All the guilt and shame, all the pain I felt all these years, I thought were mine to shoulder forever. I contemplated suicide more than once. I thought the only way to end it was to end it myself. There was little hope. I settled for cutting. I cut myself just to feel that searing pain and watch the blood run down my arms or legs. Like a river running free with nothing to tell it where to go or what to do. It was the closest thing to feeling good that I could do. Just for those few moments, I was in control. 

 

Deep down somewhere inside there was a little flame that stayed burning, telling me to keep going for one more day. I never thought I’d escape. I’d rot in this cage. I would be a slave to this place. You don’t know how hard I fought to survive, waking up alive when all I wanted was to die. You don’t know about this life I've lived these roads I've walked, or these tears I've shed. 

 

There are effects this has had on me extending from living at home. One thing that I have had to live with as a result of this is my dislike for person-to-person contact. I don’t even hug my family or sometimes my kids. I have OCD affecting my sleep habits. I suffer from overeating. I constantly concern myself with my self-image to others, have had several unhealthy obsessive relationships. All based on my need to feel worthy and low self-esteem. I have nightmares, constantly. Nightmares, flashbacks, and post-traumatic stress syndrome. 

 

Every day I must fight the war that rages inside me. The constant argument with myself. The black and white of it, the good vs. evil. Everything I do is tainted by all this. Memories of my childhood dictate my life and even though I don’t express it openly with others, I fight all the emotions back and finally settle with the one easiest to control. Anger. 

 

I need to be and have been the strong one, the one who can keep a level head during all of this. They needed and shoulder to lean on and I took that willingly. But it takes its toll as well, I do cry when I'm alone. I cry when I wake from my nightmares. I still fight my self-image, my self-esteem, I take on challenges to prove that I am not worthless. I push myself to the max every day to not become everything he said that I would. Still somedays I slip, slip to that place that so closely resembles hell. The place where all the guilt and self-loathing all but consumes me whole and spits me out broken again. I fight and I fight to win. I use my anger to fuel that little flame that has always been there, burning inside, keeping me lit, at least one more day. 

 

How long do you think it’s going to take to get over these things? I’ll tell you; too long, much longer than it should take. It seems to me that time is not taken into account here though. Concerning this matter forty years with twenty suspended and eligible for parole after five? Tell me that’s not a slap in the face to this family, myself, my sister, mother, brother, or any other child who has or is going through this same ordeal?! I don’t want an apology; I don’t want to see remorse. I want to see suffering, the same suffering that I felt. I want to see, fear of what comes next. I want to see a total loss of control. No more choices, no more options, and no more DEALS! 

 “First, I’d like to say thank you for taking the time to listen to what I have to say. It’s been four years, seven months, three weeks, and one day since this circus started. I will be more than grateful when I get to put this experience behind me. I have waited for this day since August 25^th, 2010. It’s been more than infuriating to have to wait this long to finally get a say, to be heard, to actually have control over my life and the people influencing it.

This impact statement is supposed to be written to the courts to detail the effects that these depraved acts have caused. Well, this could take a while. Let me take you back to the summer of 1997, I was nine nearly ten the first time I was abused. While my mother worked two jobs to pay the bills and put food on the table, we were under his constant supervision. After recently moving here from my grandparents’ house in MS, I was trying to adjust to the new rules and lifestyle of the family.

While I have nothing against rules and structure, I seemed to have a tough time conforming to the cruel and unusual habits he had created. Several rules were, I was not allowed to have friends at my house nor was I allowed to go to anyone's house, ever. School was considered a privilege so therefore on a whim he could decide that particular day, I didn’t need to go. I would have to stay home and do work in the yard, cleaning, finding tools, mending fences, etc. When I did go to school, I was expected to do chores before schoolwork, yet nothing less than a B+ was acceptable on my report cards.'' I was in trouble a lot. Trying to get all these rules right was made impossible on purpose. I could never get anything right, and he was always doing strange things for punishments. Writing thousands of sentences, not getting to go to bed until things were done, standing in the corner with my head pressed against it until my nose bled. Getting whipped with the belt buckle, push-ups, and leg lifts until I was sick. Having to start over if I stopped.

That’s when he came to me with a proposal, a Deal, an agreement that could get me out of these punishments and earn special privileges, such as having friends over, or fewer chores. At nine years old I was interested in what I could do to get out of trouble or have a friend from school come over! Little did I know, and much to my dismay, what this “deal” was going to entail. This was not any kind of agreement that any child at any age should have to consent to. I declined. I said NO, but to think that I actually had a choice was a mistake that will forever haunt me. 

 I noticed the woman that was either with the parole board or the off-duty officer, I caught a glimpse of badge and gun this time but still couldn’t make them. She sat on his side, and I didn’t really mind. I looked behind me and I had my people, my best friend, brother, and a few others there to see this pile get what’s coming to him. People are bustling in their chairs waiting for the defendant to be brought in. Only a few moments pass before they bring the degenerate to the table. He walks in head shaved, plain white prison clothes and shackles from wrists to ankles. It's not like they need it; fat ass couldn’t run to save his life. He looks as frumpy as ever, sloppy, and more overweight than I remembered. I curl my lip upward in disgust from having to be in the same room again. He gets to his seat and starts whispering to his attorneys. It ends with a quick pat on the shoulder by one of them. I’m already over this shit show.