Mr. Troll* beat and drilled it into me that I was not supposed to talk about any of this but above all else there was one thing that I was never ever supposed to say. That even if some of the other stuff came out, I was not supposed to say he was molesting me. Even as I am writing this blog, I find myself still trying not to talk about the molestation. I have to tell it all now. When we got into the house in Michigan, Mr. Troll grabbed and wrenched my arm, leaving a huge bruise on my already bruised arm, hauled me to an empty room, and threw me to the floor, causing even more pain. He started yelling at me that it was very bad of me to try to run away. He claimed he was punishing me for being bad. He told me that if I tried to run away again, I would be brought back and punished for it. He beat me: grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me and hitting my chest and arms. Furious, I tried to fight back, hitting and kicking at him. In the fight I wet myself as I sometimes did when he beat me or we fought. He left me locked alone in the room without food, water, or a bathroom. I was even more furious. I had nothing in the room, no other clothes. There were no lights, windows, or furniture, only darkness.

After several hours he came back and attacked me again by hitting my chest, shaking me, and pinching my chest and arms. He made me drink some water and yelled at me again about how bad I was. He told me that parents need to discipline their children, especially the bad ones. He kept repeating “your runaway attempt was because your bad and you can’t change.” He still didn’t feed me anything. Most of the time when I tried to sleep, he came in banging two pans together and yelling at me to wake up. He shook and hit me again. Bruises formed on bruises and I hated him for what he did to me. Mrs. Troll* was nowhere to be seen or heard during this and the same goes for the Troll* siblings. I have no idea where they were.

Later, when he did feed me, the food had the bad taste that always led to sickness and hyper-panic. He shook and hit me repeatedly again, telling me not to be angry with him for disciplining me. The only food he brought me while he kept me locked in the room was poisoned and meager. Even sick and panicking I hated him and was furious.

Without any way to keep track of time, I think it was on the third day he sexually molested me. My clothes were disgusting from wetting myself, the sweating from the poison and fighting him, and not being able to wash or clean up. I had to get them off me even though I had nothing else to change into and I still felt gross. He came into the room and shook me and started running his hands over my chest telling me to be good and not fight him. He started pinching my nipples and saying things like “it feels good” and “it feels right.” Then he started pinching my labia telling me to be good and be quiet. He took my hand and put it on his crotch over his pants and rubbed my hand against him. He also smelled bad which was revolting. (He always smelled like stale alcohol and sweat and something rotting) He unfastened his pants and pulled out his mostly erect cock, rubbing my hand against it again. I thought he was peeing when he ejaculated on the floor as we were standing there, a strange whitish pee that didn’t smell like pee, but was even more gross and revolting. He kept telling me to be good and don’t talk about it.

Later, I’m not sure how much, during a poison panic attack, he told me I was bad for talking to that woman at the airport and especially bad for talking about “The Family.” This reflected badly on “The Family” and that I should keep my mouth shut. Over what I can only assume was the next few days that he kept me locked in the room, he continued hitting, shaking, pinching, and poisoning me. He molested me a second time saying it was good, it was right, don’t fight, and be good. I was sickened and revolted by him.

After about a week or so, no bathroom or shower, starved, sleep-deprived, soiled, and molested, he pulled me out of the room and took me into the bathroom to “clean me up.” He ran his hands over me in the tub, rubbing and pinching my nipples and labia, telling he was taking care of me and not to fight him. He put clean pajamas on me and took me to the kitchen to feed me, still not feeding me enough. Then he took me into the master bedroom and put me down on his bed telling me to go ahead and sleep as long as I could. I was sick, weak, and dizzy with an arm that still hurt from being wrenched and covered in bruises. They should have taken me to a doctor.

This entire time I did not see or hear Mrs. Troll. I finally saw her again when I woke up in their bed still in pain, starving and very weak, barely able to move. She was in the room putting away some clothes, busy-bodying. When she saw that I was awake she told me “this is all your fault for “acting up” at the airport.” She looked nervous and kept her distance from me. She hurriedly finished what she was doing and left the room. After about an hour I felt strong enough to leave the room. I had to get out of their room. I was afraid he would come back and molest me while I was sleeping or resting in his room on his bed. I felt trapped in his house but was afraid of what would happen if I tried to run away.

*Troll should have been his last name but unfortunately was not.

I had been told all during my childhood that I would be bad if I told secrets about "the family." In that house, everything was a “secret:” the beatings, starvation, molestation, isolation were to be left unsaid. I have found myself even now, 20 years after I left his house, leaving out important information, not talking about it in order to be safe. If I don’t tell all of it, nothing bad will happen and she will love me, stop hurting me, and take care of me. I need to go back and tell the rest of what I left out. (Yes, it’s worse than I said and it gets worse from here.)

