Paczki Puta Tells The Truth About Her Father

I thought that I would finally tell all about my father. Those of you who are squeamish should get off this blog right now. And for those of you who refuse to believe the truth, God help you.

My father was a good father to me while I was young. I remember idolizing him, thinking him the most handsome, smartest, "bestest" dad in the world. But that was until I got to my teen years. My father turned into the worst kind of predator, and betrayed me in the worst possible way.

When I was about 14, I started to notice my father watching me. It was to the point of making me very uncomfortable. He would watch me change my clothes, through a slit in a door that wouldn't close all the way. I was becoming a young woman, and was astonished at the changes that were happening to me. One day, I was standing in front of a mirror in the bathroom, and was shocked to see some marks on my breasts that I had never seen before. I called my mother into the room and asked her what they were. She said she didn't know, and called my father into the room to look at me. Here I was, naked to the world, and she was calling him into the bathroom! He took a look at my breasts, and said "oh that's nothing... nothing that can't be taken care of through massage". And he put his hands on my breasts. I was horrified! I looked at my mother, who turned away and left the room, with my breasts in his awful hands! He told her that he would "massage" my breasts every night so the marks would go away. They turned out to be stretch marks, but he took that opportunity to start the abuse he had been planning since my body began to develop from a girl to a woman.

What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. I hate him to this day. And I'm glad he's dead.

Just as promised, he abused me nightly. He would wait for everyone to go to bed, and tell me to stay up. He would take me in the downstairs bathroom and put his hands on me, and it didn't end there. My father thought he was a great hypnotist and tried to use that crap on me. It didn't work. One day, I came home from school (I was in high school at the time and my first class was at 7:00am) and went upstairs to take a nap. He came in the room and tried to give me suggestions as I lay there, trying to sleep. He thought he would "hypnotize" me into submitting. As he whispered "you're getting sleepy" in my ear, I shot my eyes open and said "I'm AWAKE!!!" He left the room. But that didn't stop him. He would overpower me, get on top of me and shove his dick in my face. Mind you, it wasn't even large and definitely nothing to be proud of. Then he'd run his dick on me until he had an orgasm. Other times, he would shove my head down on his dick and force me to suck it until he orgasmed. Then there was a time when he brought home a porn film for me to watch with him so I would know how to please him. It was the worst kind of betrayal. I heard the cheesy music start, and I said "I don't want to watch this" and left the room. I used to wonder why he didn't do this crap to my sisters instead of me. Why ME??? What the hell had *I* ever done to deserve this??? NOTHING!!! I never had a boyfriend and didn't know what was happening to me or why. I wanted it all to stop, but it wouldn't.

It got to the point where I wouldn't wait for everyone to go to bed anymore. I went to bed early. I stayed in bed. I went out and stayed out. I did everything possible to limit the amount of time I had to spend with that asshole. I looked for a way out and considered suicide. Then I met my future first husband, and realized that he might be able to help me get away from my father and that abusive situation. My mother? Oh she hated me. She would hit me on the back as I walked up the stairs, hit me when I came around a corner, shout nasty things at me, scream at me. All because this fucking asshole she married was abusing me. What... did she think I was her COMPETITION???? I hated him. I still do. She would scream at me to pack my clothes and get out. I heard that all my young life. I swore to myself that when I was 18 years old and I knew they couldn't bring me back, I would leave the first time she screamed it at me and never come back. That's what I ended up doing.

One night, I came home from my future first husband's parents' house, and my mother was in a snit. She started screaming at me. She was telling me that I "couldn't go" over to "that boy's house anymore. He will come here." I said we were getting married. We had just decided it the night before. She started screaming again "oh you are, are you? Where's your ring!!!" What should have been a joyous moment was nothing of the kind. I wanted the screaming to stop, so I turned to go up the stairs to bed. She started screaming at me again, to go pick up my brother from work. I stopped in my tracks and for the first time, I realized that I couldn't stay there anymore. I was the family nigger. I was working full-time, paying "board", doing the cooking, the cleaning, the ironing, "servicing" my father, and being told I "couldn't" go out on dates unless my sister Cheri wasn't on a date. NO MORE!!! My mother's screaming never stopped. She screamed to pack my clothes and leave. I went back up the stairs, put on my coat, picked up my purse and keys, walked back down the stairs, waved "bye" and walked out the door. My mother was screaming "get her keys". I left anyway. I went over to Bob's parents' house, where he still lived. We called his parents, who were on vacation in Wisconsin, and asked for permission for me to stay, since I had nowhere to go. They were very nice to me and allowed me to stay as long as I needed to.

The next day, I went to work, in the same clothes that I had on the day before. My plan was to go to my parents' house after my mother left for work, and pick up my things. I went there, and found a note on the table in my mother's handwriting telling me to "come home and we'll talk". I turned the piece of paper over and wrote a letter on the back of it, so she would know I'd seen it. I told her that I wasn't coming back, that I'd had enough, that I'd been told one too many times to go, and I was gone. I took my clothes and my stereo, which was all I owned, and left.

