It's testimonies like this .... Repost from moving on...so sad and tru

that makes it hard to understand how anyone could associate with family members and not bring up the child abuse.
I know I wouldn't keep my family friends to long after letting them know my opnions on the Family.

Read this...

Just the facts ma'am...the truth about abuse.

from Erin - August 5, 2002
accessed 549 times

I've read a lot on this website about abuse and cries for justice. Some seem to think that abuse didn't happen, or if it did, it was mild. Well, this is the story of what I endured. This is the story of the little girl I was and what the COG did to me and those with whom I lived. Quantify it as you may, it is the truth, and it speaks for itself.

This is my story. My earliest memory as child was being in the basement of a house totally naked and being passed back and forth between two men who were beating me. I knew my mother was watching. When I screamed for her, they beat me harder. It went on for, at least, an hour. I was four years old.

That abuse continued for years. When I was nine years old, we became homeless. My siblings and I were taken out of school to ask for donations in parking lots and door to door to support our family. My parents called us missionaries. We lived in a bus for a while. It didn't have running water. There was no place to shower. I can remember beatings in the bus for being too shy to go into a restaurant and ask for food. It was how we got a lot of our food. We begged. My parents called it "provisioning."

It wouldn't have been so sad had it been an isolated incident in my family, but it wasn't. It was how the COG, the organization to which my parents belonged, operated. They dictated how we lived in all their publications. When we moved to Latin America, when I was young, we rarely had enough to eat. The people in charge didn't seem to care. They just made sure that the "home" in which we lived gave a large percentage of its income to them. We made that income begging on the streets. In our "home," any man could "discipline" me or my sister. They could take off all our clothes and beat us, at their whim. They did it often.

When I was 13, my parents again took me and my siblings out of school. We lived in another "home" or commune. There I remember being sent to parking lots to ask for donations for posters to support all the people living in our "home." I begged my mother for books to study, so I wouldn't fall behind in school. I wanted so much to go to college, and I worried how I was going to, if I didn't even go to eighth grade. She ordered me English and math books and told me not to tell anyone because the "policy" was that "a girl didn't need more than a seventh grade education."

I remember watching a little two year old who'd just lost his mother be beaten black and blue, have hot sauce poured in his mouth, not be allowed to spit it out or have water and be made to stand in a corner for hours until his little body gave out and he fell asleep. I didn't mention, either, that he had human bite marks covering one arm, which were inflicted by the woman who ran our "home." I saw her abuse other children, similarly. I often heard their screams coming from the bathroom for what seemed like hours. When I questioned her about it, I asked why she hurt them, if she claimed to love them. She slapped me so hard I fell to the floor. Later, I asked my "parents" if I could please leave and go live with a relative. I wanted so much to go to school. In response, I was called into this woman's bedroom where I was beaten for two hours. My stepfather used a metal clothes hanger. I, literally, fought for my life. The woman and her husband who ran the place stood by and watched and ordered my stepfather to hit me harder or "slap her when she screams." They tried to take off my clothes, but I fought them. I was 13 years old.

When it was over, the bed in their room was turned over, a lot of my hair had been pulled out, I had marks all over my face and neck, all the blood vessels in my arms were broken from fighting their grip, I had marks covering my chest and back and my legs were completely black with bruises. However, they had not been able to remove one piece of my clothing. Afterwards, I discovered that my jeans had been ripped and my thigh was bleeding from a two inch cut where the hook of the wire had cut me. I still have the scar. They made me put make-up on to cover the marks on my face when anyone visited. A woman who was visiting once, who was there for "Bible study," saw me changing clothes and she gasp at my legs, as they were completely black.

It wasn't but a couple of months later, and it happened again. We were on our way to Latin America. My suitcase broke in the move, and they found the books my mother had bought for me and a "system" T-shirt a friend had given me. I was taken into a room where the same happened. However, it was worse. I had shorts on. When it was over, I'd been hit probably five hundred times. My elbow and face were bleeding from being thrown against the wall. When it was finally over, I found out that everything I owned had been thrown away. The worst I felt was my address book with all the phone numbers and addresses of my friends from school.

In Latin America, it got worse. My parents left for another city. I lived on my own for four years. I can remember waking in the middle of the night with a man on top of me. I fought him off. In the "school" I lived in, I slept in "isolation," which amounted to a closet. I had to work in the rock lot, until the skin came off my hands. I remember being terrorized by a woman in the home. She dug her nails into my arm once and tried to yank me towards her. She would lie to the man in charge of the “school” about me, say things I never said. I would often hear the screams of toddlers being beaten in the bathroom.

