When you suspect something may be going on it is hard to confront the situation. Do you make accusations and chance being wrong? Do second guess yourself, turn your back and figure you are wrong? Do you ask the child possibly adding to their confusion and shame? In Mom's case it would have been a especially difficult situation considering his violence and threats toward all of us. When your hands are tied suspicions can quickly turn to paralyzing fear.
Mom and I have had many conversations over the years about the situation we were in when I was a kid. Why she didn't devise some plan to escape? Maybe a shelters in those later years. I found out that when Mom suspected he was molesting my sister she freaked out. She knew in her heart she would need help to leave but didn't know what to do or where to start. She went to a church counselor for help. I am not sure how forthcoming she was with this guy. My mom has a tendency to worry about what others might think and may have held back. One of the reasons for the bug eye glasses was her fear of what people might think. In essence the counselor blamed her. Telling her she wasn't taking care of his needs. That she needed to try harder to please him. The counselor told her not to let him be alone with my sister and to tough it out. He said the most important thing was to keep the family together and do her duty as a wife and mother! I could not disagree more. The idea of being intimate with a man who has been intimate with my child sickens me. He would have lost an appendage if it had been me. Thank the good Lord times have changed since then.
If I had known what Mom was going through maybe I could have told her. If I had come clean would things have been different? I don't think I would have been brave enough to tell her. Could we have been a support for each other? I'm not sure I could have been a support for anyone at the time. Did my sister know Mom was protecting her? I have my doubts because my sister has a great deal of animosity toward Mom. Is it because she has no idea or is it because she thinks Mom could or should have done more? Did my sister know Mom was told to keep the family together? I wish I had known the whole story. Would it have made things different for me. I wish I had been braver. I wish fear wasn't so paralyzing!
Monday, June 29, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
My writing became an obsession
I should have had someone I could tell but with all the fear I felt, I'm not sure I would have told anyone. The fear would paralyze me. I sat in my closet and cried for hours after he'd leave my room. I hid under my bed, laying still and quiet hoping he wouldn't find me. I needed to talk about it.
I became obsessed with writing everything down and drawing the truth of my life. The entries got more and more disturbing until I had a hard time opening the book. Every time I accidentally opened the pages to an earlier writing I'd quickly look away to avoid the fear I felt at seeing them. My stomach would knot, my heart would race and my head would ache. I'd begin the shake and cry. I feared for my life as if the event was happening again and again and as if the acts I dreamed of doing were real. I didn't know what a panic attack was then but I recognized the feeling now.
My sister and I shared a room. Going outside was one of the only places I could be alone. Sometimes I'd sit outside and write and think. There were times I hid my book in the yard for easy access for me and less accessibility for others.
I started putting paperclips on the pages so they wouldn't flip open. In time my book was heavy with several paperclips. I ran out of paper and taped a second book to the first. I was afraid if I tried to hide them both separately I would forget where I put one and someone would be able to find it. I didn't want anyone to see something so personal. If it were found and read I would have to explain why I wrote what I wrote and why I drew what I drew. I slit a small hole in my mattress on the side against the wall and slid it in the hole under the mattress. I feared I'd get in trouble for having a hole in my mattress.
As time went on the writing became a daily thing. My obsession to write was taking over my life. I'd wake up in the night and write, write before I went to bed, I'd often wish I had my book at school and then be grateful I didn't when I thought of actually having it where someone might be able to see it. It was like if I could get things right on paper they would be right in my world as well. I needed healing, my world needed healing and I didn't know how to make that happen. I became so crazed with the idea that I could make things change by writing them down. Then the realization hit that I couldn't change anything by writing it down. I eventually put the book away. Hid it is a place everyone would see and nobody would notice. I began to visualize changes I wanted in my mind instead of writing.For a while I was able to stop writing all together. Eventually I'd pull it out to document the really bad things just to help me keep my sanity. The visualizations were working for me. My obsession with writing faded to a manageable level.
