12/29/2025
I was sexually abused by my mother, and physically abused by my father.
My father was a monster, there is really no other way to describe him. I suppose he was rapid-cycling bipolar, or maybe some darker pathology. I’m not sure. Living in his household, was stressful and traumatic. Perpetual PTSD. I watched him drag my mother by the hair, speaking to her in ways I can’t imagine, almost in some unknown, otherworldly, tongues. He was mean to me too, but I learned to avoid his abuse, in large part, by trying to be small. I also learned to feel small. I guess I still do. I knew about his abuse, and his philandering. Many times he was late/absent to dinner, even Christmas dinner. My mother and I often ate in silence, relieved by his absence I guess. I knew about his abuse, but recounting the almost innumerable stories about that abuse would be all but pointless. How many slaps and chokes before the vignettes become repetitive and tiresome? After he died in 2007, my mother, and my sisters, began to tell me about things he had done. Things I didn’t know, and couldn’t have imagined. He r@ped my sisters many times. He abused my mom in a way I can't describe, causing her to lose her unborn child. She was in her 9th month. He decided he didn’t want another child, so he r@ped her till she miscarried. He even made my mother drink some abortifacient concoction, while she was pregnant with me. It didn’t work, at least not in the way he intended.
In 2008, one of his childhood friends contacted me. He had many stories he wanted to tell, tales of racism, r@pes, violence and even murder. 3 murders to be exact, that he knew of. He said that there were almost certainly more corpses, scattered in the forgotten Georgia forests. I wanted to dig my father up, and drive a sharpened stake of holly through his heart. I still might. He’s dead, but that didn’t end it, not at all. My mother died in January of 2019. I always felt sorry for her, but then I began to remember things about her, and me, that had always seemed distant, apocryphal, dreamlike almost. I think I had always known that she too had abused me, in a different way, maybe a more depraved one. Her passing freed those memories. I don’t want to write about those things here, in any detail. They are as bad as you can imagine, maybe worse. I taught for 3 decades in public school. I encouraged innumerable kids to, “Tell Somebody.” Many of them did. The messages of thanks I often receive from my former students, are more valuable to me than the little money I earned, and the many awards I won. Follow me on Facebook: Alan Caldwell
or check out my website thealancaldwell.com. I began writing about my family, and other things, in 2022. Dozens of my stories and poems have been published in magazines and literary journals. I have since published two books, a short story collection and a collection of poetry. I’m still trying to tell somebody, and still trying to encourage others to do likewise.
You can help a child protect themselves from abusers, by gifting them a FREE Tell Somebody book! 📚 gofundme.com/GiveAFreeBook
Child abusers, please stop and seek therapy and God.
Parents, talk with and believe your children. ❤️
Survivors, seek therapy. 💪🏽
(To share your story of abuse, message me)
www.TellSomebodyToday.com