My father is dead now, has been since 2009, but I haven't been able to deal with all of the abuse he committed on me; I have Complex PTSD (diagnosed with PTSD in 2002), therapy is out of my reach due to finances. I have terrible nightmares about my father hurting me, hurting my beloved pets, about my uncle's stepfamily coming after me to hurt me even further (they have never believed me about the abuse, although my father ADMITTED it to my late mother). I don't remember huge chunks of my childhood, but remember always being terribly afraid of my father. When I was 21, my mother told me that when we had been living in Germany and my brother was still a baby and me a toddler, our landlord's son came into my room one day when I was taking a nap and molested me. I have no memory of this. She also told me that when she informed my father about it, he told her to ignore it, not to tell the landlord or make any waves. She took me to the kid's grandmother's house anyway and made me tell the woman what her grandson had done to me, in German. My father didn't care that this had happened to me, the kid was still allowed to be around me, and he made no effort to relocate our family to the military base housing where I would have been safer. My father came on to me when I was fifteen, trying to kiss me in a way that he shouldn't have been. That same summer, our family was at our remote cottage, and I was swollen and pained because of a dental abscess that he refused to interrupt his vacation for (I had several dental abscesses as a teen due to neglect). I was alone in the cottage reading when my father came in and totally disrobed in front of me in the process of changing his clothes. I didn't tell my mother about either of these two incidents. When I was nineteen, and just out of my first serious relationship, my father came into my bedroom one day when everyone else was out and demanded I remove my nightgown. I refused, and kept refusing until he left. This time I told my mother, later that day, and she said she'd been afraid he would try something like this because she'd noticed him watching me in a lustful way. She believed me, but seemed to be in denial about it and did not confront my father about it. Six months later I had been accepted at college and was saving up for tuition and books. My father once again came into my bedroom, this time while I was asleep, wearing only his boxers and with his penis flopping out of the hole in front. He tried to sexually assault me and told me he would pay for my college and buy me a used car if I gave him a hand job. I said no, and told him he was sick and needed to see a psychiatrist. He was angry, and somehow knew that I'd told my mother about the incident the previous fall. He forced me to put my hand on him but I would not cooperate, and eventually he left. Once again when my mother came home, and she and I had gone out for lunch, I told her what he had done that morning. This time she couldn't ignore it, and realized he would continue to go after me unless something was done; she took me to the padre on the military base (my father was in the air force, five years away from retirement) and made me tell the padre what my father had done. The padre's advice was to not report it to the police as it would destroy my father's career and my mother's financial security. She was a homemaker and hadn't worked full-time since before I was born, and my father controlled the finances and would have made her life hell had she tried to move out and take me with her. My mother was afraid of this as well, and convinced me not to report the assault. I paid for my own college, and went to school via bus with no help from my father. I took part-time and summer jobs to pay my way through, but couldn't finish as I was beginning to experience a lot of physical pain due to scoliosis (the scoliosis began showing up at age eleven, but my father refused to let me see the doctor about it until his military colleagues saw me during a temporary posting overseas; by the time I was permitted to see a doctor I was about to enter high school, and the scoliosis was very severe by that point). I'd had two major surgeries for it in my teens, requiring close to a year out of school. Now as an adult I got a referral to another orthopedic surgeon, who agreed that my curvature could be improved. I had the surgery, and a few weeks after coming home got two separate part-time jobs, while still in a body cast. My father stopped trying to sexually abuse me for a while once I reached my mid-twenties and I became involved with my then-boyfriend, ultimately moving to a different city with him for his job. Unfortunately, that relationship ended due to his cheating with a coworker, and since I couldn't afford to live on my own with what I was earning at my job, I had to move back in with my parents. During my time away my mother moved into a separate bedroom and concentrated on her own interests and hobbies, primarily golf, swimming and traveling. My mother came home from a trip to Colombia very ill when she was 63 and I was 32. She'd developed pneumonia while on her trip but believed it was her asthma acting up. My father picked her up at the airport a hundred miles away from home, and when I came home later that night he told me she'd refused to go to the hospital although she was clearly very ill and not making sense. I believe he lied to me about that and that it was actually him that did not want to take her to the hospital. It was a pattern with him to deny us medical and dental care when we needed it, ever since my childhood. My mother spent the weekend in bed, and she called the family doctor the next Monday for an appointment; she was supposed to see him the next day, and didn't mention how very ill she was on the phone. The next day I was woken by my father, who said my mother had been taken to the hospital; he went there in his vehicle, with me following behind in mine. The doctor came out to see us after a few