Not long after Mr. Troll* showed me the closet, we went shopping. The Trolls* bought Princess* new beds for the room we now shared. They were white with gold trim, princess beds. By default, since I slept in the same room they allowed me to sleep in one of her beds. They now wanted to get her new sheets, blankets, etc., and we all went shopping. I saw and wanted the bright yellow ones because they were colorful and I wanted something to offset the horror of the Trolls. He told me that the yellow ones were a bad choice, blue went with the bed frames much better. “You made a bad decision because you are bad. You can’t trust yourself because you are bad and all of your decisions will be bad. Don’t even try to make any decisions.” He told me I could trust him because he knew what would be best for me.

When we got back to their house, he hit and shook me for the “bad decision” and trying to decide anything while I was bad. In the poisoned panic state afterward, Mrs. Troll told me to listen to him. “He wants what is best for you.” I hated them both, I hated the blue bed sets and I still wanted the yellow ones. I hated Princess for saying she liked the blue.

After Mr. Troll* locked me in the room for a week and beat me, he took me on a tour of the house, under one set of stairs he showed me a closet. His exact words were “This closet is a safe space for storage.” The closet was “safe.” I would be safe if I was in the closet. I could hide in there in pain and anger and be safe. I had hid under the bed in Alaska but it wasn’t safe because Mrs. Troll* pulled me out. Then he started telling me that no one else would ever love me because I was bad, it isn’t safe outside because other people will hurt you if they knew how bad you are, and no one else wants you. Out of his home was not safe according to him but suddenly the closet was. While we lived in that house I ran into the closet a lot to be “safe.”

A few days after the closet I realized that I could not find my dolphin toy! Or anything else in the box she had packed it in. When I became frantic, she “claimed” that the movers must have lost the box. I was devastated. However, I overheard them talking about my dolphin toy and me and how attached to it I was. He told her she did the right thing by leaving it behind because if how much it hurt me. It would teach me not to get so attached to anything. She put my toy in a box that she left behind on purpose. I was crushed by their cruelty and ran into the closet to have my outburst.

A few days later Princess* bothered me with one of her dolls, “This is mine and you can’t play with her. You don’t have one.” I was crying and furious. Then Mr. Troll beat me, yelling at me I was making too much noise and that my anger was bad. In the closet, I tried to cry without making any noise. I started hitting myself hard on my thighs for several minutes at a time to try to stop feeling my anger at the pain he inflicted.

*Not their real names (how unfortunate he didn’t come labeled).

When we got into the house, Mr. Troll* grabbed me by the arm, leaving a huge bruise on an already bruised arm, and hauled me to an empty room and threw me down, causing more pain. He started yelling about how bad I was for trying to run away. He claimed he needed to punish me for being bad. He started beating me: hitting and shaking me. I tried fighting back, hitting and kicking. In the fight, I wet myself as I sometimes did when he beat me. He left me locked alone in the room with no food, no water, and no bathroom. I was furious. I had no other clothes to change into or anything else. It was an empty room with no lights, windows, or furniture, just darkness.

After several hours he came back and attacked me again, hitting, shaking, and pinching me. He gave me some water but yelled at me all over again about how bad I was. He told me that parents need to discipline their children, especially the bad ones. He kept repeating “your runaway attempt was because you're bad and you’re not going to change.” He still didn’t feed me anything. When I tried to sleep, he came in making a lot of noise, yelling at me to wake up and banging two pans together. He shook and hit me again. Bruises forming on bruises and I hated him for what he was doing.

Mrs. Troll* was nowhere to be seen or heard, and the same thing for the other three children. I have no idea where they were during any of this. The only food he fed me was poisoned, causing me to go into a hyper-panic mode in an already bad situation. He violently shook and hit me again, yelling at me that my anger was bad and that I had to hold in my anger. The angrier I became, he was yelling, the worse I was and the only thing I could do was hold the anger inside and try to shut it down. He brought the food sporadically, not enough to keep me from starving. Once, during a poisoned panic attack, he told me I was bad for talking to the woman at the airport and especially for talking about “The Family.” This reflected badly on “The Family” (him) and I should keep my mouth shut. Over the next few days there was more hitting, shaking, pinching, and poisoning as he kept me locked in the room.

After about a week, no shower or bathroom, starved, sleep-deprived, and soiled, he pulled me out of the room, took me into the bathroom to give me a bath to clean me up, running and rubbing his hands over my body (revolting, disgusting!). He put clean pajamas on me and took me to the kitchen to feed me, still not feeding me enough to keep from starving. After that he took me into the master bedroom and put me down on his bed, telling me to go ahead and sleep for as long as I could. I was sick, weak and dizzy with a wrenched arm. I probably should have seen a doctor. The entire time I was locked in the dark room I did not see or hear Mrs. Troll. I next saw her when I woke up in their bed, in pain and starving, still very weak. She was in the room busy-bodying, putting clothes away when I woke up. She saw I was awake and told me “it’s all your fault for acting up in the airport.” She looked nervous and kept her distance from me. She finished putting away the clothes and left the room. I got up after probably about an hour and left the room also.

*Not their real names (who would go by these anyway?)