Thursday, May 24, 2007

My Story - Part 4 - the Sexual Abuse

For the preceding parts - see Part One, Part Two and Part Three.

I've been posting my story on After Silence as I post it here. I've gotten comments both here and there that have been so touching. Not one single person has judged me. People have related, complimented my writing and congratulated me on surviving. What a difference from when I told as a child. It is only through their (your) supportive reaction that I have the strength to try to write Part Four. That and I have a compelling need to get this over with.

The Touching
I've never forgotten that I was abused. The details were sketchy for a long time. For many years I forgot one of the three major "events" but now, ironically, I can't remember which one I forgot.

Toilet had long hair and a long beard. Very hippy-like. Except he was balding on top. His weight fluctuated up and down. But he lifted weights and was always strong. His hands always seemed greasy and dirty and calloused.

Mom always gave us a kiss and a hug goodnight. Dad did too. We didn't get much other affection than that. Not a whole lot of snuggling that I remember. Actually now that I think about it, I can only remember kissing and hugging my dad before bed and when we would leave at the end of the weekend. My mom would sometimes say "I need a hug" but I can't remember any snuggling - even when I was a child.

I would kiss Toilet before bed and give him a hug too. He didn't have teeth. He wore dentures. When he would chew gum, he would make this chomping/smacking sound. It was icky and the sound of gum chomping to this day will trigger me. Toilet didn't like wearing his dentures. He would leave them in a cup by the sink - just to gross us out. When he would give us a kiss, he would lick his lips first and the kisses were always wet and sloppy and gross. Over time the kisses became wetter and sometimes I thought I surprised him by kissing him goodnight because I'd catch him with his mouth partly open. I didn't realize it was on purpose.

The Basement
Our house was a split level. When you walked in the front door you faced a set of stairs. You could go up or down. Up was the living room, kitchen, bathroom and 3 bedrooms - mom/toilet's room, my Sister's room and a guest room. Downstairs was a storage room, the laundry area, the rec room with bar and my bedroom. There was a half bath down there too.

In the summers, we practically lived in the basement. It was cool down there. Mom and Toilet were drinking a lot that summer. I say "that summer" but I really can't remember if was the summer before or after 7th grade. I was either going on 11 or 12. As you walked down the stairs, there was a square cut out in the wall divided by vertical banister posts. If you positioned yourself right upstairs, you could see into the rec area downstairs. We'd often yell between the floors for someone to bring us something from the kitchen downstairs, or vice versa.

The bar was pretty cool, or so I thought then. It was dark brown wood with twinkling lights and beer signs. I was the only girl I know that had a "real" bar in their basement with a beer keg (beer meister) and everything. The keg would get replaced probably every weekend or so. Sister and I learned how to fill the pitchers just right, without any foam - or head, as they called it. We were called beer "wenches" and thought it was funny.

In front of the bar were three black vinyl bar stools. The high back kind. Sister and I would sit on them and spin around, making ourselves dizzy. One summer evening I was downstairs with Mom and Toilet. I think it was evening. I think I was wearing purple cotton shorts with a purple top. I can't remember if I was wearing a bra or not - but I seem to think not, although I can't imagine why I wouldn't have been.

Toilet was great at cracking backs. He would pop my mom's back and then rub it. She worked on her feet all the time and needed it done quite often. Sometimes he would pop mine too. He also had a way of picking you up and squeezing you real tight or kind of shaking you down his front that would pop it. I can still pop my back easily to this day - but I do it myself by twisting.

That evening I somehow ended up with my back facing away from him. He was sitting behind me and I was between his legs - our barstools were really close. I don't know where the backs of the stools were but they weren't in between us. He started off rubbing my shoulders and back. Then it was as if his hands were suddenly around front. I think maybe I do remember having a bra on and him reaching underneath. It felt strange - I was so confused but it didn't exactly feel bad but I didn't know what was going on. Mom was upstairs and there was a noise and he jumped back and stopped what he was doing. I sat there in shock. Then I guess he realized Mom wasn't coming down. Maybe I leaned back (Oh god why would I have done that) and he started again. And then we did hear Mom and I think he said something like "don't tell your Mom about this" or something to that effect. I went to my room. I don't remember anything else.

okay I'm still breathing, albeit jaggedly so I'll try the next section. Even though the room is spinning. Deep breath. I don't remember which came first - the car or the bedroom or if the bedroom was in between the car incidents.

