Innocence Stolen
Rose E Grier
This is a secret journal. No one knows I am doing this. No one knows what I have done. As of late I have not been myself. They say it is because I am old. I do not try to convince them they are wrong. I sit inside myself and let them think that they know me and what is best for me. It is the only way I can continue this. It is the only way I can live my life for the duration with some semblance of sanity. One must admit at one time or another the realities of what their life represents. What it is they have done or not done with what the good Lord has given them. I stand firm in the belief that I have used my talents to the best of my ability. It is what I know. I claim full responsibility for my actions. The subject is not up to debate. Facts are facts.
All day today I have been thinking about how I am going to organize this body of work. I shall not mean to shock nor be thought a liar. So I think I have to write this from another perspective.
Here on these pages I can think in full sentences. I only come here when they are gone. Any hint of another and I close the satin bind and curse internally. In here I am free of the restraints life places on me. I am free of judgment. No one can take away what is in my head. Being alone is a good thing. Not a prison. Loneliness only consumes me when I cannot be here. Here is my favorite place. Here has always been a welcoming home.
Finally. I have waited days to come back. How do I start? How do I end? My actions must be catalogued. Yes. From the beginning. As young as I was the path was ever so clear. How wise I was. Following the course so diligently. I remain faithfully and eagerly on track. My regrets are few, if any. For I would not be where I am if not for where I have been. My reality is not to suffer guilt, but to embrace my truth. As with any confession, it is hard to begin. It is hard to know where to begin. Especially when you have to remember exactly. Admit exactly. Ah yes. Admit. This is turning out to be harder than I thought. There is much to think about. So much surfacing. How to word things and not be in denial. How can I word things so not to embellish and glorify?
I remember growing up in a family of all boys. Brothers, cousins, all boys, save two. I knew boys inside out. How their minds worked, how their bodies looked, how they smelled. I considered myself an authority. The authority on boys. I was always one of the boys because I had the energy and stamina to keep up with them. I liked the way they played. I liked what they played. I was a spy. I was the first female soldier hero. The first female everything, and, I was the first female relative to speak out loud about the monster in our family.
I remember being happy and healthy. There were things in my life I thought could be different but I could never have predicted the poison that was going to be woven into the fabric of all of our lives. It was a stain so indelible that nothing could clean or remove it. Like a phantom it haunts and creeps around corners it never belonged in the first place.
My two female cousins are eleven years older and eleven years younger than I. The younger, I hardly know. The older, I know so well, as if she were me. The years we shared our lives with each other would show to be the common thread that held us to the living world. For without her confirmation, I would not be here. Had we not shared our secrets I would have thought myself mad. I could not have lived like that, would not have lived like that.
My father was a traveler. Quite good I might add. We were comfortable in the purest sense. Often, fathers job would take him out of the state or country for an extended time and we found ourselves living with any one of mother’s five sisters. It was okay with me, because spies never stay in the same place too long. It was on one of these family stays that I met our common Basilisk.*
I remember when it was that I could hang with the boys in the trees, as Robin Hood did. Run from trench to trench during our war games. Save each other from the evil clutches of an international spy ring. I also remember when all that stopped and my body changed. I could no longer drop hard to the ground as one of my fellow boys in play. Now, I had to be the damsel in distress. The murdered one they had to carry home. The one the boys had to protect from the boys. I was now the one who the vampires bit, no longer allowed to bite the boys I so dearly loved to scream with and chase with reckless abandon. My body betrayed my reverie. My imagination limited by the confines my new breasts now placed on those boys who so loved and trusted me before. It all changed so rapidly that I barely had time to mourn the loss of that childhood I so cherished and desire to this day. It was during this period of loss and acceptance that I found my bodily pride as a woman and lost it simultaneously. How I allowed this to happen still makes me feel ashamed.
I so adored my mother. She was a beauty. Since I could no longer be as a boy, who better to show me “woman”, than she? And what a woman. Her beauty was clean and uncluttered. No bangles or paint. Her manners were proper. Her behavior was not flirty. She was an ever-faithful woman, as my father to her. Mum took care of us as if she had some kind of textbook. I wanted to be like her. My body was obliging. I looked in the mirror every day. My tenth year brought many physical alterations. My mental changes were much more alarming.
Boys began to notice me in a different light. They smelled me. It made the talk different. I hardly recognized my playmates. Our games became opportunities to touch each other in places where we chemically changed. I remember dying to be touched. Yearning to be noticed. Boys I knew so well, souls I thought were “like”, became strange and exciting. I wanted to see each difference. I knew from my experience that God made each of us unique. I also knew that He changed each of us.
