekend.

My father was home. He was screaming in the next room for my mother to call the police. Someone was outside; they were stealing his light blue truck.

Continue reading My Very First Memory

Good Little Girls Don’t Behave This Way

Warning: The following story may be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

Praying
Kerri Bishop-Reece 2 yrs old

Praying daily is one of the steps on my ten steps to healing me list. My first thought was “this won’t be so painful,” but then I had a flashback of me so many years ago. A little, sweet-faced four-year old girl, following my mother down the stairs.

What had I done wrong? I didn’t want him to do those dirty things to me. I didn’t understand. Why was I such a bad girl? I was just so scared and couldn’t stop crying. What was wrong with me?

Continue reading Good Little Girls Don’t Behave This Way

Dancing with Death

Dancing with Death

Warning: The following story may be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

Dancing with Death

My heart has only known darkness,
A shadow, looming over my soul.
It’s a dungeon, ever widening,
From an evil I cannot control.

The pain is suffocating,
Hovering – swaying in a dance of death,
Smothering my existence,
As I fight for my last breath.

Searching for a haven,
A harbor for my pain.
My tear drops I am choking on,
My emotions bound in chains.

I struggle to move forward,
Falling further and further behind.
Haunted by the demons,
Plagued by memories etched in my mind. 

Stumbling in the darkness,
A facade of armor,
Confident and strong.
Is this my destination? Is this where I belong?

Fighting through the chaos,
Weeping wounds along the way.
Choking on the bloodshed,
Scars left by those who have betrayed.

Praying for an angel,
Begging at deaths door,
Confusion is my mindset,
I suffer even more.

My home – a torture chamber,
The walls a distorted shape.
Hell is my only playground,
Living this childhood of rape.

Dancing with Death
From the personal journal of Kerri Bishop Reece
Healing Kerri – written June 18, 1987

If you are reading this and were molested as a child, raped, sexually assaulted, etc. I’m sure that you can relate.

When I was growing up, I felt very alone in the world. I knew that what was being done to me was wrong but I felt that it was my own fault because no one that I knew talked about this kind of stuff. My mother, the one person who was supposed to protect me, supposed to love me and keep me safe, she blamed me – she hated me – she made me feel worthless, ashamed and improper so I was too afraid to tell anyone else for fear of losing their love and respect. If my own mother felt that way about me, wouldn’t others feel that way about me too? If they knew, wouldn’t they dislike me and shame me too? I didn’t want anyone to dislike me or to shame me anymore than I already disliked and shamed myself.

I prayed daily, I prayed for the abuse to stop but it went on year after year and as the time passed, my prayers turned to questions. I questioned God – asking him why I was put on this earth. I wanted to know if this was my purpose in the world. Did he bring me into this world to be tormented or were there other reasons. I questioned Him a lot. I wanted to know what I had done to deserve the life that I had. I blamed him. I didn’t need a reason to hate God because I felt that I’d had plenty of them.

I felt that most people don’t understand how that abuse dominated my life. I feared it. It was constantly on my mind. I worried every second of every day. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. I barely got by in school, I smoked cigarettes and abused drugs and alcohol to the point that I overdosed as a teenager, landing myself in the hospital with doctors forcing lethal doses of drugs out of my system.

When it was over and I was free, it continued by haunting me. I’m still haunted by the memories of each time I was touched. I’m still haunted by my mother’s words, in my head, repeatedly telling me that it’s my fault, my shame and I am even sometimes haunted by the seething anger and the need for revenge that runs through my veins. As a young adult, the reality of my world was harsh. Physically I was no longer being abused but emotionally I was often raped over and over again.

Today, I still pray about it.