The Car
We had a huge cream colored old station wagon. Sister and I called it the banana boat. It had tan/brown colored interior and reeked of cigarette smoke. When the beer keg would run out, a new one had to be obtained from the liquor store. The station wagon was taken because it was easier to lift the keg in and out of the wagon than in and out of the only other vehicle - a pick up truck. It was easier to get the keg when two people would roll/spin it on it's edge. However, Toilet was capable of getting it himself.

I went with him one time - not sure if whose suggestion it was, if anyones. I sat in the front seat. It was a long bench seat. He drove with one hand - his left hand. Years of practice of needing his right hand free to swing open the bus door or shift the tractor trailer gears. Details are fuzzy. I want to remember them if they are what I want them to be. I don't want to remember if they are not. I don't want to think of my acquiescing or even worse, cooperating, in any way.

I ended up closer to him - maybe in the middle of the seat. Not sure whether I was seatbelted, or the shoulder part was behind me, or what. I had shorts on. His hands reached either up or down my shorts. I can't remember. I didn't know what he was doing. I felt a prodding hand and fingers and it didn't feel good. His fingers were inside my clothes and rubbing and it hurt. I can picture his grungy greasy fingers and dirty nails and I was disgusted knowing they were next to my skin.

This happened more than once. I don't know how many times. I don't know why I continued to get in the car with him and go. I don't think I was forced - so why did I go. I knew it would happen again. When it did, he was so happy and I was his good little girl who got gum and treats. And Mom was happy because he was happy.

I don't think it was the first time. I think it was the second or a later time. That time he pushed his fingers inside. It hurt. His nails scratched me and it hurt. He said something. I don't know what and I don't want to remember. The car and bedroom incidents get mixed up in my head. I think he said "move closer or this way or that way" and I think I did. I think he asked, "doesn't that feel good" and I think I nodded. Why did I do that? He would take a break sometime if we stopped at a light or he needed both hands. It hurt. His nails scraped and he'd leer at my face and the Noises my body would make. He would do it again.

When we would get home, he would stop.

I've just got to get this finished now. If I can hold on just a tiny bit longer. I can do this. I just have to stay with it. Disociating would be so much easier right now.

The Bedroom
We would watch movies in Mom/Toilet's room sometimes. I don't remember why. Sometimes the VCR in the family room was broken. Mom kept one in her room so she could tape her soap operas. We were all in there - Mom, Toilet, Sister and I. Mom and Amy were on the bed. Toilet and I were on the floor. They had a cream colored bedspread with brown vines and green leaves. I remember every detail of that bedspread.

Mom was lying on her stomach facing the TV with her side to me. Sister was sitting up, further away, but she could see me. Toilet was on the floor, on his side with his back to their dresser. I was in front of him, on my side. We were all facing the TV. I don't remember what was on TV.

He reached his hand underneath my shorts from behind. He snuggled up behind me. I can feel his warm breath and wet mouth on my ear. To this day I can't handle anyone near my ear or whispering in my ear or coming up behind me or snuggling from behind. He was doing what he did in the car. And whispering. He said, "you're so wet." And I hated myself. Mom moved and got up. I know she went outside - I think to smoke. Toilet jumped and followed her - he may have gone into the bathroom first. When he jumped, it hurt me. Sister looked at me and asked me "what was he doing?" I said, "nothing" and she walked out. My memory blanks after that.


I will have to write the Telling and Aftereffects and bring it up to current date later. Now I need to go throw up.

1 comment:

Lynn said...

Enola, I am so sorry that you had to endure, and still endure, such trauma. This is not your fault. Adult predators who commit incestuous acts know very well that children need to feel safe, loved and protected by those who provide and care for them. They know that children will naturally find a way to fall in with whatever seems to gain the favor and protection that only an adult can provide. They know that their victims are confused and often frightened. They use all of these things to abuse children. They use a child's very nature against her/him. These are the planned and calculated actions of the adult predator. In no way what-so-ever could this have been even partly your fault. He was an adult who made an evil choice and you were a naturally dependent child.

I also have screwed-up timelines. This kind of thing does a number on the head. I'm at the other end of the email if you need me.