Daddy Rapes

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Daddy Rapes
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A TEENAGER who was repeatedly raped by her own dad from the age of six has spoken out about her horrific abuse.
Shannon Clifton, who gave birth to her vile father’s baby aged 13, says she wants to help others see "the light at the end of the tunnel".
The 19-year-old, is piecing her life back together after suffering horrific treatment at the hands of her dad, Shane Ray Clifton.
Brave Shannon, from Derby, was raped up to four times a day during eight years of abuse that robbed her of her childhood.
The horrific abuse only came to an end when Shannon was 14 after twisted Shane Ray Clifton, 36, was jailed for 15 years in 2015.
But Shannon has since been shocked to discover the former binman’s sentence had been reduced to ten years.
The student, who bravely waived her right to anonymity, told of how she went to live with her dad, aged five, when her parents split up.
She said: “It was nice at first but he started getting abusive. I would come home from school and he started to hit me. I just got used to it in the end.
“Then it started becoming sexual. There was one time in the front room on the floor. I’ve tried to block it out so I don’t remember it all.”
Shannon said she used to go to school “with bruises all over” but was instructed to tell teachers she had been play fighting with her cousins.
She revealed that after she and her dad moved house again, things got even worse saying: “When I was younger it was just once or twice here and there but then it started becoming every day, then a few times a day."
Shannon said she was often raped before and after school and sometimes in the middle of the night.
She said: “I only understood what sex was when I was about nine and we were learning about it at school.
“I was shocked because I thought, that’s what my dad does to me.”
Shannon said her dad treated her as his wife. He regularly asked her to clean the house and make his dinner from the age of nine.
When Shannon was 11, she noticed her body starting to change and realised she was pregnant.
She said: “For a while I didn’t tell him. But when I did finally tell him, he beat me up.”
She worked out that she was around 28 weeks pregnant when she lost the baby.
In December 2012, Shannon was expecting again and once more lost the baby, but the next year was pregnant again with her third.
She said things came to a head at the end of her pregnancy saying: “He had just raped me upstairs and I was screaming and crying.
“I ran downstairs and I got a big knife and thought, if I stab myself straight in the heart the baby won’t die, and I don’t have to put up with this anymore.
“But I needed to be there for my child. If it was a girl, he could’ve ran off with her too.”
Her dad told her when the baby was born, he would kill him.
When she got into hospital, the day before she gave birth, nurses told Shannon she was over 39 weeks pregnant.
Shannon kept her child for a year but gave him up for adoption at the age of one “because he needed a better life”.
But she hopes to have a relationship with him when he grows up.
Shannon now hopes to move abroad to start a new life.
She is now studying forensic psychology with the Open University and planning to release her book, The Monster I Loved, before the end of the year.
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This is so sad her father damaged her she can't even have children Some people in the world are cruel
Ohh what a sad ,painful, emotional story
The introduction got to me.I can't even read the rest of the story.I can't deal.You are more than a conqueror
I was only 15 years old when I lost my mother due to cancer. I then had to go and live with my father in the city of Jo’burg, as I had no siblings and no grandparents. My father had a house in Jo’burg and was living alone.
At first, it felt quite good living with him because he gave me everything I needed and more. Things changed when he lost his job and started drinking too much alcohol, daily. His behaviour immediately changed. He started having a strange look in his eyes. Every time I would catch him staring at me, I found it so creepy. I assumed he was just feeling lonely, since I didn’t like chatting a lot.
Often, I would go to visit Mrs Potter, our neighbour. She was so friendly and treated me like her own daughter. There was this time I went to her house and told her, “I don’t feel safe around my father anymore. The way he looks at me just scares me and… it’s like he’s going to rape me.”
I remember Mrs Potter’s reaction after I said this. She just stared at me with confusion written all over her face and replied, “Don’t you dare think of such! How could you think your father could do such a thing? He’s such a good man.”
As Mrs Potter kept on telling me to get rid of such thoughts in my mind, I really thought I was over-reacting and regretted it. Considering her facial expression, I could tell that she thought I was saying all that because of my adolescence. This made me feel like I was being too curious of my own father.
The next evening, my father told me he was going out to town to meet his new employer.
“Don’t ask me any questions, I’m in a hurry. Make your bed and go to sleep, I’ll be back shortly,” he replied and left.
I didn’t believe what he said. I knew that he was going out to party with his friends. So I went to make my bed like I was told to, and I fell asleep quickly after that.
During my sleep, I could feel that I was no longer alone in my room. I could feel somebody was getting on top of my bed. Just after opening my eyes, I saw my dad’s face. He rushed to cover my mouth with his hand so that I couldn’t scream. I immediately tried to fight him off. He overpowered me. He smacked me on my face several times and the next thing I know I passed out. As I was lying unconscious on my bed, he carried on raping me.
I remembered everything in the morning. I tried to get out of bed but my whole body was aching. I noticed a lot of blood on my blanket. I couldn’t help it, I just burst into tears. I walked out of my room and helplessly yelled, “Dad! Dad!” until I noticed that he wasn’t in the house. He had run away.
