Through all of my writing so far, I have failed to share a few details that may have some of you wondering how we got from fifteen to twenty-nine . . . . .
At fifteen, when I sat down to write to Brian, and explain the scars that I suffered from, I did so in a manner that kept me from telling the details of the molestation. When I wrote Brian in that long letter so many years ago, which is packed away in a safe place, I was scared. I had never EVER told anyone what happened to me. I concealed the pain, the hurt, the humiliating details for years, and although I knew I could tell him, I also was worried to scare him away. My letter to him was without the details of the abuse, not describing what my brother did, or how and where. I couldn’t, I just couldn’t come to grips with writing those details – I had kept them to myself for so long, it was almost like I questioned the memories myself. And yes, at times over the years, I’ve questioned them because I had been so good at suppressing them that they almost didn’t seem real. Not to mention, these “things” didn’t happen to families like ours, so those questions of self doubt wore heavily on me. So, when we sat down in my oldest brothers living room at seventeen, Brian knew that my brother had “hurt” me in some manner, but not in any way that he could even fathom. It wasn’t until at twenty-nine, when my grandfather passed and everything came to my dining room table, so to speak, that Brian had any idea how what happened to me was actual, real scars. He had no idea at all that what I wrote him in that letter, was acts that were done to me . . . over and over and over again. In Brian’s words, “I thought he attempted to do these things to you. I had no idea that he actually did that”. In that moment, at my table, I saw for the very first time, someone hurting for me. Someone, my true love, was pained for me. He cried, in fear and in anger. He was pissed and ready to induce harm on him like I couldn’t even imagine. He was enraged, and yet he was so consoling to me. In that moment, I knew his heart was broken for me.
After twenty two years of pain and scars, for the first time ever, my husband loved me in a way that I was never loved before. I felt a warmth come over me, and I knew that I was going to be okay – some way, some how – he was going to make sure I healed from this. After that long talk into the night, with many tears and extensive details, he knew everything that I could remember from those awful days. The next day, he was so loving and caring, which at times was a bit much for me – I’m not this crazy love-kissed kind of gal – but he spent that next day right by my side. For the next six days to follow, he called me throughout the day, which seemed at times like every hour, asking me how I was doing and could he do anything for me. My response was always the same, “you’re doing everything that I need and everything that I ever dreamed of”. Those next several days seemed to feel like forever. My daughter went off to school, and son to preschool, and I went back to my normal work schedule. At this time, Brian and I worked our business together, so every day he was there to keep watch over me and make sure that I was making it through that day. As if losing my grandfather wasn’t enough, having opened up about my scars was even more heart wrenching. No matter what the situation or circumstances, opening a wound that never heals perfectly, will forever be painful. Thank The Lord, we’re making it through; although the molestation seemed like the end of my world in those moments, I knew the upcoming months would be even more painful in a difference sense of the word.
After that week went by, and I had spoken to my girl friends (my few closest friends whom I had told in no great detail), that Friday May 4th came. It was my nephews birthday party, and so we all went that night after work to my oldest brother’s house for his birthday party. As we all sat in the garage, chatting and eating cake, I witnessed my husband sitting at the opposite side of the garage from the man (term used loosely) that he wanted to completely mutilate in many forms. He sat there, staring at my brother, someone whom he had known even before our friendship began through mutual friends, as if he was ready to destroy him. Remember though, my brother had no idea that anyone knew anything about the molestation, so as usual, he sat like his arrogant cocky self across the table. More than once, Brian got up and walked out behind the garage, because he just couldn’t handle being in the same space with this hideous person – this child molester. As the sun set and darkness came, my oldest brother, who I had spoken to in detail the day prior and he was now fully aware, insisted that Brian and I sit down with him and my parents, and discuss what really happened – because if Brian didn’t realize, and he didn’t realize, then my parents must not realize what truly happened. “You need to do this, you have to do this” he said. Meanwhile, I had spent that entire week in a state of despair, agonizing over whether I was ready for all of this to transpire, with headaches and migraines, and unable to control my emotions at times. Was I ready for my life to be turned upside down, from all that I have ever known? Should I just forget it all, and hope that we can sweep it back under the rug? At that point, there was no more sweeping to do. Once the details had been revealed to Brian, and he was able to process what had happened, he began to think back to all of the encounters between he and I, where something just wasn’t right. We would be in the heat of a loving moment (if you get me!), and I would just freeze, clam up even, and in the worst moments, I would begin crying for no reason that he could understand. But now, he understood. He could understand that in those moments, I was being placed back in the hell of that abuse. On other occasions, the smallest of things would anger me and I would have bursts of rage. And some times, I would pick fights with him for absolutely no reason at all. I would beat on him, punching him and making him feel like he couldn’t do anything right – here me though, the one thing I never did and it has great importance to he and I, was call him stupid (thank you Lord). Did I know in those moments what was causing my actions, no I didn’t. And that is the worst part of the entire journey – realizing that your pain has caused you to act and react in a manner where you hate yourself. I hated myself for those moments, and I really hated myself for failing to love my husband the way that he deserved to be loved. I just wasn’t good enough for him.
