Punished and Abused: When Repressed Memories Speak

Part One of a six part timeline… Punished and Abused: When Repressed Memories Speak 💔 As I endure the 40 year anniversary that changed my life forever, please know I was only a kid and could never imagine the true horror my silence may have caused others.  A horrifying reality I live everyday

Over the next six weeks I will be detailing the events of my life from 1981-1985 and the 2015-2016 Repressed Memories which sent me straight to my hometown police department.  



Forty years ago this week, I was severely beaten in the attic of my childhood home. My two older brothers pulled my abuser away from my eleven year old body that laid in a pool of my own blood. Then they called our mother at her work, King’s Department Store.

It was never about what my abuser did to me, it was always about me staying quiet. My stomach area bruised black, my face deformed, teeth were kicked out, ribs were broken, my neck bruised in handprint. No one called the police. One brother said, “Wow, he really fucked you up.” The other brother said, “We don’t call cops on family.”

For six years prior, I was always smacked, dismissed, grounded and punished for not wanting to be abused and for speaking about it. This day was no different, as I hid so well from my abuser for many hours, by the time he did find me, he changed his violent sexual assault into a violent physical assault.
I was an eleven year old girl, he was a forty year old monster who had been torturing my childhood for years… And No One called the police but as weeks went by, my birth mother insisted, then demanded that I forgive my abuser for hurting me. I can still see the brat in me as I sat confined to my bed and screamed, “Noooo,” into their faces standing over my bed.

Once I healed enough to get the ok to go outside, I was first shown the cellar wall and what my abuser was allowed to do while I healed from my injuries caused by him. As my birth mother explained the consequences of blabbing my mouth, my abuser insisted I jump in and try it out. I looked horrified, mortified and confused at the woman standing before me in hopes for some understanding. “Someone will find you in twenty or thirty years,” my abuser continued with a chuckle as he swept up his perfectly dug out tunnel going into the cellar wall and under the sidewalk of Pleasant Street with a small broom & dustpan. He laughed loudly as he spoke about keeping my arms, “Those are my souvenirs,” he praised proudly.

I looked at my birth mother, I looked at my monster abuser and I looked straight ahead at that cellar wall with a freshly dug out hole and then I ran as fast as I could up the cellar stairs. I was still healing from the multiple if not all ribs being broken, so it wasn’t like I could run fast. I returned to my bedroom where I stayed awake the whole night, I moved my bureau to block my door, I changed into clothes, tied my sneakers and wondered what could I do… I was only eleven years old. I thought running away was throwing your clothes in a blanket, tying the blanket onto a stick and running. I didn’t have a stick and it still hurt to run. Gosh, the shit that went through my eleven year old brain that night, with the one question I asked myself over and over again… Why didn’t they call the cops? Why?

The next morning, I heard my bureau being moved and my birth mother waving her hands. “It’s only me,” she said before informing me that she was going to work. “Just stay in your room,” she told me. “What?” I yelled as I immediately went into defense mode and chased her out my bedroom door, down the stairs and straight out the front door at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning. She ordered me back inside the house and I begged her not to leave me home with her boyfriend… but she just drove away. I watched in panic as I saw her car drive away. I turned around and looked at the front door of my childhood home. I knew my two older brothers were home but that never stopped my abuser and before I knew it, I yelled, “No way.” I ran a few houses down on the opposite side of the street where one of my friend’s lived and I rang the doorbell, then I knocked and rang the bell again.

Later that morning, my friend’s mother asked if I could do her a favor. “Sure,” I eagerly answered her question. “Will you go home and grab a couple of cigarettes from Dave,” she questioned. “I already called him,” she continued. My smiling eager to help look wiped off my face as my friend’s mother questioned me, “What’s going on over there?” My eyes only looked to the floor. My friends mother then assured me that she would stand on her porch and watch me as I walked home to retrieve the cigarettes Dave said he’d give to her. I walked slowly as I kept looking back to see my friend and her mom on their front porch watching me. I opened my screen door then the front door, I stepped inside the doorway and saw Dave sitting at his recliner chair with cigarettes sticking out of his closed hand. I stretched to reach but his hand was out of reach. “Shut the door,” he told me. “Please just give me the cigarettes,” I said. But he demanded I shut the door, “Then I’ll give them to you,” he insisted. So I shut the front door.

He immediately jumped up, “I’ll bring her the cigarettes,” he said as he charged at me. I knew if I stepped back to open the door, he would grab me so I booked it down the hallway. “Someone’s going down the cellar,” he yelled as I ran into the kitchen, through the dining room and into the living room. He caught me by my clothes and we both fell onto the floor. He grabbed my legs as I kicked and kicked. “Ouch, you bitch,” he yelled. I looked and saw him grab his jaw. ( I either kicked him or he bit his tongue) I immediately jumped up and ran out the door. I ran straight to my friend’s and up her front steps. “I couldn’t get the cigarettes,” I told my friends mom. But she didn’t care about the cigarettes, she was more concerned about me.  Shortly afterwards I was told of plain clothes policemen who were outside wanting to talk with me.  But for over six years, it was drilled in my head that my abuser knew everyone on the police force, so I declined.  Then my friends mom told me she called my mother at her work…


Over thirty years later, I would learn that phone call is what saved my life.

What happened to me later that day?
What did my birth mother think I said to my friends mother to make her call her at work?
What is buried inside that cellar wall?
A timeline of the monster my birth mother harbored and the multiple unsolved murders in my hometown of Lowell Massachusetts 1981-1982


I never grew up to forget the childhood I lived (Something I was told would happen) But I did grow up and forget all my own ‘family’s’ lack of actions did play into my childhood and all they did know of the horrifying abuse I endured for years. They knew, they always knew and not one of them ever showed empathy, support, acknowledgement or accountability, no matter how much I begged and pleaded for it.

Forty years ago this week, I was punished for not wanting to be abused… Join me next week as I continue telling my story of Punished and Abused: When Repressed Memories Speak

Week 1… (Part One) 1981
Week 2… (Part Two) 1981/1982
Week 3… (Part Three) 1984
Week 4… (Part Four) 1985
Week 5… (Part Five) 2015/2016
Week 6… (Part Six) unsolved murders

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