When I went to live at another "school," I was attacked by the husband of the woman who ran it. It was afternoon and I was in my room alone. My roommate had left. The man's wife was gone to renew her visa. The man entered my room and told me to read from a publication out loud as he fondled me and put his fingers inside me. I was a virgin. It hurt. I was 17. This man had gotten me in trouble for months with his wife for not "respecting" him enough. I was terrified of him. Someone passed by outside. He left. I was so relieved. I got up and locked my door.

However, he came back within a few minutes. He entered through the bathroom which connected my room with the next one. He laughed at me for having locked the door. I was so scared. I tried to get past him. He grabbed me and pushed me into the bathroom, blocking the door. He undid my shorts while he told me to tell him I liked it. His hand was under my shirt. I was shaking and crying and telling him "no." He put his mouth between my legs, and I felt his saliva run down my leg. He bit me. Then he stopped, turned me around forcefully. He was angry and telling me I was so "cold." He put me in a choke hold with his arm around my neck. I felt him breathing on the back of my neck. He pushed himself into me. I could feel him pleasuring himself behind me. He came and it got on the back of my legs. Then he left.

I sobbed on the floor and tried to wash it all off. When his wife returned, I told her. I begged her not to let him know I told her, but she called me into the room with him and told me we needed to discuss what happened "as adults." I knew she blamed me. She told me I should have slapped him. This was the man she had just finished lecturing me for the past three months to respect and obey.

When the national officer found out, they decided to grant my request to go visit my mother. But, before I left, they came and talked to me about not telling anyone, including my "parents," about what happened. They said my "parents" wouldn't understand.

It wasn't a week later that I escaped from my mother's house. I crossed the border, called my relatives, got a bus ticket to an airport and flew out the next morning. I traveled all night. My dream of escaping for the past four years had, finally, come true.

I waited to tell anyone, until I was 18. I was afraid they would come for me until I was legally an adult. I had tried to escape once between my first request to leave and my last successful escape. The couple in charge of the "school" in which I lived found out. They banned me from communicating with my relatives. They read all my mail, incoming and outgoing. So, I learned to keep my plans secret.

When I left, I was 17, with a seventh grade education. I worked for ten years, tirelessly, to get an education. I struggled through math and science because I'd missed so much. I finally earned two degrees and am now established in my career.

However, the scars that the COG gave me, stayed with me those ten years. The ones on my mind and in my heart were far worse than those on my body. I felt so much guilt and shame for what I'd endured. I thought it was my fault. I thought I was broken or damaged. I allowed some men to mistreat me because it was all I'd ever known. It wasn't until I became a mother that I realized how much I was not to blame. Anyone who can look into a child's eyes and take her dignity and innocence, is a monster. I had internalized all my pain to fit into my new world, to catch up with all I'd missed, to rebuild my life the only way I knew how.

But, I am here today to say, no more! That little girl the COG abused is now a woman. My head was once, literally, bloody, but unbowed. Well, it has healed. The COG tried to break me, destroy my identity and spirit, but they failed. They stole my childhood, but I have reclaimed my life.

I have moved on, but I have not forgotten. I remember those who tortured that little two-year old and ordered my stepfather to beat me. I remember the woman who put her claw marks on my arm. I remember her and her daughter who beat those toddlers in the bathroom as they screamed. I know their real names and where they live. She has nine children and is married to another child abuser, a man who has been openly accused of child abuse before. I've heard they live in San Francisco. I remember the man who ran the school in which I lived and his wife. I saw the teenagers who suffered at their hands. I remember the man who sexually assaulted me. I know his wife's name real name. I also remember a couple who beat some of the boys in the "school" with a paddle. The wife beat my friend with a wire fly-swatter. I know the man’s real name and that he now lives in Mexico. I remember how Lonnie Davis heard about the sexual assault I suffered and sent someone to advise me not to tell anyone. I was told that I could be blamed for attracting the man who attacked me. I remember another couple who I saw beat their little five year old girl who was learning disabled. I saw the woman lie about other people to get them beaten, too. I remember her from another country in Latin America where she did the exact same thing. I heard about what her husband did to my dear friend.

These molesters and child abusers will eventually be exposed. I have no problem naming names because I saw or experienced all these things first hand. I will have even less reservation giving all the information I possibly can to anyone who would like to see these individuals and the COG stopped. I am willing to help in any way I can.