My turn to grieve

Father took me with him on a trip. He sat me in the front seat of his green car. He molested me with his hand. I was ashamed and worried that people might see inside the car. He didn't care. I was just an object for his pleasure.
I was at my grandma's in the country. I thought my parents abandoned me, forgot about me and I was trying to get used to the idea of what it would be like to live without parents. It wasn't so bad, only my uncle showed up and abused me in the cellar. He locked me in there for hours. I was afraid I was going to die. That's when I decided I was not going to be buried when I died, cause it was very said, dark and lonely and it smelled like damp dirt and mildew. It was a relief when my parents showed up and started fighting over me. I felt special. They were asking me: "Who do you love most?" And I thought about it and I found wise to say: "I love you both equally", cause I didn't like the confrontation. I actually thought they cared about this. It was only banter. My father wanted to show mother that I loved him more. He wanted to justify the abuse. He thought that I loved him more, because he was molesting me. I must have been about 5 years old that summer. They took me from Grandma's and we went to the beach. I was so happy and grateful. Only that my father told me I was supposed to pay for that happiness. The payment was supposed to be sex, of course. Mother was shopping. He took me to the man's bathroom with him. He made me perform oral sex on him and then he said he was feeling good, liberated. It didn't matter how I felt. I was only there to make him feel good. The truth is I was feeling sad, ashamed, with no hope. I was losing my dignity, which was the most important thing to me. I learned to never be happy again. I learned to never show when I was happy. I learned to never show any feeling ever again. I started singing a lot. I would sing anything I could hear on the radio, in order not to reveal that I might feel anxious, or sad, or fearful, or even happy. I was scared my father could guess my state of mind and make me pay for it. Only now I know it didn't depend on me. He was a psycopath.
Now, writing this blog, I feel that it's finally my turn to show my feelings. It's my turn to be sad. I'm safe enough. I can cry. No one has ever had patience for me and my feelings. At least now, I can show them to myself and grieve.