I had a secret. I now had a desired commodity. I coveted my womanness deviously. It was mine! What the hell was I going to do with it? I watched women. Women on the street, in magazines and on television. But the woman I had greatest access to was Mum. I watched her interactions with Dad. They really had a relationship. They had sex! I tried to imagine what they looked like. I didn’t even know what “it” looked like. Tough to imagine yet I knew it to be true. My brother and I were proof of that. I knew all about sex from school. Mum answered all my questions about menstruation. Got that covered. How was I going to take my newfound knowledge and put it to practical application? That answer came as rather a surprise.
It was a cold winter. For all I knew, it was summer. But for all my mind remembers, it was when the harsh winds of indifference paralyzed my understanding. Iced over and entombed my romantic notions of heated passion, love and sex.
Father was called out on business and we had to stay with Mum’s oldest sister for two weeks. Brother and I were happy. Our cousins would be there and we could swim in their lake. What joy I envisioned. What a change. Uncle greets me first when we get to the door. I spring into his open arms. He is like a Saint Bernard to me. Big and slobbery. Wet kisses of love. Auntie has been baking succulent desserts and meat dishes. We supped in grand style at Aunties. The aroma made me float into the kitchen like a cartoon character when it smells apple pie on the window ledge. Auntie greets me with a glow of excitement. I feel pampered and special. It was the last time those visits would hold delight.
Where were my cousins? They should be here. Auntie says they will be here soon. Brother has busied himself in our cousin’s room. Auntie is catching mum up. I too, will find something to do.
Uncle saw me roving. He has enticed me into his bedroom with Auntie’s cookies. They are so good. He has his own television. He says I can watch whatever I want to! He let me change the channel. I will watch a funny show.
Uncle held me captive for three hours. I did not know this was going to happen. Now I can only exist in my head.
Must sort this out. Uncle says I am beautiful. How I have grown. Each word like candy. Each action stroking my ego. He notices my body. I puff up. I hope I look mature. To him every choice I make is “perfect”. I know the best show to pick. How neat I eat. How perfect my body has developed. I was swooning from the attention and praise.
I sense a change in Uncle’s tone and in our routine. He sits in his chair and spreads his legs. “Sit.” He beacons with his deep throaty voice. Each word creeps out like molasses. It’s as if he has been sedated. The air becomes thick and suffocating. He touches my breast. I stiffen. My world goes mute. I can no longer form words. I can no longer hear the earth. I am transformed to another dimension.
For three hours I pray. Screaming silently in my head. The whole time cosmically reaching out for anyone or anything to hear me. Daddy!!! Mummy!!! Brother!!! Cousins!!! Auntie!!! God!!! Hear me! No tears. Just the stench of betrayal.
I can recognize that smell anywhere, any time. See it at a glance. It is why I write this journal. My children must know. Though I write this chronicle in secret, I want my family to have it for generations to come. No one should be condemned to relive the repulsive history my uncle has left behind as his legacy. A pitiful donation at best.
The mental stress and torment I was to experience would prove my strength. Ever my weakness was my naiveté’. I believed that a person could change. I believed almost everything. The experience of being “molested” for seven years, fashioned me into a most creative and ingenious individual. I made a vow to never allow the demented behavior of my uncle guide my intention or be a negative, controlling part of my life. If it could be my charge, I will be on pervert duty ‘til the day I die.
So, I fall for the cookies. I could not resist Aunties baking. Still cannot. I enter Uncle’s lair. He spreads his legs. I take the first cookie. He is in an overstuffed chair. He has an overstuffed body. I sit on the floor between his legs. He hands me another cookie. I change the channel to Andy Devine. I love his show. I enter that world. I am in control. Then Uncle touches me. At first I know it’s an accident. Then it becomes clear. His touch is deliberate. He forces me to stay seated. I struggle, but he is strong. Why is he doing this? I am uneasy and alone now with no way out. I cannot move or speak. Uncle is talking to me. All I hear are low tones. Deep contemptible words in a foreign language. Unfamiliar actions. He caresses my breast. I am no longer proud of them. I want them to melt away. Now he has both breasts in his meaty hands. He is behind me. Thank God I cannot see his face. I smell his body. I smell his breath. I am dead. I am rightfully overwrought. Does he no\t know how distressed and broken-hearted I am? He was so nice to me for so long. Subsequent to today, memory says we always had loving years where I trusted him completely. He let me have my way. He treated me so special. Had it been his plan to gain my trust from the start. Did he groom me for this?
