Under the Stairs

How does one start on this type of topic? Let me start with the beginning.

My name is Deborah, I go by Deb too. For anyone who hasn't yet grasped my situation, I'm also a surviving victim of human trafficking. That story began in 2019. The story with the title and photo that began in the early 1970's will shake out shortly.

My father was a pedophile.

He kept it secret.

Nobody on earth would suspect a thing.

Me | Age toothy-cute

Unthinkable.

Such a handsome man wouldn't need . . .

Mother was homecoming queen in NY before she destroyed herself. All for a reason.

She knew. She walked in on [me and my father] us and lost her shit. Like any decent mother would do.

I remember being hysterically laughing then crying from the sedative at the hospital.

The memories that I have as a young child have been repressed until I was in my 40's. I'm 53 now, and it is still sinking in.

Looking back, I remember things like my brother saw me eating a stick of butter. Mmmm.

Then there was the bottle of bleach he saved me from when my lips were blue.

Who took care of their kids in the 1970's in the USA? Freaking nobody, that's who.

Speaking of who, well let me start with the doctor who lived next door to us when I was small. I remember that doctor's name vividly, but that is another story.

Next, my parents. Two pretty people that clearly had issues. Oh, what a story they brought until the fiery end. The reality is I was the fiery end.

Then there was an event. An event that landed my little toddler self into the emergency room with blood gushing out of my head.

This was where the 'doctor next door' was waiting for me. He knew I was coming because my father was one of his buddies. There were no checks and balances on anything in those days.

When I was in my 40's and surviving human trafficking, I began to remember things. Trauma will do that.

As I grew older, before pre-teen age, I needed to continue to adapt to the evolving drama in the house. Mother was off-her-rocket constantly drunk and we lived in a different house, with a different "daddy".

The dynamics in this new household were chaotic at best. I describe chaos as loud stupid TV, screaming and yelling, swearing as a first language, blaming, interrogating instagating and whatever else.

I hid under the stairs.

The staircase was floating with a wrap of carpet. There was storage behind it and that's where I spent a great deal of my childhood.

As I grew older, I still hid under the stairs.

Life came and went with seriously unreal events for me as a child. All witnessed from under the stairs.

This might be my first book. Any encouragement will be greatly appreciated as this is really hard. Give a girl a like, please.