Memories

I am going to tackle the scary subject of sharing my memories about being sexually abused. I have had distinct memories my entire life of three main occasions where I was molested by my step-father. I remembered more of the abuse when I started going to counseling. It is hard for me to admit to myself that new memories are real. I remembered those few occasions so vividly that it was hard for me to believe I could have forgotten something so significant. So, I will start by just sharing the stories of abuse that I've always remembered. The first memory that I have of anything inappropriate taking place was when I was five. I've figured that out, because we only lived in our town home for the first year that my mom was married to my step-dad, and I was five at that time. He led me upstairs into my mom's bedroom, and asked me if I would like to see what makes boys and girls different. I didn't really understand what he was talking about, but I said yes. He made it sound really interesting and fun. He then explained to me that he was going to show me what was in his underwear. He said that it might be scary looking, but that it was something nice. He compared it to a friendly dragon. (Pretty freakin' creepy, if you ask me.) He showed me his penis, and then asked if I wanted to touch it. I said, no. At this point, I had a bad feeling and was getting pretty scared. I don't think that I had ever seen a man naked until then. He calmed me down, took my hand, and made me touch him. Things get pretty hazy and unclear at that point. I know that at least one sexual act took place. The next thing that I remember is sitting on my mom's bed crying. He was in the bathroom washing his hands, and talking to me. He had his clothes back on, and he walked over to me. He sat me on his lap, and told me that he was sorry if he had scared me. He said it was going to be okay, and I believed him. I snuggled right into the chest of someone that had just stolen a piece of me, and cried. I don't remember him asking me not to tell anyone, but I was scared to say anything to anyone. I thought I was going to get in trouble. I don't know how long I waited to tell after the incident took place. We still lived in the town house, so it couldn't have been too long.  I was sitting at the breakfast table with my mom, and no one else was in the room. I started to cry, and told her that I had seen Daddy's front private parts. She then called my step-dad into the room, and asked him (in front of me) what I was talking about. He said that I must have walked in on him going to the bathroom. I didn't protest. That was the end of that discussion. I didn't have any other really clear memories of abuse taking place after that until I was probably nine. I think I was nine, because that was the year that our family started renting a small cabin a few hours north of where we lived. We rented the cabin for several years after that, but I know that it was that first year because my little sister was VERY young at the time. We had arrived to the cabin very late at night. My step-dad must have carried us while we were sleeping, and put us into bed. My mom, for some reason, was sleeping on the hide a bed in the living room, and my little sister and I were sleeping in the only bedroom with my step-dad. I don't know if he had come in there after my mom fell asleep, or if that is how the arrangement started. I woke up to someone grabbing my hand, he took it and put it down his pants, and placed my hand around his genitals. I asked, "Is that your thumb, Dad?" I knew what it was, I don't know why I asked that, but I was SOOO scared. He told me to shut up in the meanest voice. He then made me rub his penis. I was crying, and kicking him, so he started pinching my legs really hard. I don't remember much after that. I pushed my little sister all the way against the wall. Almost to the point where she was in the crack between the wall and the bed. I didn't want him to do anything to her, so I just tried to lay over her, so that I could protect her. I remember hearing him start to snore, and I was still laying there wide awake, holding onto my Little Little Babe-um for dear life. (That is one of the many nicknames that I have for my little sister. I'm sure, as a mother to be, she must really love it!) Sorry, I gots to have something light in the mix, or I just may CRACK! Anyway, back to my story, the next morning I tried, in a not so clear way, to tell my mom what had happened. I just showed her the marks on my legs, and told her that he had pinched me, and that it REALLY hurt. She called him into the room, and asked him why he had pinched me. He told her that I was kicking him in my sleep, and that he had pinched me to try to wake me up, so that I would stop. He said that he hadn't realized he had pinched me that hard, and said he was sorry. My mom told him he shouldn't have pinched me, and left it at that. My cousins came up to the cabin later that weekend, and I told my cousin everything that had happened. She remembers me telling her even more than what I remember happening, so there must have been more that took place. She was the first person that I had told the whole story. (She is still the first person that I confide in to this very day. I call her my Editor in Chief, because I read her my blog entries before I post them. Thanks E.I.C. for your NEVER ENDING Support!! I love you!)  