I became obsessed with writing everything down and drawing the truth of my life. The entries got more and more disturbing until I had a hard time opening the book. Every time I accidentally opened the pages to an earlier writing I'd quickly look away to avoid the fear I felt at seeing them. My stomach would knot, my heart would race and my head would ache. I'd begin the shake and cry. I feared for my life as if the event was happening again and again and as if the acts I dreamed of doing were real. I didn't know what a panic attack was then but I recognized the feeling now.
My sister and I shared a room. Going outside was one of the only places I could be alone. Sometimes I'd sit outside and write and think. There were times I hid my book in the yard for easy access for me and less accessibility for others.
I started putting paperclips on the pages so they wouldn't flip open. In time my book was heavy with several paperclips. I ran out of paper and taped a second book to the first. I was afraid if I tried to hide them both separately I would forget where I put one and someone would be able to find it. I didn't want anyone to see something so personal. If it were found and read I would have to explain why I wrote what I wrote and why I drew what I drew. I slit a small hole in my mattress on the side against the wall and slid it in the hole under the mattress. I feared I'd get in trouble for having a hole in my mattress.
As time went on the writing became a daily thing. My obsession to write was taking over my life. I'd wake up in the night and write, write before I went to bed, I'd often wish I had my book at school and then be grateful I didn't when I thought of actually having it where someone might be able to see it. It was like if I could get things right on paper they would be right in my world as well. I needed healing, my world needed healing and I didn't know how to make that happen. I became so crazed with the idea that I could make things change by writing them down. Then the realization hit that I couldn't change anything by writing it down. I eventually put the book away. Hid it is a place everyone would see and nobody would notice. I began to visualize changes I wanted in my mind instead of writing.For a while I was able to stop writing all together. Eventually I'd pull it out to document the really bad things just to help me keep my sanity. The visualizations were working for me. My obsession with writing faded to a manageable level.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Before I understood
Before I understood what molestation was things began to change again. I didn't know why at the time but my mom was always leaving us with family instead of leaving us home alone with him. I'm sure she would never have told these people what he was doing. Would the people who were supposed to be watching us have done more if they knew they were protecting us from our father?
One of those families that watched us was my father's cousins family. His cousin told me how beautiful I was. I was about 9 then. Before long was he began touching me too. He was just the beginning. It was like I had some sort of target that said "molest her, she has nobody to protect her" on my forehead or something. It seemed there were predators everywhere. I wondered if they were after my sister too or if my brother was safe.
Most were distant family members who came to visit. They seemed to always find a way to get me alone and know I had no protection. All of them were on my father's side of the family. Was it genetic or had he told them we were available for the taking?
I began to believe there was something wrong with me. Something that drew these men to me. They all told me I was beautiful. They all told me I was special. I didn't believe any of it. I thought I was ugly and defective. I felt dirty and pathetic. I wrote about every encounter and planned the demise of every predator. I wondered if maybe they were the defective ones. Looking back now I know it wasn't me but at the time I was one step away from ending my own life. The one thing that saved me was the power I felt in writing in my book.
One of those families that watched us was my father's cousins family. His cousin told me how beautiful I was. I was about 9 then. Before long was he began touching me too. He was just the beginning. It was like I had some sort of target that said "molest her, she has nobody to protect her" on my forehead or something. It seemed there were predators everywhere. I wondered if they were after my sister too or if my brother was safe.
Most were distant family members who came to visit. They seemed to always find a way to get me alone and know I had no protection. All of them were on my father's side of the family. Was it genetic or had he told them we were available for the taking?
I began to believe there was something wrong with me. Something that drew these men to me. They all told me I was beautiful. They all told me I was special. I didn't believe any of it. I thought I was ugly and defective. I felt dirty and pathetic. I wrote about every encounter and planned the demise of every predator. I wondered if maybe they were the defective ones. Looking back now I know it wasn't me but at the time I was one step away from ending my own life. The one thing that saved me was the power I felt in writing in my book.
Nobody to tell
I had nobody to tell.
They tell kids today if anyone hurts you or touches you in a private place to tell a teacher or someone in authority like a policeman. They didn't tell us anything like that when I was a kid. I'm not sure I would have been brave enough to do it if they had. I was not close to any of my teachers and I didn't trust any of them enough to tell them what was happening. I knew the police would do nothing, because of what they had told my mom when they came the first time. I thought they still couldn't anything. I was too young to know the laws had changed.