I ran straight to Mrs Potter’s house in my gown full of blood. I went straight in, without even knocking. “What on earth happened to you?” Mrs Potter asked. I was unable to talk properly, I responded with a shaky voice, “My father raped me.” This time she believed me and eventually called the police.
While the police were searching and investigating my father’s whereabouts, and the doctors were running tests on me, I was drowning in trauma and anxiety. Even the counselling didn’t help much. This affected my whole life. I would act like I was fine around people, but as soon as I’d get alone or try to sleep, I would get flashbacks. Even now, it still happens. Every time I try to sleep, I feel like history is going to repeat itself.
The police continued searching for my father, until they discovered that he had committed suicide by throwing himself into a river.
It saddened me to learn that I may never be able to bear children. Hearing the doctors say this just changed the way I saw the world, men and life. I started telling myself that I would never get married, since nobody wishes to marry an infertile woman. This happened because… my father raped me.



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More stories to check out before you go
I think I recently had one of the hardest days of my life. It was a personal issue so I’m not gonna disclose the issue, but everything was falling apart and I couldn’t gather enough courage to pull myself out of the muck.
Today, I happened to spot a thread on Quora that asked readers to describe the hardest day of their lives. I came across an answer that has occupied my head from the very moment I read it. I couldn’t help but write about it because every person should read the story of this brave woman called Ann Young , who has been fighting with life since she was a little kid.
The hardest day of my life was my entire childhood.
At age 3, my uncle made me lick his penis “like a lollypop.”
At age 9, I was raped by another family member.
At 15, my mom and step-dad thought it was funny for my step-dad to touch my breasts.
My mom’s second husband would make me strip naked and lay in the center of my bed while he beat me all over my body.
My mom’s third and current husband, my step-dad, beat me regularly for a decade, from the time I was 5 until I was 15.
I got hit for making too much noise in the morning. I got hit for eating the last pickle. I got hit for speaking. I got hit even if I opened my mouth to speak. I endured black eyes, bloody noses, fat and bloody lips, a broken finger, welt marks and bruises all over my body. I’ve been hit with a croquet mallet and beaten with a whiffle bat until it was broken in half. My entire childhood was terrifying.
On top of it my mom would tell me that she didn’t want me, that if she could do things over she wouldn’t have had me. She didn’t want me.
My step-dad made fun of me every day because I was a little chubby. He would entertain guests by making fun of me. He would encourage me to make fun of him in return and then laugh at my poor attempts. Whenever I did make a joke he didn’t like, he would beat me for it.
I tried my best to overcome it. By age 30, my body gave out. It was too damaged from all the physical abuse. I have Enthesopathy, Fibromyalgia, and polyarthritis, just to name a few. I also suffer from chronic PTSD, major depressive disorder, and anxiety.
I live off of SSD and receive less than $12,000 a year to survive. All of my hopes and dreams were stolen from me.
Shortly after my uncle sexually abused me, he killed himself. I have wondered all of my life if he killed himself because of what he did to me.
The person who raped me when I was 9 years old was my older brother. He did not live with us.
My two older brothers grew up with our biological father while I grew up with my mom and step-dad. My mom didn’t want the boys. She barely had anything to do with them. She kept me because I was a girl and because she wasn’t entirely sure who my father was. I grew up believing that William James Young Sr was my father. My mom kept me away from him for most of my childhood because of my brothers, according to her.
The brother who raped me did so during a very rare visit to our home. He was allowed to spend the night that night. He hated me. He hated that my mom kept me and had barely anything to do with him. Little did he know what I was going through.
I didn’t tell on him until I was 11. My mom contacted the police and a woman came to our home. I had to tell her everything. My brother was arrested and sent to live in a juvenile detention facility for 4 years. His last year there, my mom took some interest in him for some reason. She started bringing my rapist home for visits. One day she made me sit at the dining room table and write a letter. She forced me to write that I had forgiven my brother and that I wanted him to come live with us. None of it was true. I was terrified of my brother. Additionally, my parents never got me any help for what he did to me. They said that they couldn’t afford it. My parents could afford new jewelry every Christmas for my mom and yearly vacations to Las Vegas but they couldn’t afford anything for me ever, not dental check ups, not doctors, nothing. I was lucky to get a coat for winter and with that I was forced to get on my knees and thank my parents repeatedly for all they did for me.
My mom had my rapist come live with us. Then they blatantly favored him right in front of me. He was good looking. He made them laugh. My step-dad would have my brother join in in making fun of me.
Eventually, they kicked him out when he became a serious drug user and started selling their stuff.
I came to forgive my brother. I learned that he did to me what someone had done to him. He is currently on parole after serving his second prison term. He never stopped using drugs. I don’t have anything to do with him.
A couple of people have asked me, “Why didn’t you get out?” As a young child, I didn’t realize I was being abused. I thought that all kids got hit like me. I was a bad child. I didn’t clean my room when I was told to. I made too much noise. Sometimes I talked back. I ate the last pickle. I didn’t clean up my parents mess in the kitchen. I could go on.
When my step-dad broke my finger my parents brought me to the hospital. I was told to say that I slipped and fell in the driveway. I was threatened that if I said anything else I would be hurt worse. I was too terrified of my parents to say anything but what I was told to.
