It must be really easy for some to just sweep things under the rug like they never happened. Sure, everyone tells white lies here and there, but the key word which changes the entire interpretation of the statement is the word easy.
I say this because of the startling statistics that go along with my post today:
20 percent of girls (1 in 5) and 8 percent of boys (1 in 12.5) will be sexually assaulted by their 18th birthday.
95% of these children will be abused by someone they know and trust (NAPCAN 2009).
Of those molested under the age of 6 years old, 50% were family members. These family members accounted for 23% of 12-17 year old survivors.
The above statistics were found in an online article from Huffington Post, dated 01/27/2017. Read the article here
My mother and I were on our own. She was a single Southern woman in South Jersey, trying to make it in the world. She worked long hours in an industry predominantly run by men. We were very close to an Italian family who looked after me while she did what was needed. We spent what seemed like all of our free time there. Two of the kids became my Godparents, college-aged siblings.
The dad, let's call him "Uncle John," was an architect. I spent time in his downstairs drafting office, drawing while the adults socialized. My earliest memory of his visits are preschool, maybe 4 years old. Uncle John would come down, lock the door, sit me on his lap, and unzip.
I didn't say a word until I was in second grade, the week of my 8th birthday. It was 1991.
We had moved a few hours away, and a trip had been planned for me to visit with my Godmother..she was my best friend. She had the best dolls, the coolest car (a brand new Monte Carlo), and she was the most beautiful human I had ever seen. I loved every waking moment with her, but this time, I did not want to go. I didn't want to spend the weekend at Uncle John and Aunt Jane's house.
I don't know how long it took for my mother to pull the information out of me, but I do remember being terrified. Was I going to get into trouble? Were they going to be mad at me? I didn't want to tell anyone. I didn't know what to say.
Instead of charging ahead, full force at the justice system, my mother gave me a choice. She painted pictures of what family court would be like if we pressed charges. I was scared of facing anyone, especially in the light shown. Option two was much more appealing to me. We could move on, like nothing ever happened. We could pretend we never knew Uncle John and Aunt Jane, or any of their family. So, I hid. I 'acted as if.'
That's when the drinking started. I was sneaking my mother's wine and scotch regularly by the age of 12. She never noticed. I usually drank when she drank, which was often enough to know exactly when she would fall asleep and the leftovers were mine. At this point, there were 3 younger sisters in the picture as well. In hindsight I'm glad it was just me. If I had stayed silent in our home, who knows what may have happened. Would my sisters have been open to this?
I grew to resent my mother. For most of my young adult life I felt
abandoned by her, by our extended family, by my Godmother who accused me
of being a liar. None of it had made any sense to me. What child makes up a story like that? My alcoholism added just enough to be a recipe for disaster. I looked for solace in companionship anywhere I could find it. I had surrogate families, friends, relationships. I tried to forget. I ran away. I rebelled.
Therapy started in my early twenties, and I decided to visit Jersey. I spoke with a detective and we knew it wouldn't be easy to catch the dirty Uncle; I had no proof at this point. I made phone calls, tried to get him confessing on tape, with no luck. It devastated me. (The detective was wonderful, by the way. He believed me, which I think is what really mattered.) I had spoken of an outfit, a striped jumper that was wet when my mother and I left their house once. The detective kept reminding me how helpful that piece of clothing would have been. Sorry, sir. I wasn't thinking about a Lewinsky garment while at KinderKare in the mid-eighties.
When I spoke with Unlce John, his words were so odd to me. He'd said I was such a "vibrant young woman," and all he did was "try to love me." What preschool-aged child is described in such a way? It made absolutely no sense, and reaffirmed everything that I already knew - this man was a monster.
I reached out to Godmother; she was again appalled I had said anything about her dear old dad. I still wonder if he did anything to her or her four daughters. How many others were there? The truth is, I will never know. All I have now is the comfort that I survived. I was scarred for most of my life, but I know now; this does not define me. He knows, they know, and I know. It's been documented.
As I compose this, I still feel as if walking a tight rope. There is the part of me who wants to speak out, be strong, and stand with others who have experienced what I have. There is also a part that is terrified of the judgment which comes along with being a "victim." I don't need pity, apologies, etc. I need to feel better. There has to be something I can take from this. What is the learning experience?
For me, this whole thing has taught me that things happen to everyone. I used to think I was the only one; no one had been through anything as horrible as me. Woe is me, the victim! Why me? The crucial step for me is what I do after the horrific experiences occur. I can't wallow in self-pity or despair. I have to stay in the solution. I hope others can too. By sharing our experience, strength, and hope, we can all get through this together. I am no longer a victim. I am a survivor.
