The Beginning of the End… of Innocence

I can’t say that I remember all that much.  I was, after all, only six years old.  To be perfectly honest, I don’t even know for sure if I was six years old.  I determined that by the location– where we were living at the time.  I think I was six because I’m pretty sure I was in the first grade.

I don’t even know what lead to that point.  I don’t know why we were there, why I was there; how we got there, or how I got there.  I just vaguely remember him sitting on the toilet seat (lid down) in the master bathroom, and I was standing next to him.  He was sort of holding me there, talking to me.  I don’t remember much of the conversation either, other than “can’t tell anybody” and “you don’t want me to get into trouble do you” and something about “jail.”  I remember thinking that I didn’t want to cause him to go to jail.  I don’t even know if I knew what jail was at that age.  I certainly didn’t know what ‘touching’ was, or that it was wrong.

I remember being embarrassed and kind of giggly– you know, that giggly way little girls get when they are embarrassed.  I don’t even know what it was that embarrassed me… I just remember that feeling.

I’m sure my mind has blocked a lot, but there is still a lot I remember.  Bit and pieces here and there.  Words.  Actions.  What I remember better than anything… my feelings.  My emotions.  How it made me feel.  That part I can’t forget.

I remember his eyes… the way they looked.  To me, they looked evil.  Frightening.  Cold.  Dead.  Empty.  Hollow.  Of course, I couldn’t have found those words to describe that look then… I was too young.  Thinking back on it now– remembering those eyes now– that is how they looked.  I was looking into the eyes of the devil.  And that is the most frightening thing of all.  That part… I will never forget.

I have lain in bed at night and those eyes have visited me in my thoughts… my dreams… my nightmares.  Funny the things the mind chooses to remember.  Funny the things the mind chooses to forget.

I was so young, so innocent, and so unknowing.

I only recently learned that it is okay to trust men.  I finally placed trust in my husband– I knew I could trust him, I’ve just never allowed myself to trust… anyone.  I trusted my abuser, and he shattered that trust.  It was a coping mechanism, I think– the not trusting.  Hubs knew this about me because he knows my story, in it’s gory details, but I didn’t like that he was suffering for something he was not a part of.  In reality, he is a big part of my healing.  He has helped me have the strength to find my voice, and to use it.  It’s his support and love that give me courage to speak out.

That day, in that bathroom, the trust of that little girl– me — was violated in such a horrible and evil manner.  Sexual predators are good at this… it is their m-o.  They earn our trust, then take full advantage, and leave us reeling in the aftermath– usually feeling guilty and shameful as if we are to blame when we are not.  It’s subtle, the mental breakdown.  Little bits at a time.  A little farther each time.  Until one day, the little girl that was is no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m sure there are some people who know me, offline, who won’t like that I’m openly talking about this here, with you, virtual strangers.  But… this is my story.  This is my life.  This happened to me.  The best form of therapy I’ve ever encountered is giving the victim a voice… a voice to become a survivor.  In other words, talk.  Share.  Shout it from a mountain top if that’s what is necessary to be better, to be okay, to be whole again.  It is easier for me to share this awful part of my life with you because you are virtual strangers… the only way I can explain that is to say that I somehow feel you will understand better than those who know me on this side of my monitor.  Writing, sharing, vocalizing my feelings– feelings that stayed trapped inside for more than two decades– helps me.  That is the point.   Your encouragement and support and positive words helps me.  It is my story… and I will not be silenced.  To silence me is to hold me responsible.  To silence me is to place shame upon me.  And I won’t allow either.

I hope that someday, some time, someone will read this who is going through the same things I have, and did, and that somehow… this will help that person find her (or his) voice.  I can honestly say, in my experience, it has been the absolute best therapy… times fifty.

(more to come later…)