It wasn’t until my early teens that I was allowed to spend time with friends in their homes. That’s when I saw that they weren’t being beat like I was. I remember one friend talking back to her dad. I winced and cowered in anticipation. I was shocked by her father’s response. He spoke to her firmly but lovingly. I finally started to see that what was happening to me was not normal.
At 15, I overdosed on Advil. I was questioned by many people at the hospital but I was still too terrified to speak about my parents. I blamed it all on a bad grade.
Eventually, I started to confide in some of my friends and one friend’s mom in particular. I would tell her something and then I would be shocked and intrigued by her response. She was the one who got me to open up a little.
At one point CPS (Child Protective Services) were notified by another friend’s mom. I told CPS a few things over the phone. The next day they showed up at my high school. I was horrified. My step-dad was a teacher at the school. I was brought to a guidance counselor’s office. I knew that the guidance counselor knew my step-dad. I was too terrified to speak. I only confirmed the few things I had told CPS on the phone. From there, a detective brought me down to the police station.
I was brought upstairs to a room full of desks. The detective introduced me to the secretary. I recognized her name. “She knows my step-dad!” I exclaimed. The detective yelled at me saying that whatever I had to say would stay in that room. Again I was too terrified to speak about my parents. The detective started asking me if my step-dad touched my breasts “playfully or sexually.” To me it didn’t matter. I thought it was wrong that he touched me period. I couldn’t answer the detective. He kept asking me over and over again, becoming more irate everytime he asked. He was outright screaming at me. I thought about how my parents would laugh at me everytime my step-dad touched my breasts. They thought it was funny that I would get upset by him touching me. After the third time he touched me, I stood up and stormed off. That’s when my mom said, “oh we can’t even play with you!” Because she had said that, I finally answered the detective, “playfully.” That was it. That’s all he wanted to know. He was done with me.
The detective then brought me down to CPS. I was made to sit in a worker’s cubicle. Somewhere in the room, I could here my mom and my rapist brother talking. I could hear my brother saying, “She’s lying! She’s lying!” I could hear my mom say, “He’s a respected teacher in this community!” While hearing all of this, I was questioned by the CPS worker. Again, I was too terrified to speak. At no point in time during that day was I given a safe place to talk. No one offered me a single ounce of compassion.
I was put in a foster home that night. I spent 4 nights there. On the 5th day, my parents called me. They said all the right things. They told me that they weren’t angry. They said that they loved me, that they missed me and that they wanted me to come home. I agreed to go home.
The CPS worker came and brought me home. She stayed and chatted with my parents for a few minutes. My parents were so polite and friendly to her. I really thought at that moment that everything was going to be okay. Then she left. My parents watched her leave. Then they turned on me and the smiles on their faces morphed into something that looked pure evil. I got a verbal beating that day that was so awful I just ran. I ran out of the house and I didn’t stop running until I got to my friend’s house a mile away. It was the friend whose mom I had confided in.
I lived there with my friend and her mom for a few months. One day my friend and I got into an argument over something stupid like kids do. My friend decided that she didn’t want me living there anymore. Her mom went to pray about it. Five minutes later she decided to bring me home. They packed up all my stuff in a garbage bag and drove me to my parent’s house and left me there.
I spent one night home. I endured more verbal abuse. The next day I ran away again. For some reason I ran back to the same friend’s house. This time the police were called. I told the police I was being abused. They told me they would handcuff me if they had to to bring me home. They treated me like a run away, not an abused child. They advised me to get a job or do some after school activities to keep myself out of the house. That’s what I did. CPS never did another thing for me.
My step-dad did not lay a hand on me again after CPS was notified. The verbal abuse was worse then ever though. When I was 17, my step-dad hurt my cat. That’s when I called up my real dad and asked him if I could live with him. He came and got me and my cats right away.
My father never knew the abuse I endured at the hands of my step-dad. I don’t know why I never told him. My time with him was very limited as a child. What little memories I have of him were all positive. I always felt safe with my dad. He never hurt me in any way. During my rare visits, we would do whatever I wanted. He would take me to the movies or roller skating or ice skating. We would take walks and go to the park. He also protected me from my rapist brother.
Living with my dad meant living with my rapist brother. For that reason, I only lived with my dad for one year. It was during that year that I really got to know him. He was a great man.
When I turned 18 I got my own apartment. I worked full time and went to college full time. Because I had lived with my dad, who was poor, for the year prior to college, I was eligible for full financial aid.
Four days before Christmas of 1992 my dad came over to my apartment. He gave me his big, bright beautiful smile and handed me a $100 bill. He told me that it was my Christmas present. I asked him why he was giving it to me so early. He just shrugged and said that he wanted me to have it. I thought about asking him to stay and play gin rummy with me. He always kicked my butt at that game. For some reason I decided not to ask him to stay. Instead I gave him a hug and a kiss and I said to him, “I love you.” He said it back to me and then left. Later that night he died of a heart attack.
It was my dad’s death that prompted me to go to paramedic school. I became an A-EMT-I. I did EMS for 5 years before my body just couldn’t take it anymore. I wa
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