When he started touching me I was too young to know what really was going on. All I knew was he humiliated me, embarrassed me and made me think it was my fault. I felt dirty and unworthy of love. I wanted him to stop. My friends would never have understood. How could ever I tell them when I didn't entirely understand what was happening myself? The only thing left to do was write everything down and try to keep away from him.
Until a few years ago I never told Mom what was happening. I was afraid to tell her for many reasons. What if she didn't believe me? What if she confronted him and he hurt or killed her? Who would take care of us? What if she confronted him and he took it out on me? Mom already agonized over not being able to protect us enough. I felt like it would have crushed her to know he had stooped to a new lower level! I had to protect her from that information. I kept writing but I hid my book even better. Always afraid it would be read by someone and I would be judged.
Some time passed and Mom got weird about us being home alone with him. I wondered if she had suspected anything or if she had read my book. She would stay at home with us when he was home or she would drop us off with friends or family. One day I overheard her crying in her room. I didn't know why so I quietly listened as she was talking on the phone. I thought she was talking about me but I was wrong. She was talking about my sister. I don't know who she was talking to that she could confide in. I cried that night wishing I had someone to talk to a more worried than ever that my sister was also being touched.
Eventually I figured out what was happening to me. I felt worse than dirty. I wondered how I could make him stop. He was so big how could I ever overpower him or get the better of him. I decided if I told anyone they would think it was my fault for letting it go on for so long. I wanted to die. I knew nobody who would understand. Nobody who could make him stop.
Although there was nobody to tell I could still vent. There was a place where I wouldn't be judged as long as nobody saw my book so I wrote.
They tell kids today if anyone hurts you or touches you in a private place to tell a teacher or someone in authority like a policeman. They didn't tell us anything like that when I was a kid. I'm not sure I would have been brave enough to do it if they had. I was not close to any of my teachers and I didn't trust any of them enough to tell them what was happening. I knew the police would do nothing, because of what they had told my mom when they came the first time. I thought they still couldn't anything. I was too young to know the laws had changed.
When he started touching me I was too young to know what really was going on. All I knew was he humiliated me, embarrassed me and made me think it was my fault. I felt dirty and unworthy of love. I wanted him to stop. My friends would never have understood. How could ever I tell them when I didn't entirely understand what was happening myself? The only thing left to do was write everything down and try to keep away from him.
Until a few years ago I never told Mom what was happening. I was afraid to tell her for many reasons. What if she didn't believe me? What if she confronted him and he hurt or killed her? Who would take care of us? What if she confronted him and he took it out on me? Mom already agonized over not being able to protect us enough. I felt like it would have crushed her to know he had stooped to a new lower level! I had to protect her from that information. I kept writing but I hid my book even better. Always afraid it would be read by someone and I would be judged.
Some time passed and Mom got weird about us being home alone with him. I wondered if she had suspected anything or if she had read my book. She would stay at home with us when he was home or she would drop us off with friends or family. One day I overheard her crying in her room. I didn't know why so I quietly listened as she was talking on the phone. I thought she was talking about me but I was wrong. She was talking about my sister. I don't know who she was talking to that she could confide in. I cried that night wishing I had someone to talk to a more worried than ever that my sister was also being touched.
Eventually I figured out what was happening to me. I felt worse than dirty. I wondered how I could make him stop. He was so big how could I ever overpower him or get the better of him. I decided if I told anyone they would think it was my fault for letting it go on for so long. I wanted to die. I knew nobody who would understand. Nobody who could make him stop.
Although there was nobody to tell I could still vent. There was a place where I wouldn't be judged as long as nobody saw my book so I wrote.
New kinds of trouble
The new house took some getting used to. The only plus side of that house was that in time the scales of good and bad balanced out a little. My father was working nights. He would sleep most of the day and then take off most of the night. It worked out well for us since we didn't see him as much. When we did see him he seemed to be having his own good days. Days that for us meant he wasn't as moody or mean.