A week later, my clothes were still in my car, when I got a call at work, from my father, telling me that they had taken my car while I was at work because they "pay the insurance on it". I talked to Bob and told him what happened. I asked him to take me to my parents' house after work so I could get my clothes. He agreed. So we pulled up in front of the house, in Bob's brother's truck, and I opened the trunk of "my car" and started taking my clothes out. As I did, I was converged upon by everyone in the house, including my mother. I took the keys to "my car" and threw it at the people in the yard, telling them that if the car meant so much to them, TAKE IT!!! Bob and I got in the truck and left.

A week or so later, I got a call from Aunt Shirley, asking me to come over and talk to her and Uncle Jerry. I did. They wanted me to go live with Busia, my grandmother, for the time being. I did. For a month. Then I found an apartment and moved out. I didn't make enough money for the rent, so Bob moved in with me and we got married a week later. There were 7 people at my wedding: Bob, me, his parents, his brother and a family friend. That was it. No ceremony, no music, no pomp and circumstance. I wore a green plaid dress that I had worn to a wedding. It was over quickly. Bob's parents took us out to dinner and they made a big deal out of it all. I remember there being champagne, and Bob's mother wore her mink stole. I never felt more special. THEY made me feel special. They gave me the love that my parents should have given me but denied me. It was December 14, 1973. I was 18 years old.

About a week after that (must have been around December 21) I got a call from my mother asking me to come for Christmas Eve, stay the night and stay with them for Christmas Day. I told my mother that I couldn't come. I had responsibilities now. I had married the Friday before. All hell broke loose then. It was a feeding frenzy that I wouldn't wish on anyone. There were constant phone calls to the place I worked, and my father would come there, trying to disrupt my workplace and get me fired. I finally told them to leave me alone... don't call me and don't come there. I was an adult and I was going my own way. My father told me I was dead to them.

The abuse... no, it didn't stop there. My father would come to the first house that Bob and I owned, during the day and try his bullshit again. I told him to get out. It got to the point that I had to pretend I wasn't home. I wouldn't answer the phone. I changed the phone number several times and kept the doors locked and the window shades drawn.

Bob and I divorced 7 1/2 years after we got married. I finally felt like I could make it on my own, and did. But the abuse didn't stop. I was invited to go swimming at my parents' house... my mother invited me. So I went... and what happens? My father comes behind me and unties the top of my bathing suit. I yelled at him and he laughed. Oh, it was all SOOOO funny, wasn't it? No boundaries. I tied my bathing suit again, and he untied it. This time I told him to keep his fucking hands off me. My mother was sitting right there. She didn't say a word.

I knew that I was going to have to get farther away from them than just Richton Park. When Steve came into my life, I knew that he would be good for me, and moving away from Chicago was what I was going to have to do. So I did. I moved to Memphis. I realized that I had to keep my sons away from my father, since I didn't know if he had "atoned" for what he did to me. So I kept them safe in Memphis. They grew up knowing what had happened to me. There are no secrets here. My mother and I made peace about 8 years before she died. We got close, but we never talked about what happened.

After my mother passed away, I got a call from my father, telling me he was ready to let go of some of my mother's jewelry, and he wanted me to come to Chicago to help take care of that, as the eldest daughter. I foolishly thought he actually wanted to be a father to me, so I went. And I went alone. I was very mistaken. He didn't want to give away my mother's jewelry, or have me there for any reason except that he wanted to see if I'd help him get his dick to work again, since he had his prostate removed and had all that radiation. I told him I was the WRONG person. He started telling me about the times that he had abused me and how those were "good memories" for him and he hoped they were for me too. I told him in no uncertain terms how what he did to me FUCKED ME UP for YEARS!!! He didn't say anything, but looked down. But that didn't stop him from trying to stick his tongue down my throat. I sat there in astonishment. He sat there in his living room at the condo, with his head hanging, and cried because he had taken Viagra and his dick just looked at the floor. I left in the middle of the night, and resolved to never stay in the same room with him again, much less under the same roof. I went home to Memphis and told Steve and the boys what had happened. If we had all been in Chicago, I'm sure my father would have been killed by my husband that night. As it is, I am settling for knowing that we have a very JUST God. He doesn't get mad, he gets even. He got even in the very best way. He took away my father's use of his dick. And since my father thought he was so smart, God took his brain later. Rest in peace, asshole. Good riddance.

And so... as a tribute to my GRANDfather... who was the only true father I've known, I sign my posts with...

Nazdrovie'

Paczki Puta

Addendum April 7, 2014:  I found out recently that I was not the first one to be abused by this awful man.  I sincerely hope I was the last.