minutes, ushered us into a private room, and told us my mother had died. I was devastated, because she would have survived with prompt treatment, and instead my father essentially ignored her all the previous weekend while she was getting sicker. My father let my mother die. My father went looking for the will after we'd gotten back home from the hospital and the funeral home, and found it the next morning. Knowing him, he would have read it well before we went the lawyer's office for the will reading. My mother had left me everything she had -- a $77,000 RRSP, her eight-year-old car, her jewellery, and her half of the marital home. During the will reading, my father threw a massive fit right there in the lawyer's office, insisting that the RRSP should go to him as he'd contributed a lot of it. I was grieving, and afraid of reprisal and assault if I did not give it to him, so I agreed. After we got home, he also demanded the title of my mother's car as repayment for a loan he'd made me to buy my first vehicle (an old car, which hadn't been worth much). When he'd received that, he then insisted that I also close out my own two RRSP funds, that my mother had insisted he give me the money for a couple of years before, and he wanted that money back as well. I was left with what little money my mother had in the bank plus half of the house. Since I was disabled with chronic pain by this point, finding suitable jobs in our small town was difficult for me, and I had little of my own. Two and a half months after my mother's death, my father again attempted to sexually assault me one night as I was just about to go to bed. I resisted, stayed up all night crying, and in the morning called my friends and asked if I could stay with them until I'd decided what to do. They agreed, and I slept on their couch for six weeks. Finally my father agreed to install a lock on the door leading to the older part of the house, so that I could lock it from the inside and be able to sleep in peace. I couldn't continue to put out my friends. I had to sleep on a convertible couch, in a room with no heat as my father refused to let me turn on the furnace. After my mother's death, my father had also started to wear a robe in the evenings, with no underwear underneath. If I came out of my room to get a coffee or drink, or something to eat, he'd sit in his lounge chair with his legs spread wide open, exposing himself, He did this every single night. He would also make sexual comments to me, demand I remove my clothes because he wanted to f*** me. My father had several health issues during this time, and had to have surgery for macular degeneration, so I would have to take him to the ER, doctor's appointments, etc. I also had to do all the housekeeping and cooking, trying to work around the hoard my father had collected; he never threw out anything, and made it difficult for me to keep things in order. My father had to apply for a gun permit in 1996, in order to comply with the new law here that all guns had to be registered, and he used our family doctor as a reference since he had no friends who would vouch for him. I had gone to the doctor in my mid-twenties and asked for a referral to counselling, explaining that my father had sexually abused me. As a result, the doctor refused to vouch for my father and informed the police about my father's sexual assaults on me. I was called down to the police station, and pressured into giving them a statement about the two assaults he'd committed just before I started college. The police were going to arrest him, and I was extremely afraid of reprisal should that happen. I called my counsellor and asked him to intervene, because I did not want to see my father go to jail. I know what happens to sex offenders in jail, because I had a civilian job at one of the prisons here in my late twenties and had handled all the inmate files. I just wanted my father to stop being sexually inappropriate with me. It took several calls from both the counsellor and me to the police, and I had to again go to the police station and sign a statement that I did not want my father charged at that time. Instead, they sent him a letter stating the reasons why his gun application had been denied. He never said a word about it to me. Four and a half years after my mother died, her much older half-brother passed away, and I received a call from his lawyer stating that he'd left me $10,000. My father attempted to force me to turn this money over to him, but instead I used it to enroll in university, and began commuting taking part-time courses in order to qualify for fulltime study. Once I'd qualified, I made arrangements to move to this city, where the university is, and enrolled in school for a degree in linguistics. My father presented me with two bonds totalling $32,000 to pay for my first two years of fulltime study, but then told me I had to pay him back with interest after graduation. He insisted that it took only three years to complete an honours degree in university,and called me a liar when I told him it was four years. I developed severe depression after moving away from home, not because I missed living at home but because I was finally safe from my father and the depression was a delayed reaction to the many years of abuse. Because of the depression I had to drop back to part-time study, and also worked part-time in the law library. My father, during the six years I was living here and trying to complete my courses towards my degree, would visit occasionally on the weekends, usually bringing along a few groceries for me and catnip for my two cats. I had roommates, so he behaved himself during these visits. I also began a LDR with a man in California, and we would get together once or twice a year for a week at a time. Six years after my move, my father called me and told me his doctor had told him he couldn't live alone any longer due to his health decline. He was falling a lot and having increasing difficulty eating and walking. He