Molestation: What doesn’t kill you; makes you stronger.

I was three, I wanted to watch the new Muppets Movie that came out of Laser Disk (anyone remember those?). I couldn’t because my grandfather wanted me to watch something else. The memory for me is like looking down a highway with dense fog.  It was my first introduction to pornography.  I remember crying. Naked men were doing these things to women who soon became naked.  I remember me being naked and I remember him being naked. That’s as far as that one memory goes.

He was always touching me, and making me touch him.  There was no erection. He couldn’t get one.  Where he was an identical twin, his brother got the fertility.  The molestation was touching and fondling.  It wasn’t just me, it was numerous girls. I remember teenage girls coming into his room, my sister as well.  I remember one girl having her shirt all ready lifted up with her breasts hanging out and he would fondle them. He would look at me and tell me he couldn’t wait until I had tits like this or like the women in the porn. From my point of view it looked like the older girls liked it. I just thought it was repulsive. I also saw that’s how they would get things from him, money, his credit card, hell even a ride to their boyfriends house. They needed something and well they knew how to get to him, just show their tits.

I fought every step of the way.  He would have to force me to touch him or pin me down to touch me.  For him he probably thought it was a game. For me it was horrible.

Another memory is around age four.  A bunch of girls and I were out at our  camp with him. We were always naked. His idea was playing a game of what he called “Indian torture.” There was an old swing (about four people, two on each side could sit and swing on it). It was my turn and I yelled, screamed, kicked, bit as he pulled my arms up over my head and I felt the ropes cut into my wrists. I actually got him one time with my feet to his chest and knocked him back.  I remember the tears covering my face. I remember seeing a hunter walking by and me pleading for his help; he walked right past what was going on. One of the girls told me to not fight it would take less time. I remember that it felt like my shoulders were going to pop out of their sockets. Finally, one of the girls cut me down.

I stood up to him numerous times. I remember telling him I was going to tell mom. He knew how to manipulate. “They” would take me away from her.  I was uncontrollable and there was a detention center not far for “problem kids” like me.

The final time it happened I was about 5, it was summer.  The girls, him and I got into the boat. We were going to have a picnic over on an island that you could see from our shore. I rowed.  We ate and then he told everyone to take off their clothes. I didn’t want to. I got to hear how selfish I was. So I did it.  Then he wanted to play another one of his sick games. I turned and ran, he grabbed my arm and somehow shook loose and I just darted for the water. It was frigid cold even in the summer months (20 minutes in the water and you would get hypothermia).  I couldn’t swim, I didn’t care. A couple of the girls came after me; they could swim and caught up with me rather quickly.  What I didn’t realize was when I shook lose, he feel and broke his arm on the rocks. While the girls were trying to pull me in, I was trying to break free. They were pointing out the fact I couldn’t swim and I would end up drowning. “I’ll risk it.” Yes at 5 years old, I would have rather died trying to get away from him and what he was doing, than to stay on that island and suffer for another 5 minutes.  I remember how exhausted I was. My heart was going 90 miles an hour. He was still lying on the rocks whimpering. “Not so tough now are you?” I stood over him, pulling my clothes back on.  “Look what you did to me. Now help me up.” I walked away and as I passed one of the girls, “go get him in the boat.” I got the boat ready as the other girls were helping him to the boat. Aside from him I was the only other person that knew how to row. The whole time I had to hear how much I was going to be in trouble. I was selfish, I had no consideration for anyone, I was spoiled. I wasn’t even upset that he was hurt. I believed every word of it. It was a long row. I was crying only because “they” were going to take me away from mom. I was going to get in trouble for not listening and not doing what I was told.

We got to the shore, and while he drove I had to change gears for him as we drove to the hospital.

It was that day that it stopped. He screwed up. While he was explaining to mom what happened, his story kept changing.

What I didn’t know was he did it to my mother to. She was adopted by her aunt and uncle (the one I refer to as my grandfather)when she was five.  There was a reason she was adopted, though no one will ever say it out loud. He was a child molester back then. My mother was the sacrificial lamb to keep him from going around to other children in the community.  My grandmother (the adopted one)had a reputation to uphold. Her family was from money, highly educated, she was well respected in the community.  She couldn’t have her husband out doing what he was doing.

Her adopted mother and father manipulated her. I saw how she believed every word of what her mother said, even years after she died. My mom’s famous saying, “mama always said,” and I would look at her with a weird look.  My final straw of “mama always said” was the day I was crouched in a ball and screaming in pain. “Mama said if you can go into a ball it wasn’t your appendix. If you can lie straight it was.” At 13 I looked at her in the worst pain I had ever felt “Has it ever occurred to you that your mama wasn’t always right? That doesn’t make sense. THINK ABOUT IT!!! Instant reaction when humans are hurt is to curl in the fetal position. Mama always said bullshit! I swear to god I am so sick of you saying ‘mama always said’, you’re mother manipulated you for years. Between you and my sister I don’t know who she screwed up more. Thank God the bitch wasn’t alive by the time I came around or else she would have screwed me up to.” I know it was disrespectful. I shouldn’t have talked to my mother that way.

For the longest time there was a rift between my mother and I because I couldn’t understand why she allowed him near me, knowing he was a molester. I even told her she was just as guilty as he was.  What I didn’t realize was how badly she had been manipulated by the two of them all those years growing up and it carried on into her adulthood. Despite her mother being long gone, she wasn’t able to get her mother out of her head. The mental abuse had grabbed a hold and didn’t let go.  Her life was far worse than mine. We don’t always see that as children. She truly believed he had changed. She had thought him going to jail had cured him.  She may not have been physically abused, but abusers say the same thing. How many women have stayed in an abusive relationship because the man tells them sorry, they won’t do it again, they will change etc.  There’s no difference.