One would think that once is enough. But my silence cursed me. I did not say anything about Uncle. Nothing about my uncomfortability. Nothing. I eat dinner and go to sleep on the antique couch that was Grandmothers. I am named after her. The couch is always my “makeshift bed” and it is feather soft, warm and inviting. I fall to rest. I dream of my body. It is that of a grown woman. I dream romantic dreams. I am with my husband. He has no face. Am I twenty? God no! I am still ten. What is Uncle doing? Is it not enough that he ruined my day? Now he is in my night. His thick hand glides over my flannel nightie. The covers are off. Hands now under my gown. To him, I stay asleep. To me, I scream the silent scream that I will use for the duration of Uncles offensive.
I remain in this world where I do not want to believe I am awake. Oh, I know I am awake. I pray for the disease of denial to infect me with its convincing and tantalizing power. Uncle is using his “voice”. That pestilent voice. If I could shrivel up into a dead leaf and blow away right now, I would. Uncle rams his fist-sized finger into my vagina. I see stars and hear echoes as if I were inside a tumbling can. Words come slurring out of his mouth. Sewage. Toxic and rank. I feel so alone. How long has this been going on? He leaves. The sun has risen. I smell breakfast. I am so hungry. I get up and electricity shoots through my groin. Shit! Uncle is at the table. Auntie is smiling and eager to please. Oblivious? My cousins are at the table! They are home. Thank God. I sit next to my cousin that one day was to be adopted by mum. (I will call him Cousin/Brother.) Brother is at the table too. Does he know? Everybody knows. They must. My eyes plead for some kind of recognition or\ understanding.
I eat like a ravenous waif. It arouses no curiosity. Plans for the day are taking place. I feel as if I’m being picked for badminton sides. Uncle pipes up first. He wants me to stay with him. Auntie wants to go and buy me some sweet girl clothes downtown with Mum. I want to go with Cousin/Brother and Brother. Other Cousin says he will take me with him to meet his girl at her store. Uncle does not get his way this day. I go shopping with Auntie and Mum.
I am in the store with Auntie and Mum. Auntie has known the owner for decades. He dotes on me. Princess me. I change a hundred times. Mum watches as I change. Can she smell me? Does she see my pain glowing from beneath the silken pantaloons? I do not act as thrilled as she wants me to be. I change. She asks if I am pleased? I almost tell her. I am busting to tell her. I need to tell her. However my memory reminds me of Uncle’s intimidation and the opportunity passes. No luck for me today.
I wake up today to Uncle’s mother. She has come to visit. Besides Uncle and Grammy, all of the adults have departed somewhere. The boys have gone to the lake. I didn’t catch them in time to go. I cannot be here alone with him. He is the only one here besides Grammy. Dear God, please don’t let him come near me. Tears of desperation begin to flow. I weep as silently as possible. I feel a hand on my shoulder. I want to die. I look. It is Grammy. Thanks God. I’ve been spared for now.
Grammy stays with her son several months out of every year. As fate would have it, our visit has fallen at the same time. I am grateful. When everyone leaves, or a compromising situation arises, she is there for me. She takes me for a walk until the others show. These walks are some of the most loving memories I have. Grammy turns out to be my “Guardian Angel”. I think she knows exactly what her son is all about\If Uncle is doing this to me, he must be doing it to his beautiful boys.
Father is coming home. We get to leave. We get to be in our family home again. Safe.
Seems to me that I hide my exasperation well, until it comes time to sleep. My dreams are unwelcome. I resist at all costs. Though it angers my parents, I continue to give them the extra kiss goodnight. Perhaps I get thirsty or hear a noise. Maybe I hear them call me. Maybe they changed their minds and want me to stay up later! I want these to be the moments I confess my dirty uncle’s secret. I chastise myself for not coming clean. I berate my moral character. This lack of reverence would prove the justification I needed for my later years of drug abuse and rampant sexuality.
In my dreams I would tell. I would tell all. No holds barred. In my dreams my uncle murdered me. My father murdered my uncle. My mum died lonely. Auntie hated me. Sometimes all the men in my family raped me for what I deserved. I was never innocent. Those dreams were from another time, for another time. I was not to know “sweet” dreams again until my late twenties.
How was I going to cope with this mummer I had become? I felt like an impersonator of myself in my own home. On the outside I was myself. On the inside, I was dark and angry. How could a love be so absolute one day, and utterly gone the next? Where did the good Uncle go? My emotions were conflicting relentlessly. There was a silent battle raging inside and no rescue insight. I had to tell someone! My older girl cousin was the lucky beneficiary of all my uncertainty. I was to know my trusted intimate.
After many indignities performed, I had now become an accomplished victim. Another one of Uncles’ casualties. Damaged goods. By God, not alone. Much to my chagrin, the toll was immense. More colossal in its duplicity than even my creativity was capable.