said the house had to be sold, and I offered to let him live with me, thinking he had changed. Along with him, I had to sign the real-estate documents transferring the house to its new owner, with the closing being the last day of August. My father had sold most of the valuable furniture that summer, and I believe he also sold my mother's jewellery; when he moved in with me, he brought along several trunks of stuff and other furniture I'd told him there was no room for in my apartment. Three or so days after he'd moved in, I found a letter from the real-estate lawyer who'd handled the house sale, and the letter indicated that a check was enclosed made out only to my father. Since I'd inherited half the house when my mother died, I confronted him about his having kept all of the money from it, and he told me I "didn't deserve to have it". I couldn't go back to school, because my father could not be left alone in the apartment, and he hadn't told me about the severity of his illness. He still expected me to get another student loan, as I had for the previous four years, and go to school full-time, work part-time, and look after him 24/7. It simply wasn't logistically possible, yet he seemed to not understand this and called me a "liar" because I didn't enroll in school after he'd moved in. He accused me of telling the movers to leave behind his military medals and take my books instead, which was insane to me... I'd already removed all my books from the house well before the move. This was only the start of a year filled with the worst abuse I had ever faced. My father then started refusing to give me money for the rent and other bills, to punish me for not going back to school. He didn't appreciate that I had sacrificed my education, and because he now expected me to support him on a student loan, was very angry and abusive to me. There were three separate assaults on me, done while I was doing things such as helping to change his clothing; he'd snake his hand under my shirt and grope me, pinching and clenching his fist while looking directly in my face with unmistakable hatred. I didn't retaliate, and tried not to react to this at all. The next time he got angry, he escalated by groping and pinching my crotch. Another time, he pulled and wrenched at my right arm, causing a painful rotator cuff injury which has never healed. Meanwhile I was doing my best to help him, taking him to his doctor, to the ER several times, to his bank, in addition to cooking meals that he refused to eat and trying to keep the apartment clean. He insisted I get rid of every one of my books so he could pile his hoarded junk everywhere, even in my bedroom. My birthday and Christmas passed without a single kind word from him. Right after Christmas he again had to go to the ER for an abdominal complaint, and the doctors operated on him and gave him what they called a "temporary" colostomy. He remained in hospital close to three months while the doctors there tried to figure out what was wrong with him, in addition to his abdominal problems, and he was finally diagnosed with a rare neurological disease. When I brought him home from the hospital, the local Community Care agency sent nurses for a few weeks to assess his condition and I learned how to change his colostomy bags. He was now incontinent as well, and would refuse to get dressed or cleaned up prior to the nurses' visits... his aim was to make it appear that I was refusing to help him so that the agency would "force" me to wait on him hand and foot. The Case Manager called me, furious, after one of the nurse visits, and did not seem to understand that my father was deliberately not cooperating with me, and that his behaviour was not a new thing to me. I could not force him to do anything, and if I had tried to do so, he would have cried "elder abuse". During that year he lived with me, he also claimed that I owed him $140,000 for all the money he spent raising me to adulthood -- he expected me to pay him back for the back brace I'd needed as a teen, for all my clothing and food I'd eaten as a child, for the diapers my mother had used. I was dumbfounded by this. How could he expect me to pay him for this, when I was doing all the caregiving for him for free? He told me I'd ruined his life (by being disabled) and now he was going to ruin mine. If I'd wanted to ruin his life, I would have had him charged with sexual assault long before that. He went on for two solid hours, telling me what a failure I was to him, talking about every imagined "transgression" I'd ever committed. I had done the right thing in telling my mother about his assaults, and he blamed me for ruining his marriage when it was his actions that had done so. Nothing I did was good enough for him. At one point, my father had allowed me to hire a lady from the VON who would come by one afternoon a week to give me respite. That didn't last very long, however; my father had to be assessed by a special team at the Day Hospital, and the result would indicate which level of care he would need. He fired the VON lady after his Day Hospital assessment, because they'd recommended he go into a nursing home, and he was furious about this. He blamed me for the loss of his driving license, when he was clearly unfit to drive and would have endangered other people by doing so. The only reason he'd kept his license that long was because I was doing all the driving. I took him on tours of several nursing homes here, and he made a list of his top three choices along with the Case Manager from Community Care. There was a wait of several months before a room would become available. Shortly after that, my father fell outside my apartment and broke his hip, was operated on and kept for three weeks in hospital. They had him up walking a few days after his operation, but when I thought he'd be released back to my home, he was instead admitted to his top choice of nursing home on a "crisis" basis. More next post... and sorry this is so very long.