This I Believe: The Autobiography of Ellen Beacham

This I Believe: The Autobiography of Ellen Beacham This I Believe: The Autobiography of Ellen Beacham

Status: Finished

Genre: Memoir

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Memoir

Summary

My name is Ellen Elizabeth Beacham (El for short) and this is, obviously, my story. While it may not be fully considered as rated X, this autobiography may not be appropriate for some. Mine is not a pretty story, though it is completely true to my memory. Critique is most welcome.

Summary

My name is Ellen Elizabeth Beacham (El for short) and this is, obviously, my story. While it may not be fully considered as rated X, this autobiography may not be appropriate for some. Mine is not a pretty story, though it is completely true to my memory. Critique is most welcome.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Prolouge and "Brother, Where Art Thou"

Author Chapter Note

The Autobiography of Ellen Elizabeth Beacham (otherwise known as dDigital Junkie) has no official title. It is also not necessarily rated X but it does include some incidents that, while not terribly graphic, may not be appropriate for some. Mine is not a pretty story, though it is completely true to my memory. Critique is most welcome.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 27, 2012

Reads: 611

Comments: 1

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 27, 2012

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It’s a proven fact that memories cannot often be relied upon. The human mind seems to make things up as it goes along, filling in gaps in memories. There’s no honest way I can assure anyone that what I remember is exactly what happened, but no one always can, and it doesn’t matter too much. It’s what I remember that affects who I am. It’s the memories that float in and out of my thoughts that hurt, and, thus, matter. It’s always a difficult act, sitting down and putting the memories in writing, but sometimes, I believe, it’s the bravest thing someone can do. I don’t expect much from writing it all down, but I hope some amount of clarity, or understanding is achieved. The following story is an account of how I came to be. Not of how I came into existence, but rather, how I came to start living. It’s the story of my life, as I know it, and how I became the person I am today.
It’s difficult to imagine bad things happening to you. You see terrible things happen to other people on the news. You read about misfortunes of other people in books and online. You hear rumors about what happened to some daughter of a friend of an uncle living in Europe. Earthquakes, car accidents, tripping down a flight of stairs. All these things happen to other people. Only other people grow up in a cult, learning that God is a weapon to use against others. Only other people get raped by their brother, and get ostracized from friends, family, and church because “it was a choice”. Only other people have to learn to hide their true thoughts and feelings, soon becoming depressed and lost. Only other people have to run away from everything they ever knew with only a small hope in finding something better. Only other people have to fight with themselves to stay alive, despite rarely really wanting to. But, then, inconceivably, “they” becomes “you”, and “you” becomes “me”. Fortunately for you readers out there, I am the “other person” that things just happen to fall upon, same with some members of my family, and of my old church. For me, and I’m sure with those others, it’s interesting, though hard, to look back and remember how you felt, and how different everything feels now that you know better. It was easy to convince myself that nothing was wrong. That what was happening was supposed to be like that. I was taught from an early age that any doubts I had were probably unfounded, and might even be sinful, depending on what I was doubting. Through every thing I was and am put through, it was easier to believe that I was wrong and everyone else was right, than to admit that the people who were supposed to care about me, didn’t; and everything I have and still put myself through, it was painfully simple to convince myself I deserved it. By the time I realized I didn’t want any of those things anymore, I was too afraid, too alone, to voice my fears and problems with those who could help me, especially since I didn’t know for sure who could help me.
My name is Ellen Elizabeth Beacham, and thus begins my story. But, trust me, this is only the beginning.
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Chapter 1: Brother, Where Art Thou?
My mother prayed for me. I grew up being told this, and, for some reason, it's important to begin with it. While she was pregnant with me, she prayed for a little girl with brown hair and brown eyes. She wanted a baby girl that had her features. She wanted a little girl who was just like her. She got what she wished for, to begin with, but I grew up and changed quickly, at the whim of my evironment and, possibly, fate. My mother already had eight children before me, only two were her step-children. After giving birth to her fifth child, perhaps, my mother was advised by her doctor to stop having kids, since most of her birth children were born with difficulties. While I have no right to say she made the wrong decision, it might have been easier if she had heeded the advice, seeing as how my family was dysfunctional enough without more children. However, what’s done is done and myself and my two younger siblings came out of it, so I can’t complain.
To make things a bit easier, here's a list of my mother's children, oldest to youngest, separated by fathers and including step children:
Stephan Holdaway:
Roseanna (Rose)
Phyllis
Barry
Alma
Cassandra (Cassie)
Karen
Samuel (Sam)
Timothy (Timmy)
Donald Beacham:
Ellen (Elizabeth, Liz)
Joseph (Joe)
Hannah
John Pratt:
Michael
Kirah