I talk to my Older Girl Cousin. An inundation of information just comes flowing out of myself. She knows. She has been repeatedly raped by Uncle for many years now. With his penis. Bastard! She tells me that Uncle has attempted to molest her mom, my mum, family friends. The list is long. Uncle’s mother even knows. So why has no one tried to protect us? To this day there is no satisfaction. No real answer to that question.
It is the summer after my ninth grade year and I search out numbing agents. I begin smoking pot. It is just what I want. It is perfect. I like it a lot. It helps me forget and overlook the injustices.
I am in a euphoric state as often as I can manage a moment to sneak off. Mum and Dad are always near. It is hard to get a minute to myself. Here on these pages I vent my rage and misery while floating around on a cloud only I can see. I do not want to come down. Here my vision is full of color and imagination.
I will begin to write poetry. It will romanticize this ugly chapter of abnormal psychology. I feel alone here. My parents do not realize they are smothering me with their rules. I make them the bad guys. The tighter they get, the more I want to leave. How can I go? I know what is out there. They can not help me because I won’t tell them what is bothering me. Why? Will my life get better if I tell? No enlightenment for them today.
I feel a wild streak coming on. I want to go crazy. I want to be a tornado. I believe I have nothing to lose at this point in my life. I do not see what I still have. My perception has been distorted. I have little esteem left. My drawing and my writing are all I think I have going for me any more. My looks are not worth their trouble.
I see a girl on the bus today. I know for a fact that she will be my friend for life. I do not know why I believe this. She is uncomfortable with my stares.
I met the girl from yesterday. She is wonderful. She cannot see how Uncle ruined me. She never mentions it! She has a need to cut loose like I do. It is great. She is an artist and a writer too. My Friend and I spend as much time together as our parents will allow us. We party together and expound the wonders of the universe. We have no baggage. It is a freedom I have not known since early childhood.
My Friend ran away from home.
Loneliness
Pedestal of flesh and gray.
Skyward gaze, ball of fury.
Testing grounds for child play.
Reaching to grow with no sun or roots.
Canceled stares stamped void with time.
Unbalanced cubicles in a mind.
Touches of gold, ridges of blood.
Red clay stained and kind.
Gentle wind on rocky beaches.
Barefooted lovers waiting for the moon to fade.
A breath of birth.
A sigh of success in a tunnel of pain.
Grassy hills with no destiny.
Waiting for a friend from the
Center of the utopia you once
Felt was present.
An iceberg upon burning coals.
The scent of eucalyptus rising in the
Storm of madness'Deafening silence
The whisper of freedom hovering over your senses tonight.
My Friend is back home. I am relieved she is safe. I cannot wait until tomorrow to see her.
My parents have told me that my friend and I need to spend less time together.
My Friend and I are inseparable at school. My parents cannot take that away. She is sorry she ran away but she had so much fun. We dream about being together and free someday. No matter what happens we will be friends until the day we die.
Uncle and Auntie are in town. They are going to spend the week with us.
Glass eyes. Brick wall for a head.
Spears at your throat for a tongue instead.
Teeth of nails.
Lips of springs, tight and coiled.
Brain yearning to operate the
Body of mass wires that twist and
Rage.
Uncle, thinking of you is like touching an exposed nerve.
What is life worth when the protection of the thorns, the green of your leaves and the beauty of your petals have been picked, torn and splotched with mud?
Uncle came into my room. He didn’t even wait a night. It is night four and I want to run away. I do not want to see him tonight or ever. I take the dog for a walk a hundred times. Each time I get stoned. Even that cannot hide my fear. It has enhanced it. I see Uncle around every corner. Peering at me. Waiting for me to put my guard down.
Mum! Dad!!! Uncle has invaded my personal space. I play dead. Uncle is licking my ear! What the hell is that about? His tongue travels down to my neck, then to my breast. I am crying. He continues downward. In the dark my eyes won’t shut. His loathsome lingua lifts from my tummy and envelopes his finger, which emerges drenched. My mind is screaming. I am appalled as his finger intrudes my vagina then my anus. I feel my eyes shut taut. He speaks words of love to me. Words meant for a seasoned lover. Words meant for someone else who can understand. Then come the words I know are meant for me. Uncle speaks my name. He takes my hand and guides it to his penis. My fingers recoil in a desperate attempt to not touch him. He is so much stronger than I. I am no match. I feel myself go limp as he has his way with me. I emit a noise. His grip tightens on my wrist and I think it will break. To maintain my silence, Uncle tells me that I am solely responsible for his intrusions. If I did n\ot look the way I did...these things in him would not stir, and with that, he is gone. With the weight of the world on my shoulders, I cry all night. I do not remember sleeping. My eyes are red. I am tired and I want to die. Just strangle me dead now.
