I am putting this here because I read the post on what age is considered an adult. While I do not specifically have anything to add to that post, reading it sparked some new memories and emotions that I have been holding onto with regard to my own personal account of CSA and ASA and how they relate.

For the record, at 41 I still don't feel like an adult sometimes.

While incarcerated my father, my child hood abuser, came to visit me frequently. I hated his visits.

On many occasions I simply would not show up for the visit or I would request that his visit be canceled. But there were also many times that I needed him. Very hard to admit that.

With all of the agony and torment he put me through it pained me immensely to feel that way. For some reason it comforted me to see him, to talk with him, to have that outside connection.

Many times I would get the feeling that he only came to be a part of my pain and misery. He never said that but he did not have too. He would ask all the right questions. “How are they treating you? Is anyone giving you a hard time? Any problems with the other guys?” Things like that.

He never cared all that much about me to begin with so I imagine that in his sick and corrupt mind he wanted to hear of my anguish. He wanted to feel that he was somehow still taking part of my mistreatment, still in control, still powerful.

I never told him much.

I was not the only one there with childhood abuse issues in fact I would be willing to say that nearly 70% had the same typd of events in their lives. But since mine had become common knowledge and used against me regularly, I was almost guaranteed to have a “visit” after a visit from my dad.

The “visit” would often times involve three other inmates and one of the guards. They would want to know all about the conversation I had with my father, they would want to know if he tried anything with me, or if I wanted him too. frown

Depending upon the time of day and day of the week, they would lead me to a vacant place, the man who acted as the person in charge of this small group would make me call him “Daddy”. He would force me to recreate the abuse I had endured as a child.

They would laugh at me as I became upset and distressed. They would tell me outrages lies like were planning to have my father come in to join them in the act at some point. Even though I knew that was an impossibility, the fear that was instilled in me made me irrational.

In some small way I felt like my father still had the power to hurt me. Even though he had no information and no influence over the events of that time. At twenty years old I felt like I was still six, seven, eight…

There was nothing I could do about it.

Marley