GRAPHIC DETAILS –
I’ve been contemplating how deep I would take my thoughts, and after finishing my most recent book on Survivor stories, I realized that stories of sexual abuse, molestation, rape, incest all come on many different levels – BUT here me when I say this, no level is any less detrimental nor painful than the other. For those who are wondering about sexual abuse, and what constitutes what, here is how I depict the offenses – they are all hell! Sexual abuse encompasses all forms of abuse, whether against a boy or girl, black or white, young or old; if you are abused in any form sexually, you are a survivor of sexual abuse. I’ve read stories of children and adults being kidnapped, beaten, raped with objects and by humans, to where their pelvic bones are broken and they will never fully heal physically from their assault. In other stories, we have girls and boys who are left alone with someone who takes advantage of them, whether it be with coercing the child into blow jobs or sexual intercourse. And the most untold stories, are those that many feel are nothing more than a “misunderstanding”; the child is left alone with an adult while mom or dad runs an errand, or goes over to a friends house for a play date, and the friend’s parent or uncle, or maybe it’s even the older brother or sister, decides to get a bit close to the child, brushes his crotch up against their arm or maybe runs his hand over their breast area while their shirt is on. So, maybe he succeeds without their alarm, so he goes in for another feel and puts is hand down their shirt or pants, or even up their skirt. That, in that moment, has robbed the child of their innocence. In that moment, they have lost their ability to feel comfortable with themselves, possibly not even able to comprehend what happened, but is told “hey that was an accident, sorry, don’t tell anyone because that would be embarrassing” – and just like that, they are scarred, wondering what they did to deserve that treatment. What was wrong with them, that someone would do that to them, and make them feel that way. That child is scarred forever!
In my situation, with all of the hustle and bustle of our family’s hectic work life, no one took the time to realize what was or wasn’t happening. However, in some moments, I believe that my parents may have known something had happened, and just brushed it under that rug – it was easier than dealing with the problem. So, for me, I was that seven year old girl, my brother eleven at that time, and I would ask him to play with me. I’m sure at times, I would become annoying, as my older two brothers would either be out working away from the house, or working on their equipment in the garage far from the house. My father was away most days driving truck, and around that time, was picking up more over-the-road trips. My mother, worked in the school cafeteria during the day, and before and after, spent most of her time running errands or grocery shopping. With that said, guess who was left at home with the eleven year old quite often? Our house was originally a two bedroom ranch style, with an open basement. When I was three, my parents and grandparents added on, so we had four bedrooms upstairs. My oldest brothers shared a room for a while, but eventually, the oldest brother moved downstairs to his own ‘space’. It was nothing more than a sheet dividing his room from our downstairs television area. My grandparents had bought us new living room furniture, so we were able to move that old 70’s couch down to the basement. We set it up outside of the oldest brothers room, with the 70’s sheet hanging from the ceiling, and his dressers dividing the space more distinctly. The 70’s couch was just that, what you are most likely picturing – oranges and browns, and ugly. For me, I can picture the space like it was yesterday. The large console tv was against the wall, we had the couch dividing the room from the hall space at the bottom of the steps, and a large area rug on the floor to soften the cold tile floor. That rug, was from the 70’s too, with lots of color. Nonetheless, it warmed the space from that cold dark basement.
When the abuse would occur, he would lay me down on the floor in front of that couch; that dreadful couch which I will never forget. He would have me lay close, on my stomach, so if anyone came in the basement door, he had time to get off of me and not get caught. For me, I could roll up in front of that couch and no one would see me if they were running up the stairs – I was tiny, so I could hide in small spaces. That basement tv room was not used often, so no one really wanted or needed to be in there. I remember him laying on top of me, as my face was in that carpet on the floor. On some occasions, he would have me perform sexual acts on him. On other occasions, that wasn’t enough. He would force sexual intercourse on me. It was painful; it hurt like a tear that might never go away. For me, I just wanted it to be over, because then he would play a board game or cards with me. That’s all I wanted, and he took advantage of that with me. He chose to scar me forever, and yet he went about his time with little remorse for what he did. A time later, he would come back to do it again . . . and again . . . and again. I never wanted to recount what he did or how he did it. I never wrote about it, I never kept a journal or a diary. I never wanted it to be written, as if it’s not written, it can be forgotten. As these times passed and I was in the first and second grade (scary, isn’t it!), it wasn’t until the fifth grade when we were taught sex education and I realized what he had truly done to me. In that moment, I was humiliated. Not only was I pained and scarred, I was now humiliated and disgusted by what had happened, and at times in my own mind, what I had “allowed” to happen to me.
The memories from those moments will never leave my mind; they will forever be in there, for me to learn how to live with and more forward from. He cost me my innocence, of something that was mine to control, to give to someone when I was ready. That was taken, no stolen, from me; unfortunately, I was too young to know and had no one there for me. I was alone, so very alone, in my life.
I’ve brought you through some of the details of the scars, but the story goes on. I hope you will stay with me, as we walk through my journey to heal the wounds that I once felt would never heal and forever be open to pain. Healing is possible, and life can be wonderful!
My First Breath 