True Stories Of Family Sex
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True Stories Of Family Sex
True Confession: Why I had sex with my Son
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I’m a middle-aged woman. I currently reside in Bwari Area Council of the FCT- Abuja. I’m a member of one of the new generation churches, and a church worker.
After my first Son was born over 25 years ago, we stopped having other issues. My husband and I had visited several prayer houses around the country. We have even being to Synagogue Church of All Nations, to see TB Joshua, but we couldn’t see him in person. Different Pastors have prayed for us, and we truthfully exhibited high level of patience, waiting for God’s response. I had met pastors and I had met PASTORS. 40 percent of the pastors we met had made advances at me, even at my age. I realized that most of these Pastors are truly not who they claim they are. ‘’See finish’’ is what I think was my experience in their hands. I do not need to talk too much about the anointed ones, but the warning is that we all have to be careful while dealing with majority of them.
After several rough dealings with Pastors and men of God, with little or no results, we tried different health experts and hospitals. Results remained negative. It was getting to a frustrating level when a colleague from Cross River volunteered to take me to a man she simply referred to as ‘baba’. Being a strong believer, my husband was against the decision to travel to Ogoja to meet the man; out of desperation, I waved off his objection and we headed to Ogoja on a Monday morning. That was when everything became bitter.
Baba, on presenting everything he asked us to bring, told me that my problem rooted back to my mum, who had sex with my step brother shortly after I was born. The only solution he proffered was that I ‘sleep’ with my only Son to wade off the spirit of my step brother whom he claimed died shortly after mum’s death. According to him, the spirits were still angry that mum committed such an atrocity, hence I must atone their sins.
It was believable to me because mum is no more and I heard I also lost my step brother at a time.
I returned home and kept this a top secret. I didn’t tell my husband the real problem. It’s difficult to explain how I managed to convince my son to have knowledge of me, but it happened.
Truly, I became pregnant after then and I’m about to put to bed. I’m just afraid something bad may happen to me. As for my Son, he hates me at the moment. Even in my present state, my husband and I are always at loggerheads. It tells me that something is wrong. I always have nightmares; most times, two men chasing me with a knife. I can’t connect my pregnancy, the dream and my act. Please, DAILY POST, I need you to get public responses and advice for me on this?
All confessed stories are published with utmost confidentiality as we keep your identity a top secret. Send a mail to newsdesk@dailypost.ng
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Liza Dezfouli , OZY Author
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The intimate, the harrowing, the sweet, the surprising — the human.
Because there are easier ways to save on Mother’s Day cards.
The author is a writer, performer and visual artist based in Melbourne, Australia.
My marriage is splintering. My baby’s just over a year old and my toddler nearly 3. They wake every single night — my older boy is asthmatic — and I’m the one who gets up to help them. My mother has a loving bond with my boys, and it’s good to have another pair of hands and someone to talk to. The tension between me and my husband escalates daily. He wants sex. I want to sleep for 200 years. He sulks.
It’s late. We’ve had visitors, we’ve been drinking. I’m demented with exhaustion and stress. The baby needs a bottle and the toddler demands a hug. My husband sits on the couch and my mother’s on the floor in front of him. There’s an undercurrent, something unspoken, between them. He’s massaging her shoulders. While I get my sons fed and ready for bed, I can see the massage is becoming something else. My husband and my mother are making out, in front of me, in my living room. Unable to deal with it, I ignore them. I should throw a pot of cold water over them, throw them out of the house and out of my life, but I’m so tired my face is falling off and my bones are crumbling, and this is too outrageous to even acknowledge.
“Fuck ’em,” I think. “They deserve each other.” I take myself off to bed but can’t sleep. I hear the door to the spare room where my mother sleeps open and close. I hear them go in. Eventually, my husband comes into our bedroom.
In the morning my husband goes to work, and my mother and I pretend nothing has happened. This is the way of things in our family: hysterics when the cat’s tail gets caught in the door, but if your 16-year-old son takes off into the night in crisis or your 18-year-old daughter slashes her wrists, we don’t talk about it, it didn’t happen. Ours isn’t the only family like this, but with us the habit of denial runs especially deep.
Later, a friend asked, “Why don’t you have it out with her?” (My husband, by then, long gone .) Impossible — she’s pathologically incapable of assuming responsibility and would resort to attacking, crying or inventing excuses. Occasionally I’ve alluded to that night. Last year she wrote telling me she didn’t have sexual intercourse with my husband, and it was painful and unfair to be “falsely accused.”
It took a lot for me to understand my mother, and even more to forgive her.
When I told her I was writing this essay, she responded, “You do what you want to do. I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve done, but I can’t go back to change anything.”
Then I got a second letter, begging me not to cut her out of my life, that she would always love me unconditionally. I answered, pointing out that whether or not penetration took place is entirely beside the point, and if I were going to cut her out of my life I would have done so already. One reason I didn’t is that my sons deserve to have a grandmother who adores them, so I chose to protect their relationship with her.
It took a lot for me to understand my mother, and even more to forgive her, but I’ve learned to see her behavior in a wider context. My mother’s been competing with other women all her life — starting with her own mother over her father’s affections, with me over my father, my boyfriends, my husband, and with her friends over any man around. She’s such a flawed bundle of insecurities that she even needed her children to find her sexually attractive, imposing herself on us in ways so murkily inappropriate we were left demolished, muted, unable to form any kind of response.
Such dysfunction, such emotional disconnection, such narcissism speaks of damage that goes very deep. “I can’t remember anything from before the age of 7,” she said once. “What does that tell you?” I asked, but she remained silent.
Yet. My mother is a warm, charming woman with a playful, accommodating nature; as long as you’re not one of her offspring in emotional distress, she’s generous, kind and helpful. And she’s proud of me — even if she’s never known where she stops and where I begin: “I bathe in reflected glory” is a favorite saying of hers.
Despite the things she’s done, she loves me, tainted though that love is. As long as I play happy and keep my pain to myself, we get on famously. I can stay connected to her because I see her clearly. I know what to expect, and, more importantly, what not to. I treasure the good things we retain. But I can never trust her, and love only goes so far without trust.
Buddhism teaches that our parents give us a body, and the rest is up to us. The spiritual teacher Miguel Ruiz established four agreements for a good life, and the second is: “Take nothing personally. People do what they do because of themselves.” The night she slept with my husband, my mother was driven by her ruined child-self, by the unformed, needy part of her that can’t know right from wrong. In healing my life, I’ve drawn on the wisdom and support offered by friends, daily meditation and practicing self-awareness without judgment — quiet noticing, if you will. My mother may never address the traumas she suffered — or those she caused in my life — but I choose compassion over anger, reflection over recrimination.
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