Somehow I feel and know that my silence is killing me. Somehow I know I must find my voice. Somehow I need to save myself. Somehow.
Pressure
There is a madness deep inside my soul.
Something is there and it’s not letting go.
Heart pounding louder by the decade.
The menagerie of everything forbade.
It may possess me for now but not for long.
It is there but now it is gone.
See a shadow like a fading dream.
You wake to find it lurking in someone’s room who you don’t know.
What is so bad in being young? I ask.
There are games and lots of fun.
Isn’t it where the innocence is?
It’s not the little children who do you wrong.
The head is there but the face is blank.
You assume it was something that you drank.
Insanity is just a word used out of text
And you don’t know who it will hit next\I am feeling sorry for myself in a big way. I am isolated by misfortune. Insulated from the prevalent childhood I had just a few years ago. In maintaining my silence I become my own kidnapper. I am loathing my resolution of quietude. Where has my power gone? Has Uncle stolen it? Do I have the right to blame it on him? Do I claim responsibility over his actions toward me? I am riddled with indecision. I struggle to hold on to the beauty I know exists.
Life
Sunshine
Flowers
Butterflies
And children playing in the sun
Pine trees and shady evergreens
See the beauty and you’ll know what it means
To be
Starshine
Waves upon the shore
Moonlight
And children playing in their dreams
Windmills turning in the breeze
Peacefully as the nighttime lingers on
To be
Tomorrow Uncle leaves.
Uncle is coming. I hear his weight creaking the floorboards. He stresses everything. I slip out of bed and quietly bury myself under stuff in my closet. I close the door and do not breathe. He is walking into the room. He is still. Sweat is dripping down every inch of my body. Does he feel the warmth of my sheets? God help me. Uncle is moving. I pray he is leaving. I hear the handle jiggle and then I hear voices from another area in our home. Uncle leaves. Boards are creaking away from me. Thank you Lord. I fall asleep in my closet.
I hear Mum calling me. Auntie and Uncle are leaving. I go to say goodbye. I hug Auntie. Uncle scoops me up into his mammoth self and dank mouth touches my lips. His eyes look at me with (what I take as a warning) a flash, and just that quick, they are gone. Relief drowns me as I swim in my liberation.
I am reading an Edgar Allen Poe book and I find a slip of paper in it. I do not know who wrote what is on the sheet.
Condition for not being in sin
By relating itself to its own self
And consciously willing to be itself,
The self becomes transparently grounded
In the Power which constituted it.
On the other side was this'
The longest journey
Is the journey of him
Who has chosen his destiny,
Who has started upon his quest
For the source of his being.
I am not sure what they mean, but I vow to understand. I believe this is a sign. I know it has been sent to help me out of my hell.
My Friend and I are developing the best relationship. I love her. I told her I have an ugly uncle. She understands without me ever having to say another word.
I don’t know what it is about the age of fourteen. Things transform. Events impact you forever in extraordinary unfathomable ways. I wanted a relationship of my own. I wanted to search out a “normal” relationship. I knew that Uncles was the wrong type of connection. There was nothing good about it. I wanted my body to be a source of pride. I watched My Friend for clues. It was not long before we were in a situation with a couple of boys our age. I learned how to kiss. I learned how to be comfortable. I learned how to take charge of my life. I was only going to do what I wanted to do. Hence “the seduction”.
Our family traveled to the beach to visit a colleague of dads. They had two daughters and a son home on leave from the Marine Corps.
I had been persecuted by Uncle since the end of my tenth year. Recently I learned how to take back my power. It was acceptable to hide. It may be permissible to set traps too. Up until this point in my life, no singular prior occurrence held this much of a grip. My mind had been altered by these experiences. If I was to have a secret life, I would like my silence to be for a better reason than one of Uncle’s design. The trip to the beach would be my opportunity.
I spent the day with the two daughters of my father’s friend. They were one year younger and one year older than I. They were far worldlier too. Both were sexual. Mum and Dad were having so much fun that besides family meals together and bedtimes, we had the next week to ourselves. The independence was a breath of fresh air for me. Girls. What a change. These young women had a score of things to teach me. They were as eager to tell as I to hear. Their account of “life with boys” was not the same as mine! I had to know these things firsthand. Touching could be fun. Without the fear or guilt. I knew about kissing and surface petting. I also knew the effects of a long-term violation. Imagine my excitement when the girls tell me that their brother will be home on leave from the Marine Corps\I remember falling in love with an army man when I was ten. He was so handsome. I didn’t know I was flirting. However that was what I was doing. He knew how to handle me. He talked and answered my questions. He never let on that he knew I was attracted. The situation never advanced though I saw him a dozen more times. To this day I remember his name and I can see his face.
