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Charles Darwin was the father of evolution, author of On the Origin of Species , and a faithful husband to Emma Wedgwood Darwin , his first cousin.

Together, the couple had ten children, three of which died at a young age. Of the seven children that lived, three were infertile Darwin thoroughly recorded the status of his health and the health of his family.

Image Source: Genetics and Beyond. Researchers looked at four generations of Darwin and Wedgwood families and discovered many consanguineous marriages on both sides.

Ordinary activities many people enjoy were considered forbidden, from dancing to attending a theater. Because of this, as a child and as a teenager, I felt as if my parents were being too overprotective.

I wasn't able to experience as much freedom as I wanted to. It was not until I was in the fifth grade that I learned that what my father was doing to me in private was not only considered wrong, but also illegal.

Before I knew this, I thought it was normal behavior between father and son that was meant to be kept a secret. I used to sit in back of the church and would watch church members walk up to my father, shake his hand, and smile.

I, on the other hand, was looked at as being awkward, an introvert who always wore a jacket and sat in back of the church with his head down drawing.

If only they knew the truth who my father really was, I used to tell myself. He wore an invisible mask in front of these people and could easily fool them with his charming personality.

I was the only one aware that he was hiding behind a mask. Once a lady at church approached my mother privately and told her that she suspected that I had been sexually abused.

She based her conclusion on my quiet, shy personality and also the fact that I was always using excessive amount of dark shading in my drawings. I used to shade my drawings so much that it was difficult to tell exactly what I had drawn.

She wasn't a psychiatrist but was taking college courses to earn a degree in psychology. She advised my mother to take me to see a professional therapist.

My mother told my father about this, and he refused. The sexual abuse began only with molestation during the first years and later to other sexual acts, which included oral and intercourse.

The molestation was done when my mother wasn't home or when she wasn't in the same room we were in. The other sexual acts took place in a very wealthy home in Oyster Bay, New York, at my father's work.

These mansions were spread far apart from each other and surrounded by nature for privacy. It was here where my father used to take me on Sundays.

His bosses, an Italian couple, were never home on this day. My father did a variety of jobs which included mowing the lawn, tending the garden, and other labor and maintenance work.

The sexual abuse began as a game. An upstairs room with a couple of couches, a screen TV, and a video game console system is where the abuse took place most of the time.

On one side of the room were sliding glass doors that led to a balcony. It had a good view of the swimming pool, the flowers, and trees that surrounded it.

All of the curtains were closed before the sexual abuse began. My father would start off by making a deal with me. He would allow me to play video games if I agreed to let him perform sexual acts on me.

Excited as any child would be when given the opportunity to play one of his favorite games, I easily gave in. One of the worst memories I have of the sexual abuse is being taken to the attic when I was around ten years old.

It was very dark inside, and I kept having thoughts in my head that I wasn't going to make it out back alive. Sometimes he became aggressive when I didn't let him have his way, but he never physically abused me while having sex.

If he kills me, I thought to myself, I would no longer exist. I do not remember exactly what I was thinking about during the abuse.

It was like my mind wasn't there. It was painful, and I cried just like many other times, but he never stopped. I managed to withstand the physical pain, and was glad once I left the attic.

He took a picture of me once, right after he had finished abusing me and I got dressed. He was talking to my mother on the phone only a few seconds ago when I sat on the couch in the living room downstairs.

He took out a disposable camera, told me to smile, and took the picture. It was this picture that remained in the family photo album for many years to come.

There were a few other incidents that were as horrifying as my experience in the attic or even worse. He even sexually abused me in his bosses' bedroom upstairs a few times.

What I found very disturbing and annoying was that sometimes he would have perverted conversations while abusing me. He would ask me questions about other boys' genitals, if they had grown hair around that area yet or if I knew what a girl's private area looked like.

I wasn't mentally prepared for these kinds of questions at this age. The abuse would have continued pass the age of twelve if he didn't have a life threatening experience.

He was a soldier in the Salvadoran Civil War. He had been shot in the leg and in the back of the neck. Throughout the years, without him ever suspecting, the bullet from the back of his neck was slowly traveling upwards.

It caused him severe headaches that used to last for several of hours. He was prescribed medication after the doctors discovered the bullet.

A risky surgical operation had to be performed in order to remove it. The doctors explained to him the procedure in detail and the fact that he might not survive the operation.

This is when the abuse suddenly stopped. We would go to crummy dives in the East Village to drink beer, listen to awful bands, and flirt with grown men.

I saw him only once. I was impressed by his advanced age and how shocking it would be if I told people he was my boyfriend, but even I knew that this was not enough grist for a relationship.

I met another guy who was funny and went to film school at NYU. He was twenty-two and had a tiny apartment on Great Jones Alley and I thought he might make a suitable boyfriend, or at least a suitable deflowerer.

It was harder than I thought. Or, perhaps his father or mother had warned him that girls get attached to their first lover—you break it you bought it, or some such.

As it happened, we split the difference. He agreed to have sex with me and, to the best of my knowledge at the time, he made good on our deal.

But I was thrilled to be done with it. Or so I thought. It was clear to all of us that this was special, that we would remember it, and that the night could end only one way.

For the following year I told anyone who asked that I was not a virgin. Then, the summer before I turned seventeen, I went to work on the kitchen staff at a hippie sleep-away camp.

Every morning I got up early to set up the hot cocoa station; every night I put the chairs on top of the tables and mopped the dining hall floor.

In August, I had three days off, and one of the counselors and I got in her battered car and drove through the thick summer air from New Hampshire to Cape Cod.

Her boyfriend was in Provincetown, living out of his van, which he parked in the woods outside of town. We sat with him on Commercial Street while he played music for money, and scorched ourselves brown on the beach in the afternoon sun.

When night fell, we went with him to a store called Firehouse Leather to meet some of his friends who sold belts and moccasins to tourists.

One of them was a tall guy named Austin with a sand-colored ponytail. When my friends and I walked away, I turned back and caught him still staring at me, which made us both laugh.

We had a bonfire on the beach late that night. I sat in the dunes with my friend and her boyfriend and the staff of Firehouse Leather, drinking beer and watching a meteor shower flickering in the dark above us.

It was clear to all of us that this was special, that we would remember it, and that the night could end only one way: my friend would go back to the woods and I would walk down Commercial Street in the dawn with Austin and get into his bed.

When we had sex, it became clear to me that in fact, I had never had sex before. What had happened on that futon on Great Jones had been a failed attempt; the young man from NYU had not completed my mission.

This, now, was something else. It was uncomfortable, then pleasurable, but most of all it was different. It was different from the plodding loneliness of high school, and from the harrowing, cyclical fights with my parents that had become our routine.

It was something that was better to do than to talk about doing. It would take me many, many years to understand what I wanted from it, but I was so glad to know it was there.

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