We never talked about the abuse. It was just swept under the rug. That made me angry. There was no therapy. That’s why I started writing. I had to get the anger out. I probably wouldn’t have even talked about it. I didn’t like people seeing me hurt or crying. I was raised personal family business was not to be talked about.  I didn’t believe in that. I saw what not dealing with it did to my mother over the years.  It was easier to be angry, that to feel the pain. I also knew that if I didn’t release the pain somehow I would end up like my mother. So that’s how I got to writing. Writing allowed me to release the anger, hurt, and disappointment. My feelings weren’t wrong; the paper didn’t give a rats ass, that I thought he should be in jail. They were my feelings and I owned them and had ever right to them. I didn’t have to hear my mother defend him, or give kindness to him; at that point in my life he didn’t deserve kindness. I had no sympathy for people shooting out his windows, or that he got stuff stolen from him all the time, or his car stolen. It was the same person doing it for years and it was because my grandfather molested his sister. My mom never believed in an eye for an eye. Our views on the Canadian justice system differed immensely.  She would always say “in the end the rage and anger doesn’t make you any better.” She was right. But I had to get through the anger. I knew I didn’t want to have the anger I had inside of me forever.  I wouldn’t allow for him to do that to me.

Writing was my saving grace. I got through it on my own. No one helped me. I did. The more I released, the more the anger lifted.

I also made a choice for myself. I was not going to be allowed to be the woman that was viewed as meat. In my younger years I was overweight. A lot of it was protection. When I had my appendicitis I dropped weight drastically. I went from 150-160 to 126lbs in about 2 months (also have a high pain threshold and didn’t feel the pain of the abscess the appendix had formed until it was the size of a cantaloupe). I kept the weight off because I wanted to. I was still the same loving, caring, attitudinal, kind person before the weight loss. The younger guys (my age) noticed me once I had lost the weight. While overweight it was the older guys who noticed me. I didn’t give them the time of day. At the same time you’re a young girl and everyone’s hormones are raging. It felt good if a guy flirted with you. I had made a promise to myself; I wouldn’t have sex just because everyone else was. I would do it when it felt right to me. While all the other girls were dressing so guys would notice them, I was dressing how I wanted to, how I was comfortable. If wanted to wear a skirt I wore a skirt, for me.

But yes at 16, I noticed the boys. I was just a lot more cautious around them than my friends. Boys were only after one thing and I wasn’t willing to just give it away. I’d rather have the reputation of being a bitch and not giving it up; then be the girl who had the reputation for giving it up. I saw a lot of girls pregnant at 16, I didn’t want that for me. As soon as they got pregnant the guy up and dumped them and got someone else pregnant. No thanks. I deserved better. I wouldn’t allow myself to be in a situation I couldn’t get out of.

Make out with guys, I made out with a few (snicker). That’s as far as I went. There were times I wanted to go over the cliffs in the heat of the moment. I pulled myself back.

I didn’t want to go from one relationship to another. I have never been that person.  I also realized at a very early age, I didn’t need a relationship to be happy.  I was happy whether I was single or whether I was in a relationship. Some girls my age would break up with a guy and go out with another one. It made no sense to me. Why do we as women need to feel that we are only complete when we have a man?

I’m not against men. I have met some very wonderful men, kind, compassionate, considerate, loving, in my day. They know how to respect a woman.

I don’t even have a problem with porn. Jack felt I did. No I have a problem when a man sits out in the living room and watches it for hours while your wife is in the next room. Because I spoke out that I had a problem with him doing that, it got turned around on me that it was my issue because of what happened to me. I am just wondering why the porn is more important than spending time with your wife. I got accused of wanting sex all the time. Nope just wanted it more frequently than 3-6 months and a wham bam thank you ma’am doesn’t get it for me. I was sexually attracted to my husband. I was attracted to him in other ways as well. I had given myself to him on so many levels, not just sexually. I confided in him, I talked with him, I loved him, cared for him and I kept getting rejected by my own husband. He made me feel like I was some sex craved maniac, when I knew I wasn’t. He made me doubt myself more than any man had ever done. After crying so many years of being rejection on what felt like everything from him; I realized I was literally begging and starved for him to spend time with me as a couple or have sex with me.

I stopped, shortly after my mother died. I was so emotionally drained from everything that I had no energy left to beg for my husband. I was still attracted to my husband. Hell the day he walked out the door I was still attracted to him. I told him that day “there’s the door don’t let it hit you in the ass.” he looked at me like a slapped him and said “I wasn’t expecting you to say that.” I looked at him, got almost in his face and said “were you expecting me to beg? Want me to get down at your feet and beg? That ain’t happening. I’ve done enough begging.” I wanted him to smarten up.  That’s not how you treat someone who has shown you over and over and time and time again that she loves you. Not just with words but actions. I got so sick and tired of things being my issue because of my past.

My past is just that; the past. I’m proud of being the woman I am. I’m overweight, so what, I am happy. I’ve lost a lot of weight since Jack left. If I want to get back to 130 lbs I will. Not because it’s going to attract a guy, because I want it for me. Not going to go out and get a set of boobs just so my chest will be back to where it once originally was before children. There was a time; I felt I needed to be skinny and I even thought about getting fake breasts. That didn’t come from my past; it came from my husband.