The girls’ brother came home on the third day of our glorious visit. I watched him like a cat watches a mouse. He could care less at first, but I broke him down. Oh yes.
This “big brother” was twenty-six years old. How nice. An older man. Polite and positively big brotherly. I could tell he was perfect for my experiment. He had nothing but good intentions. (Even nicer.) I wanted to test my power.
After dinner that night, all of the children were together for a television movie. The brother caught his sisters up on all of the things he had accomplished since they last saw each other. The sisters did the same. I was amused at how they were so candid with one another. Oh to trust someone that much. I shared some of my poetry. We really did have fun proceeding to enlighten each other on our differences.
The brother is unmoved by my presence so far. I play coy. Within the dark recesses of my mind I feel a bit sorry for my “victim”. Which is what he will become whether I accept this or not. I don’t believe he will deserve what I’m about to do. I must prove to myself that I am in control. I find in hindsight that “control” does not mean what I think it means.
I befriend the brother, hinged on his every word. He trusts that my interest is genuine. He is quite engaging. I question my motives. I am leading myself to accept my subterfuge. Is it reasonable intent or complete devolution? I feel I’m spinning backwards regressing into a black abyss. Surfacing. Feeling shame at my pretense. Except this need overcomes any conscience or scruple. Where is my virtue? Oh, to hell with it.
It is evening. Everyone here is settling in for the night.
I am teetering on a ridge. Will I fall on the side of clarity and worth or tumble headlong into the side of illusion and deception?
I see a sliver of light. The girls are asleep. Slowly I rise, keeping a keen eye on the ray. As I near, I see the brother. I stay in the shadow looking through the narrow portal. Every sense amplified. The shower starts. Steam is clouding the room and wafting out. I smell his soap. This heady mixture dances around my brain. I cannot breathe deep enough. He spends a lot of time in there. When he emerges I see he is manful. A harmonic rings throughout my body in anticipation of my “Tour de Force”. If he looks, I am now in view. He cleans the mirror with a towel and wraps it around his waist. He is comfortable with his body. I creep closer, listing precariously. He sees me, yet evades our encounter. He continues his grooming regime but I can see his muscles have tightened and he is no longer restful in his skin. On an impulse I am in the room with the door shut taut behind me. I lock it. My boldness impressive. I want him. I am in “control”. He smiles nervously. I close in. He te\mpers his recognition with light humor. He trivializes my determined intent with strange sexless jokes. Soon there is silence. In my prudence I guide him to the privy. He sits. We touch. I guide his hands to my waist. My hands run the length and width of his chest. What am I doing? He tries his best to dissuade me. His restraint is admirable. I am inexperienced and shameless. Awkwardly and clumsily I lean down. Our lips meet. He is still unavailable, aware of the consequences. I don’t care. I have to have an experience that isn’t deviant and incestuous. Something more unguarded and impetuous in nature is what I need.
I get close enough where my body is against the brothers face. With his hands on my waist and his nose at my belly button, I press my body towards him. I can feel him intently and solidly against my knees. I think I’m going to collapse. My feelings are racing. I’m dizzy and totally affected. He sees my drunkenness and relinquishes his control. Lifting my gown, he lowers my panties, and, oh so slowly I sink onto his lap. I can now feel the strength and size of him against my tummy. We kiss and melt together. He is slow and deliberate. Experienced. He is now in control. How tender he touches. How unhurried, almost leisurely. His kiss is sapid and sweet. I feel like a princess. I want him to hurry. I’m impatient for something. I don’t know what, but my body knows on an intrinsic natural level. I submit completely. I kiss his neck. He breathes in my hair. His voice is like honey. Kind words I understand. No violation. He knows what I want; yet he will not rush. Perhaps he will not\ penetrate. I don’t know. He is a man who knows how to move' how to touch. I am satisfied. He does not tease or provoke. He, he just does. He saturates me with affection. Tender and slow, quelling my anxiety. Cools me down. Calms me down. He will not allow me to do something wrong. He is no dupe. We move to the floor. He is on top of me kissing me and osculating. My legs are closed, as are his. His firmness is maddening. He exhausts me. He holds me. We smile. I cannot believe how good it feels to be close to someone. I’m bursting with new excitement. My desire for his body switches to a simple want for proximity. We dress and go to his room. We snuggle and sleep. Tonight the nightmares turn into dreams of angels, fairies and enchanted forests with cascading waterfalls. He wakes before everyone else and we go down to breakfast. He makes me a meal. I am starving. There is a magic quality to the day. We spend several hours together talking. We kiss tenderly, some touching, some exploring with respectful admiration. One by one, everyone else comes to breakfast. The house is alive and so am I. The air is fresher. The light is brighter and my smile, though it looks the same, feels different.
