The things I do...

How I hurt the One I love. Torment. Yell. Fuss. And yet he continues to love me. How long will he put up with my antics? I do not purposefully get angry and snap. And yet, he continues to love. He is an example of unconditional love. Selfless love. Unrelenting love. My love. He is mine. To mistreat as I’ve never intended. Why can I not control the boiling rage? Why can I not see that I hurt him? That I push him? And when I do see it, why can I not stop? I do not like to see him hurt, frustrated, or abused.

I am woman. Lover of one man. Tease of others. Grant me love so that I may misuse it and watch you squirm within my grasp. And then I sit and marvel at the pain I have caused, as you sit there bleeding in my hand. I feel regret...having hurt you, yet again.

I am woman. Destroyer of all things perfect.

I am me. Inescapable.

Stuck

Bound in my own private sanitarium. Haunted by the shadows I have created, demons I lured into existence. Cold, hard truth beneath my feet, luxurious silence echoes along the corridors. Silent screams escape my throat as I pound upon a window, water collecting on the sill, a world of vibrant color mocks my drab surroundings. My inner self bound by society is begging for release as all it can do is sit and whine as it watches life progress.

Yet again...

Wounded you again. Took my blade and ran it across your pale and vulnerable flesh, parting the laceration with my dirty fingernails, rubbing in some coarse salt, and sealing the bleeding sore with misplaced kisses and false repentance. You and I both know my bloodied blade will only come out again. It always does. And yet you stay . . . stay with me. . . stay for more. Why?

My own accounting...

Autobiographically written on February 22, 2003

I never did understand why I kept sitting on his lap. Did I contribute to the abuse? Did I want him to accept me? I don’t know. I am always told it was not my fault; he was the adult; he was the one knowingly doing wrong. If that were true and I was not to blame, why did I continue to return to the den and sit on his lap?

I don’t know when it began. Mom thinks I may have still been in diapers. When I was a toddler, I used to shove sand down the front of my diaper and rub until I bled. When she told the doctor what I was doing, he asked her if there was a chance I was being molested. She didn’t believe there was that chance. I think she might feel guilty about that now (I hope not¼she had no idea¼how could she?)

I only remember it happening at Gramma and Grampa’s house. To go to the den, I would walk through the kitchen, through the laundry room, passed the piano and sit on the large empty couch in the den. He would be sitting on the studded leather recliner in the corner watching TV. Patting his lap with his hands, he’d say, “Come and sit on my lap,” or, “Come, sit here.” Robotically, I would get off of the couch and he would lift me on his lap. I knew what was coming. I knew I didn’t like it. And still I walked over and sat on his lap.

It’s funny how a mind projects it’s focus on other things while something unpleasant is occurring. I looked at the TV, the red globe lamp suspended from the ceiling, the window on the back door, the embossed glass gun rack to the left of the chair, never at his hands. He would take his thick, fat hands and put one down the front of my pants. Then beneath my underwear and he would rub my flesh. He would probe his fingers between my thighs, rubbing my pubic area. Thank God I don’t remember him ever penetrating. Who knows – maybe he did, and God is merciful enough to block that memory. The other hand would follow. When one hand was rubbing down below, the other hand would be resting against my inner thigh.

A few minutes later, knowing he was doing something bad, I would say, “I have to go to the bathroom.” “Okay, just hurry back,” he would say. Every time, that tidbit of conversation would end his act. I’d slide off of his lap, not look at him, walk through the doorway just to the right of the recliner, down the hallway and into the bathroom. I don’t know if I locked the door, but I would shut it and go sit on the toilet with the wooden lid down so I could use it as a chair. I sat in there for God knows how long. I don’t even know what I was thinking. I don’t remember leaving the bathroom, although I did. But I didn’t go back to the den that day.

I don’t remember anything about events after the molestations. I don’t remember how he acted toward me not joining him back in the den. I don’t know how long he sat there expecting me to go back into the den. I don’t know where my Gramma or brothers were when this was happening. I wonder if anyone ever walked in when this was happening. But, if they did, I’m sure it would just look like a Granddaughter sitting on her Grampa’s lap watching TV. They would have had to get really close to see where and what his hands were doing.

