I was born overseas to American missionaries. My father lost his faith by the time I was two and my parents returned to the US for grad school.
My father, his brother, and their father raped and sexually abused all of the girls of my generation. My father saw it as his mission to train me in my job as a woman – to sexually please men. I could go into details about the abuse, but that’s not the point of this post. (I spent my early 20s in intense therapy, up to three times a week, and I can say that PTSD is not a life-sentence.) At age 14 my father impregnated me. I can’t tell you whether it was “forcible rape” or not because while I fought many times, sometimes I just lay there crying. Sometimes I was distracting him from my sister, who seemed more fragile than I; sometimes his threat to ruin something I loved was credible enough that I didn't fight; sometimes I was in too much pain to fight. But it was always rape.
Perhaps my “magical lady parts” hadn’t yet learned the whole “shut it down” trick; perhaps I lived in the real world and not in fantasy land. But in no world and at no time was that fetus a gift from God.
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