The day has gone and night slips in. I lie in bed and want to go to The Brother. I am thinking I want more body heat. I tremble and tingle in places. I’m enamored. I go to him. We snuggle. He does not overstep his boundaries and we spend the rest of the nights together.
Two men so different. Men like this brother could easily make me forget about a man like Uncle. Yet I know I must remember. Just not right now, right here, this moment. Right. No room for trepidation. I was not to know this type of soaring high from a relationship again until I meet the father of my children many years later.
Writing cleanses my soul. Each word disinfecting. I feel the filth scour off layer by layer. The burden lifts as my eyes look to God in thanks. Relief helps me breathe. When I am calm, I inhale and exhale deeply. The oxygen stimulates my brain. It opens me up to listen, really listen to the earth, to others and to myself. I know how to use all the tools LOVE has given me. I see in hindsight, there is a dark and light. Where you choose to spend the most time is completely within your control. I learned from my summer experience that “control” was release of control. All in all, my teen years were normal. Because of Uncle’s molestation aggressions, I now had the perfect gauge: Uncle being at the bottom of the scale and The Brother at the top.
Three years after my summertime savoir-faire I am to graduate high school. Auntie and Uncle will be here. I have stuffed his memory so deep that the mention of his name has a hydraulic wrench to it. I begin to change my thought processes. My instincts shift into a lower gear. Survival mode. My senses are heightened. I need to hone my life saving strategies and call upon my deductive reasoning to bail me out. Remember. I must remember. It has been so long since Uncle has bullied or trapped me that I smell my own fear. I gather hangers to put on my door handle. Shit! There are two clothespins on this hanger. They take me by surprise. I am rattled. I cannot touch clothespins or even have them in my home until my forties. Imagine that? I remember Uncle making me put clothespins on his nipples. I remember his face as he made me squeeze harder! I gather cans and things that will make noise if my door so much as moves. I prepare for war. I am the General. He will not get away with hi\s perversions this night, because I will defend my territory. He will die in my trenches. I will gather ammo by remembering past incidents.
I remember my special hiding place in his home. On one visit I heard Uncle coming up the hall stairs. Ominously creaking his way towards me. I opened the nearest door to hide behind. It happened to be a hall closet. It did not seem protective enough. I had a sickening sinking feeling as the clothes on each side gave way to a very deep section of the closet. I heard Uncle whispering my name. My heart was pounding so loud I knew it would reveal my position. I backed deeper into the closet. Much to my surprise my hand felt a knob? I looked and saw a tiny door. I opened it, got behind it and barely had it closed when I saw a faint light. Uncle had opened the big door. If I can stay cool he will leave. Surely he knew about the tiny access. I hear my name. One more time and I will pee my pants. The door closes. Oh my God. He left. Flood of relief. I am in a dusty room with natural light slightly filtering in. It is an attic of sorts. My heart stops as I see a figure. It is only a se\wing dummy. I hug it as tears roll. I am happy here. It is not scary. It is large and safe. A refuge, a harborage. “Sanctuary” I cry, protected. So many times I ran to my space. My secret spot. Had I not found this place, there may not have been a chance for me. I still go there in my mind. All my childhood toys exist there. Many lost things wind up there. Home to some of my most effective visualizations.
I remember what I needed to. I now have a supply of munitions. I am going to win this night and I will celebrate my victory with a vengeance. My blood is boiling. Uncle cannot win. My ego is soaring. I have never been so self-possessed. This night will end in triumph. My plan is fail-safe.
Along with the traps I set, I move my mahogany dresser in front of my door. When Uncle comes this night, not only will noisemakers rouse the household; the door will not budge. He will have to exert a lot of energy and this will cause shifting of the cans and bottles. Sadly, I wish him a heart attack. This night I will sleep confident. I fall hard into my pillow, surely snoring.