She told me that what had happened was not normal. She was VERY ANGRY with my step-dad, and struggled to know what she should do with my secret. She did end up telling her dad, but she doesn't remember how clear she was in her description of what was going on. She could have said, "My cousin's dad is really mean to her." I don't know, we were around nine years old. That is a lot to figure out. Anyway, her dad (my mom's brother) felt that it wasn't his place to get involved with whatever was going on in our family. My mom and her siblings were raised to AVOID confrontations at all costs. Especially, negative ones. I wish my uncle would have taken her seriously, but I have never been upset with him about it. I don't think he fully understood what was happening to me. He is a wonderful man, and I know he would have never wanted any harm to come to me. I feel badly now for placing such a heavy burden on my cousin who was so young at the time. Although, I was glad to finally tell someone. We didn't really talk about it again after that, until I was in junior high or high school. I'm so proud of her for being so brave about telling an adult a secret that she knew wasn't the type to be kept. I know it was very scary for her, and she thought that after she told, I would never have to worry about that again. Sadly, that wasn't the case. The next vivid memories I have of abuse taking place occurred when I was between the ages of 10-11 or 12. I started developing breasts at around age 10, I believe, so the rest of the incidents occurred sometime during those ages. We moved from that house when I was 12, and I don't remember any other major sexual abuse after that time. I remember standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom brushing my teeth when I was around 10, and my step-dad came up behind me. He pulled my nightshirt tight behind my back, and told me that I was getting boobs. He seemed really excited, and this really scared me!! That night I woke up to him putting his hand up my shirt. I was so scared, so I just kind of laid there while he felt my breasts, and pretended that I was asleep. I don't remember him leaving the room, but I know I would lay there and cry after he left. After that I was terrified of falling asleep at night. I would often sit in my bed in the dark reading with a book light that my mom had given me. This new pattern of me waking up to him standing over my bed touching my chest happened a few more times after this. I wanted to believe that there was no way that my Dad could be doing this to me, even though I could see his face. I split him into two people inside my head. Dad during the day, and this bad version who comes into my room at night. I tried to pretend that someone was sneaking into our house at night just to do this to me. I would also pretend that my step-dad was a sleepwalker, and didn't know what he was doing. Or, that he had mistaken me for my mom. I even made up the weirdest story in my head one time...he had dropped a button in the dark onto my bed, and was trying to feel where it had landed, so that he could pick it up. Sounds crazy, but I just didn't want it to happen, and I didn't want to believe that it was him. After he had done this a few times, I got up and went looking for him. He was laying on the floor in our living room, reading his scriptures. I asked him if he had just been in my room. He told me to go get my ass back in bed. (This was one of his favorite things to say. It was even one of my sister's first sentences. "Get yo ass een bed.") I started to HATE him then. I finally realized that even though I still loved him, I hated him too. He WAS the one who was coming into my room, he knew it was wrong, and he wasn't going to stop. He had also been treating me a lot different during the day, over those last couple of years that the abuse went on. He would call me a slut, if I played dress-up or put make-up on. He would lose his temper with me very easily. He also called me other demeaning names on several occasions. I finally found the courage to go to my mom again, and tell her what was going on. I told her that my step-dad had been coming in my room at night, and touching my chest under my shirt. She told me that I should start locking my door at night. I said, "Okay." (People may wonder why I wasn't locking my door at night to begin with, but I was very afraid of the dark, being alone, silence...everything. I think I was also in denial about what was going on. The next two houses that we lived in didn't have locks on the doors.) I still don't know why she responded the way that she did. She claims to this day, that I never told her once about any of the abuse that was happening. I remember telling her, or at least trying to the best of my ability, on three occasions. We moved to another city not long after I spoke with my mom, and I don't remember any other sexual abuse taking place after that time. I didn't try to talk to my mom about the abuse again until I was fourteen, and then not again after that until I was eighteen. I had always thought of my mom as the "perfect mother." She started to fall from that pedestal that last time that I tried to tell her. I felt liked she loved him more than me. It was the ultimate betrayal for me!