I was 14 years old when my uncle molested me, my uncle who was the first person I called "daddy." It was in the summer (before air conditioning) and, as was customary, I would spend a week at my aunt and uncle's house. It always was a special time for me, bonding with my aunt, my surrogate mother, getting some much-needed attention. That specific day my aunt had gone to the grocery which was four miles away. My uncle, his grandson (who was in his stroller) and I were in the living room. I was playing with my cousin, my back toward my uncle. When my uncle put his hand down my underwear and pulled me closer to him, I was shocked, there was such a feeling of disbelief and disgust, this can't be happening. Physically I felt nauseous, my heart started racing, my cheeks flushed, I started trembling. I couldn't breathe and I thought I might pass out. It was probably no more than a minute or two at the most, but it seemed like an eternity, that it would never end. Even so, it was an out-of-body experience. The thing that "saved" me was that my cousin threw up. My uncle stopped to check on the baby and to clean up the mess. I don't remember how long it was before my aunt returned, but I am certain that it was interminable to me. When she did return, I felt like she would know because I couldn't be acting normally. No one said a word.
Even though there was no mistaking that it had happened, for a long time afterwards I was in denial, I couldn't think about it. I've heard other people who were sexually abused express their feelings with blood-curdling screams, the kind that comes from deep within their soul. I wish I could do that, but it always seems to get caught in my throat-as it did that day and every day after.
At the time it occurred, I felt angry--how could he do this to me--he was my uncle, I TRUSTED him, my uncle who I should have been able to trust. Then I felt afraid and I never said a word to anyone about the incident, the act. What difference would it make? They wouldn't believe me anyway I thought. And if they did, what would happen to me? Would they blame me? Would they lock me up? If I had no family, then I knew I would die. But a part of me did die that day--the part that believed that there really is good in the world. Or if there was good, maybe I wasn't meant to be a part of it. And I felt sad for the little girl who had long hoped for a shred of normalcy in her life.
And then there was the guilt. I did not know anyone else that this had happened to. If people at school found out, I would have brought even more shame on my family. So I became more of a loner and even more isolated. There must have been something I did to provoke being molested. I must really be a bad person or it wouldn't have happened to me. Maybe I even caused it because I wanted to be loved so badly. It was all my fault. I deserved it. It becomes my mantra. It was all my fault. I deserved it.
Soon I began not to feel anything (except guilty and ashamed). I began to eat to block the feelings that came up. I told myself that I would make myself so unattractive that no one would want to be near me. I wouldn't let myself be hurt again. And in so doing I became even lonelier which reinforced the belief that I was unworthy, worthless. I learned to smile on cue, to hide behind a mask. The "child" decided not to have children when she grows up. My mind began to play tricks on me. I believed I was only nine when it happened because a 14-year-old is more responsible than a 9-year-old. A 14-year-old would have known what to do. I should have been able to handle it. I ate more and I cried when I was alone. I wanted to blame other people but the only one I saw to blame was me. I ate even more. I began to wonder if it had happened before, when I was very young, because snapshots can be very revealing. Stories that used to be cute don't seem so funny anymore. Nothing seems funny. I continue to exist because I don't have a life anymore if I ever did. I become outraged at minor things but my primary job is to not make waves. I do my job so well I become invisible. Stepford children don't have anything on me. I feel overwhelmed, that everything is hopeless. I don't see an end to this nightmare (hey, wait a minute-I'm awake), but I could never commit suicide. It would probably be just one more thing I would screw up. I distrust everyone, especially those in authority, even those trying to help, and I rebel. I feel betrayed and my emotions shut down in uncomfortable situations. My entire body is constantly in a tense position; my personality is rigid too. I feel disrespected and the only thing that's left is self-loathing.
As even more time passed, in order to cope (as I had always done), I minimized the situation. It only happened the one time, once. And that was true for about ten years, until it happened again. I'll never forget these words-"all I wanted to do was love you." There's no place I feel safe and secure.
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I have heard that a family is as sick as the person in charge, that a family is as sick as its secrets. As a child, I tried to work things out for myself. Was being molested worse than being abandoned by my mother? I don't know. Was it worse than my father being the local drunk? I don't know. Was being molested worse than, when my mother was around, choking me at a family gathering while no one paid attention? I don't know. Was it worse than seeing my mother and grandmother in a domestic dispute with a knife? I don't know. Was it worse than not being wanted by my grandmother who did the "right" thing and embraced the martyr role and in so doing became a terribly embittered person? I don't know. Was it worse than being raped by an acquaintance at the age of 22? I don't know. Did my aunt or anyone else know what was going on and if they did why didn't they stop it? And then I realized that maybe he's doing it to others and I'm still not strong enough to say anything. I learned in school that the sum total of the parts is greater than the whole. It's funny that that's the only thing I can remember from math class. The only thing I know is pain, to the nth degree.
I wonder where the innocent little girl is--the one that used to be so resilient, who was always in constant motion, who was so brave, who enjoyed jumping in puddles and following rainbows, who swung higher and higher, said hello to everyone, asked lots of questions, had courage and was adventurous, who squealed with delight, fell down and got right back up again, raced the wind, jumped up and down for joy, laughed and loved unconditionally. Now I am always looking over my shoulder, I jump when someone comes up from behind me. I feel physically ill at the thought of getting close to someone. I wonder what I could have become if I'd gotten the love and care that I needed, that others received for no apparent reason. Inside, I am furious.
Years pass and I'm an "adult" now. I move away. I work hard and earn two degrees. I get married and I get divorced. I hear that my uncle died and secretly I'm happy that he can't hurt anyone else anymore. Somehow I can't even cry over his death. I wonder why I have trouble getting a job, keeping a job, making any sort of commitment. I start therapy and it seems as if it will never end. I learn that sarcasm is a form of anger and I learn that depression is anger turned inward. I have been angry for so long I doubt that I have the strength to get rid of all the anger inside of me. I learn I have choices. People tell me to move on, to get over it. I need to remember; if I let my guard down, it will happen again. So I relive the pain almost daily. And I know that if I don't change, then nothing changes. I deserve better. I'm learning that love doesn't hurt. Maybe someday I'll even believe it.