The impact of reality stings and traumatizes me wide-awake. Uncle has defeated all of my traps. No bells, no warnings. Hypothermia sets in as the Cold-Hearted Iceman takes his tongs and completely puts me where he wants. I scrunch into a corner. He does not waste time. It is dark and I think he puts a clothespin into my hand. I try with all my might to open this clip but all my strength has been drained. I am now a faded shadow of the high-ranking officer I had been only a few short hours ago. With both hands I budge the clip and navigate it to Uncle’s leather nipples. Contact. Sensation intersects as I realize Uncle has occupied my hands well. His are free and probing, stretching my flesh to its maximum. My hands are paralyzed. My two most intimate orifices are full. Pain, like electric shocks, pulse through my groin. My vagina throbbing, squeezing to emit his fingers? It feels like my feces are being impacted back into my intestines. Going the wrong way. I experience the sen\sation of every hair on my body at their root. Without a word, he has sabotaged the integrity of my battle plan. My hands have been placed around his penis. I choke and choke. Taciturn, ever so closemouthed, I scream inside my head. Tears flooding. He spits on me. I lay, utterly defeated. He conquers and retreats in piggish subjugation.
I collapse, deflated and drying up. Sticky on my skin, wrinkling. He won. He won! Dear God, show me the way. Where is reason? Help'please.
I hear a noise. It is our Friend/Aunt who is here for my graduation. I love her and trust her. Uncle has also confronted her in the past. God. You heard me, and the rooster crows. I tell her. She holds me even though I am dirty. She tells my parents. It is all Mum can do to keep an insanely enraged Dad from killing Uncle. Mum is convincing. Dad will be no use to us in jail. Everyone believes me. They know it is true. Uncle is banished from our home. Auntie and Uncle slip out and go back home. I wonder if Auntie knew why they had to go? I still graduate.
Eleven winters after Uncles last onslaught, he dies from diabetes complications. Legless and alone. Cousin/Brother checks the casket to see if his birthfather is really dead. I am not in attendance.
One night I dream that all of my family members are in a row. I am walking down the row hugging and kissing everyone. It is a funeral. I get to the end and look in the casket. I am inside.
Shortly after this dream, a mutual friend introduces me to my husband. We go out and like each other a lot. My husband’s patience and understanding helped me learn how to be comfortable with myself. His family was equally as accepting. Together my husband and I created an atmosphere of love. Out of love came our daughter and five years later, our son. We have educated them about the monsters in our lives. As we all have our demons.
Eleven years after the death of Uncle, Cousin/Brother comes out to my Older Girl Cousin and Mum about how for years, his own brother raped him, and the things he remembers about Aunties’ enabling Uncle to torture him with internal shock probes, branding irons and high-tension nipple clamps. How they exposed him to smut books, real photos of pedophilia, sex toys, torture chambers in downtown buildings and so much more we never knew. This is why Mum verbally adopted Cousin/Brother and became a Grandma figure for his sons. During the year of Cousin/Brother’s emerging, we all come to a sad realization that all along Auntie is a big part of this whole thing as well as Cousin /Brother’s real brother. Mum feels so guilty for being adamant about protecting the feelings of her eldest sister. Through the years, a lot of people spent so much effort shielding the situation from Auntie only to feel decieved and manipulated now. We stand unified in our pain and try to quell the guilt, shame\ and blame. Love is our powerful antidote.
Cousin/Brother gets help. He rises above his upbringing and emerges a man with a past he can put behind him and move forward in the present. We talk. We enlighten. We are close and unite on a level deep and disturbing. Perplexing to most, we are not alone.
The path to my destiny is laced with prescription and illegal drug abuse, alcohol excess, and a short one-year physically and verbally abusive marriage to a severe alcoholic where I barely made it out with my life or self-esteem, sexual abandonment and a “devil may care” attitude. My teen years and early twenties were a perfect opportunity to see how low I could go. I left home for the Peace Corps and still confuse confidence with prowess. So began my sojourn to test the limits of my morals. It was also the journey to find how to live by the standards I raised when myself returned to my self.
The details of my sexploits are not essential to the impact of my journal. Your imagination can do those justice. As your architect, this blueprint is most salient when the finite specifications are thoroughly followed. No stipulations. My design will build, for the world, the warped, copious framework of a predator, to scale.
*Part snake and part cock, the legendary basilisk has fatal breath and glance. I feel Uncle had the same deadly effect when he looked or spoke to me. Unlike the basilisk’s victim, I found my own cure to survive his potent venom.
I live now with my daughter and her family in a beautiful home in the country. It is safe and peaceful. I write these entries for my children and grandchildren in the name of innocence. In this solitude I can now divulge my confession forthwith. It is the only thing preventing me from going home. My crime. My secret, if you will. Formerly undeclared, is a murder. I claim responsibility. I have committed the perfect murder. It was my legacy. I have the right to log it now, here, on these pages for all to see. I am shameless for the deed. Now you see why this biographical insight commences to be the focus, the offspring of my exacted plan. Completely open-handed, I freely admit that I maimed, killed and hung out to dry' my silence.
