Memories of a Sexually Abused Child
There were no warnings of what was to come. It just happened. Imagine a nine year old being stripped of her clothing and her dignity and asked to perform vile acts on someone else, with someone else, and then having to pretend nothing ever happened. Something did happen though, I acted out.
I never disrespected my Mother, like answering back or raising my voice, but I did act in ways that demanded her attention.
I can’t remember how many times I was spanked and castigated.
I lost count of the number of times I changed wet sheets during the night, so I wouldn’t get scolded. I do remember the times I got spanked and yelled at when I wouldn’t wake up and found myself swimming in urine the next morning. On one occasion, I was in a hurry to get to school and I had wasted time changing sheets. I went to school with clean clothes but my underwear reeked of urine. I had tried using talcum power but it made it worse. Good thing I enjoyed reading. I spent a majority of my time in the reading corner of my classroom at school, that way no one would smell the odor, and I got to escape reality and find another world that I could carry around with me in my mind to savor later when I needed to flee the pain and heartache.
I don’t know when the realization of what was happening to me became apparent. I do know I cried a lot and spent a lot of time hiding behind the pages of books, either at the Library or at home. I was a robot, completing my chores and pretending to be a happy child.
One vivid memory stays with me. The abuse I endured had no schedule. It had no rhythm. There was never a chosen time to hide. It happened when it happened. One evening, I was lying on my abusers bed. The door to the room was closed. It was pretty apparent that there wasn’t much chatting going on.
I laid there, on the bed in utter silence. Confusion swam in my head, like a cloud searching for a place to hide, so as to conceal the rain.
For so long, I waited for a rescue. For so long I yearned for an explanation, as to why this was happening to me. Did I deserve it? Was I supposed to be doing this? Was this ok?
Suddenly, the door to the bedroom opened. There stood my Mother in the hallway. Her face was pensive and solemn. She muttered something and closed the door. Why had she left? Did she not see me there in the dark? Did she refuse to admit guilt in the knowledge that abuse was taking place and she was allowing it to continue?
How could I have expressed myself? Who would I tell? How would I tell? The anguish and shame I felt were new emotions I knew nothing about. How was I to explain the hot, shallow feeling in the pit of my stomach? Every adult that has ever experienced this type of betrayal understands what I am writing about.
Years later, as an Adult I would remember bits and pieces and wonder.
I didn’t grow up to become an abuser myself. I didn’t scoff at society for what had happened to me. I did not become a social outcast. What was it about me that enabled me to become strong and forgive? Why are some children affected more as adults than others? These are questions I have always pondered. Then one day, I had an epiphany. I began to accept myself as the unique human being I am, and that my past does not define who I am today. If anything, my past enabled me to become even stronger.
Do I have memories of these horrible events? Of course I do. Do I blame anyone? Not anymore. I went through a stage of mourning with my childhood. It was as if I had lost it completely. My happy memories are still there and I choose to remember those and not the negative ones. I didn’t lose my childhood. I had to find the happiest moments I could and hold on tight to them.
I challenged myself to be the better person. To allow myself to accept what had already happened so long ago and to seek the help I needed to redeem myself.
My Pastor was the first person I went to. That in itself was a wonderful resource, for not only did Prayer and Support assist in my healing, the simple task of talking about what had occurred to me, gave a voice to my inner demons. The voice inside of me, of the child that could never speak, was given an opportunity to reach out and vent and question and actually receive an answer in return.
My therapy has been slow but useful. I am still making inroads with my family. Blame is not a word I use. I want the opposite of denial. I want vindication for what happened and a simple apology, for there aren’t many words available in all the dictionaries of the world that can explain away my past and pain, but there is the voice of a Mother that tried but couldn’t. For now, I keep moving forward towards my life and the present that means so much to me and my future.