My mom’s first husband, Stephan, had two daughters before he married my mother, both in their early teenage years. He brought a terrible thing into the family that was passed down through the immediate family, and, thankfully, ended with me. I say “thankfully” because it would have been terrible for my younger siblings to be put through the suffering I, and my older sisters had.
It’s difficult not to trust your older brother. Especially the one closest to your age, the one you’ve always wanted to impress. You always wanted his attention, and were too young to differentiate between good and bad attention. So, of course, when he invites you to his room, and tells you about the things he learned from older siblings, and promises it’s for your own good, you don’t doubt for a second that everything will be fine. At first you don’t doubt, anyways. After too long of a time, you start feeling that maybe these little “lessons”, these “games” are not as innocent as they seemed. Are not as safe. That's exactly how it was for me. It didn’t take long for me to feel uncomfortable looking at diagrams of sexual positions and taking off my clothes to try them with my brother. By the time I realized I didn’t want it anymore, I was too afraid, too alone, to voice my fear and problem to those who could help me.
My fear of telling someone proved to be well-founded when, a few months after it all started, my mother found out. I distinctly remember being called into her room, with my brother, and her then current husband, Chuck. They lightly chatised us, explained that it was wrong, and sent us on our way. I remember hoping that was the end of it, but when Timmy invited me into his room again, I found myself accepting. This continued for four years, though my mother found out once more during that time.
I do not know what drove me to accepting incest as my fate. I cannot tell you why I continued to say "yes". I do not know, so I suppose no one may ever know. It's a mystery, but I am perfectly content leaving it as that. What's important is was happened when it finally came to an end.
It was a Sunday, sometime in late September/early October. My mother had just married John Pratt, and we were all settled in our new home (at this point, the five oldest kids had left the home) and I had just turned 12. It was a crazy and stressful time for everyone. Looking back, I realize I must have known something was going to happen. Timmy only showed attention to me when he was about to ask. During the moving period, Timmy had backed off, and I remember feeling happy during that time. However, he soon started showing me online games and TV shows. He had his own computer, so he didn't have to worry about my mother finding out about the "adult" games he played. He stopped ignoring me, and I'm sure I knew something was going to happen. On this night, I was anxious to see if my friend had replied to an email I sent her, so I asked my mother if I could check. She was hesitant, since it went against our usual rule regarding technology use on Sundays. Then, Timmy offered to let me use his computer. I'm guessing that since my mother knew he used his computer whenever he pleased, that there was no reason to forbid my using it that night. So she went to put the younger children to bed while Timmy showed me how his computer worked. I was nervous to be alone with him again. I could not know how I would react if he were to bring anything up. When he asked if I wanted to play a card game, I found myself agreeing. I suppose I felt resigned. Perhaps I felt I had to say yes. This card game was a lot like the others, but with a different sort of cards. He must have been planning for a while because he had to create a whole new set of rules to match the cards with something sexual. In the end, the rules were simple. Pull a certain card, someone takes their clothes off. Once the clothes were gone, certain cards equaled certain acts: touching or sex. I know for a fact, when there was a choice, I chose touching, but he chose sex. Around 10 o'clock, perhaps two hours after we started, my mother knocked on the door, looking for me. Timmy said he didn't know where I was, and, since my mother trusted him more than anyone else, she walked away, leaving the door unopened. The game continued for perhaps another hour, and I quickly got dressed, not thinking about anything but how disgusting I was. While Timmy continued dressing, I opened the door to slip out of the room. I would have gone straight to bed, thinking of ways to explain my disappearance in the morning, if it weren't for the fact my mother was in the room right outside Timmy's door, talking on the phone. I froze, with the door still open, so when my mother stood in front of me, her fury turned to disappointment as she saw Timmy pulling on clothes in the corner.
It does need to be said that at this point, my mother knew exactly what was going on. She had experienced it with her older daughters, and knew that something between Timmy and I was to be watched out for. She was no stranger to incestual situations and the laws regarding such. However, each time, she blamed the victim more than the brother or father. She always had a soft spot for her male family members. Back to the story, she allowed Timmy and I to try to explain ourselves, separate this time, to her and John, who was much more dedicated to the church than Chuck. John convinced my mother to call the president of the church, who, in turn, made her promise to take the case to a social worker.
The next day, Monday, I was pulled out of school to go to the convienently next-door department for child protection, or some sort. I talked to a social worker and got a blanket. Timmy talked to a social worker and got sent to foster care, since the worker knew my mother. My mother talked to a social worker and got orders to move her part of the family away from John's family, and orders regarding weekly therapy sessions for yours truly, and that was that. I didn't have to worry about Timmy anymore. Everything would be fine. Oh how foolish and hopeful children can be.


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