When it came time to go to sleep, my brothers would sleep on either side of me on the Hide-Away bed. I felt safe. Of course, they never found out until years later when we were living in Arizona.

This scenario would repeat every time we went to visit. I remember it happened when I was around 6-years-old. We were still living at the Moorpark house, so Mom and Dad weren’t divorced then. And of course, we would still visit Gramma and Grampa after Mom and Dad’s divorce. And it occurred until I told Mom when I was about 8 or 9 years old.

Mom had stopped at Spudnuts to pick up some doughnuts. I sat in the backseat of the car, my brothers were inside buying the doughnuts. “Mom, if I tell you something, will you promise not to get mad?” That’s how the confession began. I remember she was very, very sad for me, and extremely angry at him.

I never went over to the house again. And shortly afterward (around ’89), we moved to Arizona. And the counseling began.

I don’t know how Lucas found out. He was old enough; Mom may have told him. Rudy found out at a group family counseling session (we were both still in Middle School). Other people were there: about 5 kids I knew from school, Mom, Rudy and the counselor. Rudy was mad at Mom for moving us to Arizona, stating that she did so for (I can’t remember the reason) and I told him it was because of Grampa. He said something to the effect of what a great Grampa he was. I then told Rudy that he and I needed to talk outside in private. It was night time and we were alone in the courtyard of the Presbyterian church in Benson. I told him that Grampa molested me countless times (but it didn’t come out as easily as you read it). He immediately changed from the defensive to the protective, giving me a big hug. Telling me he was sorry I had to go through that and how he acted in the counseling session. I told him that it was okay, that he didn’t know.

For Easter of ’94, we went to California: Mom, Dan, Lucas, Rudy and I. By then, my brothers and Dan knew what happened. Mom and Dan were out of the house, giving the kids time to spend alone with their father. When Grampa and Gramma came to visit Dad on Easter, my brothers again sat on either side of me on the couch. Can you believe that the weak shell of a man attached to a hearing aid and oxygen tank asked me for a hug? I refused and Rudy and Lucas moved a little tighter around me. What fantastic brothers.

Out of spite, I took a picture of the decrepit old man. It was meant to make me feel better, him in such a weakened, pathetic and helpless state. A few years later, I had to throw it away. Even in that state, the man, the picture alone, had an effect on me.

He still does. I hate it. Every once in a while, my husband and I will be getting revved up for a romp in the sack. He will touch me down below and we have to stop. No¼I have to stop him. All the childhood memories come flooding back. His hand turns into the fat hands of my Grampa. His loving fingers turn into the probing fingers of a pervert. I know it hurts him to think that I am linking him and Grampa. I don’t mean to. He doesn’t do it as often anymore. When he does, it’s just a slip. My counselor had once warned me this might happen. Not every time is like this. Only when he reaches from behind. Or when we’re cuddling, and he reaches across my hip. If I see his face, it’s okay for him to touch me there. We’ll get through this. I know we will.

You will never see a red globe lamp in this house. Nor will you ever see an embossed glass gun rack. And you will NEVER see a studded leather recliner here. Come to think of it, that den may be why I don’t like wood paneling inside a house. The den walls were covered from floor to ceiling with wood paneling.

Grampa died around ’96 or ‘97. I’m told it was a painful heart attack, calling out for his wife to bring him his pills. My brother, Lucas, went to the funeral. He was wandering around the church and stumbled across the open coffin, waiting to be presented to the mourners. He said Grampa’s flesh was swollen and purple. Should that be justice enough? Should that make me feel better?

I continue to fight this, continue to pray, continue to read sexual abuse survivor books. . .continue to try to forgive. I’m hoping that writing it out would be some type of therapy. . .get the images out of my head and onto paper. We shall see.

But again, the question. . .am I partly to blame? I don’t think I’ll ever find the answer to that question. No matter what other people say, they weren’t the ones who got off of the couch and onto his lap . . .

I was.