MY Story is OUR Story

One of the most difficult parts of my healing journey is that I’m not exactly sure what is ‘my’ story. The sexual abuse of children is a routine part of my family, on both my mother’s and father’s sides. I was 13 when I learned that my grandfather had sexually abused my mother, her sisters, my sister and likely other girls in the community. My world really shattered that day. The way I felt about and connected to my family completely changed. I feel like I have been screaming for years, for anyone to notice, to care that this happened, for it not to be normalized. It was later in my adult life when I learned of abuse my cousins on my father’s side had endured. I could see this pain woven into the narrative of woman. For many years, I believed this was the “plight of womanhood” -that we must endure men’s every whim and behavior because they either know more or didn’t know better. The irony in growing up Southern Baptist is that men are somehow closer to God and thus holier and smarter than women, but also they cannot control themselves when it comes to women and sex. As I grew and reflected on this hypocrisy, I realized that I too had been sexually abused. I was in preschool when it started. We would visit my mom’s oldest sister’s house for Christmas every year. She had two sons that were in pre-teen and teenage years at this time. The younger son had many behavior issues, and I was convinced that I was an angel sent by God to help my family. My brother closest in age to me is disabled, and at this early age, his symptoms were just beginning and unexplained. I saw my parents under duress, and even at such a young age, I was trying to do everything I could to be perfect. So when my cousin identified me as his “special friend” and shared his unbelievable, immense collection of legos with me, I felt this was another use of my skills -a calling from God. I was blessed to be able to connect with and influence ‘the bad kid’. Now, in hindsight, I feel like any adult or even my teenage siblings should’ve questioned why a 13 year old would want to play with a 5 year old exclusively, but here we are. I’m lucky in a lot of ways. I never experienced penetration or any obvious violence. For a long time, I just thought it was a normal part of his sexual development. So it started when I was 5 and ended when I was in about fourth or fifth grade, so around age 10. At this point, he would have been 17/18. We would play “pretend”. I can remember specifically pretending to be Jack and Rose from Titanic. He would have me pose naked, kissed on me and humped me. This sort of “play” occurred over holidays, special events, graduations and such, at my house or his house. I can remember a specific instance where he and my aunt visited us. I think her and my mom were just hanging out which was rare. My mom desperately sought the approval of her sisters, so this visit was crucial. She and my aunt talked to me about how incredible it was that my cousin would behave better when I was around- they also used the term “special friend”. They seriously warned me about letting him play with my Barbie’s. He had been getting in trouble for sexual deviance and under no circumstances was I to let him touch my dolls. Well I was about 7/8 at the time and him 15/16 so you can imagine how that went. He mutilated my Barbies -cut their heads and faces, stripped them all, made a ‘naked Barbie van’, enacted sex acts between them. I remember trying so hard to redirect but he had the perfect tool to control me. I can still hear his voice, “The adults will be angry with you if you tell them about our special make believe. You’re such a mature girl for your age.” I knew I didn’t want my mom to know that I had been pretending to have sex. I was in trouble after the Barbie incident too. My mom was disappointed in me. I can’t remember the exact punishment, but I likely had more chores and wasn’t allowed computer time for some period. I could only imagine if she knew the extent of our “play”. Around the age of 10, we went for Christmas. I remember the feeling in my stomach, that sinking burn of guilt. (It’s still there to this day. Fighting waves of nausea and getting sick after almost every meal. Gotta love IBS) I was dreading having to play with him. That year, he exposed himself to me. He wanted me to touch it , but I think he knew he went too far. I was getting older, there was hair on my underarms, and my mom had talked immensely to me and my brother about our private parts because of her own experience. I don’t think she considered another child could harm us though. I was taught to be weary of adult men, strangers. So my birthday is in January, and I can remember this guilt eating me alive after that Christmas. He had doubled down on his intimidation tactics, and I knew I couldn’t go to an adult. I can remember thinking that I really wanted to feel better before my birthday came. So I had the idea to tell my brother; after all, he wasn’t an adult. He immediately told my mother who then called her sister. I can remember sitting at her feet in the kitchen floor as she argued with her sister. She didn’t say much or offer any sort of explanation. She made me swear to never tell my dad, and we stopped visiting my aunt as much after that. When I was in high school, my mom got cancer and died. She was really, really sick for about 9 months, and during her initial hospital stay, they wanted me to stay with this aunt. I was petrified. My cousin was home from college and would also be there. I remember just immediately tears started pouring out, and I’m begging my mom not to make me go there. My dad is in the room, so I can’t really explain myself. My mother scolded me for being selfish and told me I had to do this, to be easy on her and my dad. I can remember he very awkwardly touched my butt in an office supply store, and I surprisingly told him that he couldn’t touch me, that I wasn’t a child anymore. I have no idea where that autonomy came from, but I’m so proud of 15 year old me! My aunt offered for me to stay in a larger room downstairs during this time, but I made sure to stay in the guest suite adjacent to the master and locked my door every night. Here I am, 17 years later, and I had to see him for the first time since I graduated high school last year. My siblings, father and I have been mostly estranged from my mother’s family since her death. We were all shocked to see my aunt and her family attend the funeral of one of my siblings that passed. It was mortifying seeing him again. This electricity was buzzing through my entire body. My leg shook uncontrollably. I was sobbing so hard I had to leave the room. And yet again, I felt that disconnection from my family who continue this narrative that I’m selfish, a liar/exaggerator, overly emotional. Family is the hardest part of my healing journey. At this point, I’m not even sure I have a family. I end almost every call with my siblings shocked, worried, belittled and exhausted. I can’t have healthy relationships with my nieces and nephews no matter how hard I try. I am forever the deviant to them. Today, I live across the country from everyone and am establishing my own tribe. I want to be surrounded by people who understand unconditional love and want to protect children. My mother’s, sister’s, aunt’s, cousin’s stories are all mine. Just like my story is theirs. This abuse is passed on in our DNA, is shared amongst us despite the differences in our perpetrators and experiences. For the longest time, I downplayed what happened to me as normal sexual exploration of a young boy. And while I recognize that my abuser’s behavior was a sign of abuse he was experiencing, it doesn’t gloss over the impact of being exposed to sex and intimacy at age 5. I have struggled so much interpersonally and developing relationships. For the longest time, I didn’t think I was capable of or deserved to have healthy relationships. I thought my family was healthy. If there’s any big message I want to share with other survivors, it’s that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel! There are people out there that will believe you and protect you. There’s space for you. Acceptance is hard, and I’m not sure I’ve fully accepted what happened to me, to my family. But it helps to see so many others speak up. To feel like we finally have a platform, and maybe people aren’t quite listening like I’d like, but the conversation is happening. Even powerful men shouldn’t get away with this!!!!