The problem started in the summer. We had no place to go and had to stay quiet enough so he could sleep. Having to stay quiet was bad for us. No matter where we played he would be disturbed. I remember spending a lot more time at parks, beaches, the zoo, travel town and museums that summer than any other summer. We spent more time being on his bad side as well. We tried to never be on his bad side. In that house I wrote mostly in the summer.
Things changed at that house, my writings became frequent and darker. Eventually there were new kinds of trouble. I was about 8 when he started looking at me differently. It was like he wasn't seeing me at all but he would stare and ask uncomfortable questions. He would walk into my room when I was changing clothes. He would tell me to go ahead and finishing changing clothes while he watched. He went from being his normal critical, rough and mean self to wanting me to dance for him. He'd ask me to lay on the bed or the couch next to him and take a nap. I was too old for naps so he'd wait till it was close to bed time and try to get me to watch TV with him. I'd go to sleep or wake up with him stroking my arms, back, or legs often with lotion. He made me feel dirty...
The problem started in the summer. We had no place to go and had to stay quiet enough so he could sleep. Having to stay quiet was bad for us. No matter where we played he would be disturbed. I remember spending a lot more time at parks, beaches, the zoo, travel town and museums that summer than any other summer. We spent more time being on his bad side as well. We tried to never be on his bad side. In that house I wrote mostly in the summer.
Things changed at that house, my writings became frequent and darker. Eventually there were new kinds of trouble. I was about 8 when he started looking at me differently. It was like he wasn't seeing me at all but he would stare and ask uncomfortable questions. He would walk into my room when I was changing clothes. He would tell me to go ahead and finishing changing clothes while he watched. He went from being his normal critical, rough and mean self to wanting me to dance for him. He'd ask me to lay on the bed or the couch next to him and take a nap. I was too old for naps so he'd wait till it was close to bed time and try to get me to watch TV with him. I'd go to sleep or wake up with him stroking my arms, back, or legs often with lotion. He made me feel dirty...
Sometimes things don't turn out like you think they will
Every few months I would catalog my feelings in my little book. Over time my entries became more evolved. I could see the drawings getting more detailed. One word here and there became simple sentences, then paragraphs and then pages. Each event appeared more painful and with greater detail than the last. Every plan for the future more detailed.
In 1969 my father's mother passed away. Everything changed that year. My grandfather put my uncle in a home because he didn't think at nearly seventy he could care for him on his own the way my grandmother had. My grandmother had something to prove with my uncle and would never have approved of him going into a home. When he was born she was told he would not make it through the night but he did. They told her to put him in a home (because that is the way they did it back then) or take him home to die. What they didn't know was how strong and determined my grandmother was that he would live and have a quality life too. My grandmother was a woman filled with guilt. She was driving when her father was killed in an accident. When my uncle was born doctors often blamed women for their children having a disability. With her gone though the burden was too great and my grandfather made a plan to move in with us.
We were moving too. We were getting a bigger house that we could all fit in. The big house had three levels and the bottom level had a full bathroom, kitchenette, living area and bedroom. My grandfather was going to live right down stairs!
I remember thinking our father would quit hurting us when my grandfather lived with us. He had never hit us in front of his parents before. They would never have approved. It would be harder for him to get away with the things he did. The plan backfired though.
My grandfather took a fishing trip but came back with a wife. He came back long enough to pack his things. I was so disappointed. I wrote some mean things about this new grandmother who in my eyes was even worse than my father for taking the security of my grandfather away.
I liked our new house but I missed my friends and our yard filled with things to do. Our new house had snakes in the tiny backyard. So we played on the deck, in the front yard and inside more. TV was evolving so there were more things to watch. We eventually made friends with the new neighbors and played kickball or hide and go seek throughout the street. I'd never played hide and go seek outside before. At the old house we always had things to do. At the new house we had to be more creative and had way fewer options.
I think my father was disappointed when my grandfather got married. I'm not sure why. He never gave me the impression he liked his mom and yet it seemed to upset him that his father was doing something to make himself happy. My father took his disappointment in his father out on us. He seemed to get angry at everything. In the end no matter what incident started him off his anger was directed at us. This was a new turn of events that I would loved to have lived without.
