If you want to destroy my sweater.....

Oh, what a tangled web we weave!....My mom used to say this to me if I ever went to her with some story of malice or deceit that I had heard of. She never finished the phrase. Would let it hang in the air, suspended with mystery, then let it blow away like a lost letter making its way to the earth and landing in the gutter. I guess she would know. She was an expert. They all were. My family. Web weavers. Deceivers. Liars. Deniers. Enablers. Part-time perpetrators. Co-conspirators.

What happens to the tangled web when the weave starts to fray? It starts small doesn't it? Like a small thread on a your favorite sweater. The one you wear when it's time to be cozy and warm. Comfort clothes. That small thread hangs at the seam. You give it a gentle tug, thinking this infinitesimal piece will fall out and the rest of the sweater will remain intact. But the next thing you know, the sleeve starts to unravel, then the bodice. You begin to panic and think, oh no, it's my favorite st sweater, when will it stop? I'm getting cold. Can it be saved? Before you know it, you're standing there all naked and exposed. Bare. There's nothing to hide all the blemishes, all the stretch marks and scars. It's just you. And if you are the web weaver - where do you turn? Who do you blame and really, how can you blame anyone? Those web weavers though, they are a feisty bunch. They don't go down without a fight. Oh no, they will chip at you, insult you, degrade you, shame you, until you want to scream out, "STOP! I'm sorry!!", when there is nothing for you to be sorry for. Web weavers. Watch out for them. If you get into the ring with a web-weaver, be ready to knock them out. Otherwise, they will beat you to a pulp, take your sweater, and walk away as if they never knew you.

I'll never forget the day that I told. We weren't living there anymore. We had our own apartment finally. I had just gotten out of the shower and there I was, standing next to my Barbie Dreamhouse, dripping wet hair and in a towel. My mom was shouting at me. I was in trouble but for what, I don't recall. I do remember standing there, looking at my mom, and thinking, tell her. Just tell her right now. It's my mom. Tell her. So I did.

"Grandpa's been touching me." I blurted it out while she was still mid-sentence. She froze. She stared. Her eyes were wide and she took one step closer and asked, " What did you say?"
"Grandpa's been touching me. Down there." I stared back at her, huddled now in my towel.
My mom, she looked like I had slapped her. Hard. She couldn't speak, couldn't move. Her eyes were giant O's and her mouth hung open. She looked....stunned. Hurt. Angry.
But you know what she didn't look? Surprised. I did notice that.

What happened afterwards was a whirlwind. I only remember parts but what I remember is enough. I've had therapists offer to "take me back" so I can remember everything but I've declined. If my mind has chosen to block some of it out, I'm going to trust that thank you. After all, it is me that protected myself from that point on. Why wouldn't I trust myself? Everything I do recall is enough.

My mom crying, my grammy crying, my grandpa crying.
One of my aunt's, " You lying little slut. I don't believe you. And if that did happen, you must have asked for it."
Sure. I must have. Because all little girls dream of sucking off their grandfather. Right.
My dad went over there and pulled a gun on my grandpa. Told him he wanted to blow his head off. I'm glad my dad didn't because his life shouldn't end because of him but I have clung to this at times. As the years passed, this was really the only stance that was taken for me. And I am grateful for it. It shows me that someone wanted to defend me. Someone wanted retribution. Someone wanted him to pay.
Yes, after the dust settled and everyone else got around to feeling better, I was hung out to dry.

I was nine. And I was alone.

I think it's funny (not in a comical way but in one of those, sick, twisted, "look how f*cked up life can be" ways) that "we" (society) have the mantra, "If something happens to you, tell an adult, someone you trust. They will help you." In a perfect world, this would be true all the time. And really, what other choice do we have but to say those things?
But my world wasn't perfect. But then again, if the world was perfect, I guess it wouldn't have happened in the first place.

Do you want to know what happened to my grandpa? Nothing.
He didn't get arrested. He didn't go to jail. He didn't lose his job. (He was an instructor at an all-girls private school. That probably got him off more than once.) He didn't lose his position in politics (councilman). He didn't lose his position at his church (deacon). Nope. not one damn consequence came up to slap him in the face and tell him he was wrong. Only a nine year old girl did that. Because guess what? He didn't lose his family either.

But I did.

Some because at first, they wanted nothing to do with me. And later, because I wanted nothing to do with them.

I have two daughters now and a son. It is my goal, my determination, to make sure they are self-sufficent. I refuse to let them feel powerless or suffer at the hands of anyone else. I have told them that yes, if something happens to you, tell someone. For God' sake - tell me. But I have also taught them to take shit from no one. No means no. If some little bastard can't figure that out, go ahead and teach him. I will back you 100%.

If only someone would have done that for me. Backed me 100%. I wonder how my life would be different. If I would trust easier, if I would be more open, if I would be less willing to bring a man to his knees with either my words, or my hands, if needed. Because I can be hard. I will only be blunt. There is never any question of how I feel, it is known from the start because silence only means permission.

Web-weavers. They are experts. The web started long before me. You see, my grandpa molested my mom too. This I know for a fact. She told me. The others, probably. But none will ever say it.

A web of denial. A web of twisted trust. A web of secrets.

Me. I was the thread that destroyed the sweater.

And I'm proud of it.