The house was bigger. There were more places for him to isolate and torture us. But there were more places to hide from him as well. Sometimes things don't work out like you think they will but you make the best of what you're dealt.
In 1969 my father's mother passed away. Everything changed that year. My grandfather put my uncle in a home because he didn't think at nearly seventy he could care for him on his own the way my grandmother had. My grandmother had something to prove with my uncle and would never have approved of him going into a home. When he was born she was told he would not make it through the night but he did. They told her to put him in a home (because that is the way they did it back then) or take him home to die. What they didn't know was how strong and determined my grandmother was that he would live and have a quality life too. My grandmother was a woman filled with guilt. She was driving when her father was killed in an accident. When my uncle was born doctors often blamed women for their children having a disability. With her gone though the burden was too great and my grandfather made a plan to move in with us.
We were moving too. We were getting a bigger house that we could all fit in. The big house had three levels and the bottom level had a full bathroom, kitchenette, living area and bedroom. My grandfather was going to live right down stairs!
I remember thinking our father would quit hurting us when my grandfather lived with us. He had never hit us in front of his parents before. They would never have approved. It would be harder for him to get away with the things he did. The plan backfired though.
My grandfather took a fishing trip but came back with a wife. He came back long enough to pack his things. I was so disappointed. I wrote some mean things about this new grandmother who in my eyes was even worse than my father for taking the security of my grandfather away.
I liked our new house but I missed my friends and our yard filled with things to do. Our new house had snakes in the tiny backyard. So we played on the deck, in the front yard and inside more. TV was evolving so there were more things to watch. We eventually made friends with the new neighbors and played kickball or hide and go seek throughout the street. I'd never played hide and go seek outside before. At the old house we always had things to do. At the new house we had to be more creative and had way fewer options.
I think my father was disappointed when my grandfather got married. I'm not sure why. He never gave me the impression he liked his mom and yet it seemed to upset him that his father was doing something to make himself happy. My father took his disappointment in his father out on us. He seemed to get angry at everything. In the end no matter what incident started him off his anger was directed at us. This was a new turn of events that I would loved to have lived without.
The house was bigger. There were more places for him to isolate and torture us. But there were more places to hide from him as well. Sometimes things don't work out like you think they will but you make the best of what you're dealt.
She always had bug eyes
In my drawings we were always depicted with tears and frowns. When I drew my mom she was recognizable in a very different way. Mom was always drawn with big bug eyes in my book. It wasn't that her eyes were big. They were normal looking and normal sized but Mom always covered them up. She didn't want people to see. So she would wear the over sized sunglasses to cover the bruises until they healed and the black eyes were gone as well. She wore the over sized glasses to cover the puffiness from all the tears she shed but never realized we saw.
We knew she wore them so nobody could see what he was doing. In a way she hid like us only from the world and not from him.
Mom still has a giant pair from the past. She claims it is because They were expensive ground glass lenses. I've wondered if she still wore them because they were the only ones she had. Or did she think people would notice if she wore the big ones part of the time and normal ones the rest of the time? Or was it that she was afraid someone would see the truth hidden in her eyes? The eyes, those famous windows to the soul. Was she hiding her soul?
Mom still wears her a big pair of sunglasses from the old days. She says she wears them now because of her cataracts. They keep out more of the sun. She claims she likes them but I wonder how much of that might be habit. Thinking about it makes me sad.
We knew she wore them so nobody could see what he was doing. In a way she hid like us only from the world and not from him.
Mom still has a giant pair from the past. She claims it is because They were expensive ground glass lenses. I've wondered if she still wore them because they were the only ones she had. Or did she think people would notice if she wore the big ones part of the time and normal ones the rest of the time? Or was it that she was afraid someone would see the truth hidden in her eyes? The eyes, those famous windows to the soul. Was she hiding her soul?
Mom still wears her a big pair of sunglasses from the old days. She says she wears them now because of her cataracts. They keep out more of the sun. She claims she likes them but I wonder how much of that might be habit. Thinking about it makes me sad.
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