small, then slightly bigger

As I was driving home I thought of myself. Well, the smaller me. I'm not sure i know her very well. I've always avoided her. I'm not quite sure what I would find there and so I leave her alone. I've written a few poems in the past and I feel like I got a glimpse... of what she feels like but it was too much, then, so I put my pen down and put my notebook away. Tucked inside a drawer, hidden, in the dark. I don't like the dark much. She doesn't either. I do know that.

I was 8 when this all went down. Eight is very small.
I wore my hair in pigtails then. It was long.
I didn't have my two front teeth for a very long time.
I liked wearing those plastic high heel dress up shoes. The ones if you started walking too fast you could hear them, click, click, click, just like a grown -up.
I remember getting a 3-story Barbie Dreamhouse. I had a lot of Barbies.
I loved Starwberry Shortcake.I had a Starwberry Shortcake record even and my Grammy made all the dolls for me. I had them for the longest time. I don't know where they went.....
I remember fishing with my Grandpa.
My Grammy used to read me bible stories.I was fascinated by her. My mom didn't wear make up much back then. She was plain with long, dark hair, and well, was kind of hippie-ish. But my Grammy, wow, she was so glamourous to me with her bright pink lipstick that covered her lips so thick that no matter how many Diet Cokes she drank, the pink stain on the can never faded. Her hair was always done and her skin was so soft. She worked at the cosmetic counter in a department store so she always smelled good; a heavy,woody, smothering scent but I liked it. My Grammy always called me "Darling" but she would say it all draggy and high-pitched,
"Daaahhh-ling", and then she'd throw her head back and laugh. She was like a movie star to me. I loved her.

I haven't seen or spoken to her since I was 11.

Eight is very small. Very small indeed.

Amazing that all these memories include them, her, him. I lived with my grandparents then. Well, my mom and I both did. It was a big house, two stories with five bedrooms and an attic upstairs. It was a brick house and it had white pillars in the front. (Funny, I just realized how much I hate pillars on houses. I do. I hate them. I think they are pretentious and fake. As if the white pillar signifies how rich and grand the people inside must be.) The house had a large backyard with a garden, and a large oak tree that held a swing made of a wooden board and two lengths of white rope. There was a birdbath. And lots of leaves. This is where I lived. In a house that looked like it was the home to a stable, noble family. But it wasn't. It was a house full of nightmares and secrets and lies. It wasn't just my house of horror. No, this was passed down from another generation. I wasn't the only one. I'm just the only one that wanted to leave.

It took me a little bit but I did. I left. I only went back once. Not to that house but I realized it's not the house that brings the badness. No, the people that live in it get all the credit for that. The second house wasn't any better, even when I was promised it would be.

Eight is very small. Eleven is only slightly bigger.

Funny how age doesn't really seem to matter. When the fear is there, it grips so tightly, so completely, that it squeezes the... movement... right out of you.

Yes, eleven is only slightly bigger. Fortunately for me, it was big enough.

It was the one time I didn't protest. I didn't say no. I didn't cry or scream. I just sat there for what seemed like an eternity but really was only seconds. I stared at him, part of me unwilling to believe it was starting to happen again, and the other part of me not surprised at all. That part was shouting, yelling, stomping her feet at me to, "GET UP! You knew this would happen, you knew he would not change. You knew it! Don't just sit there, GET UP!! You are not 8! We are not 8!" And the kicker, "No one else will help you." That's when he kissed my mouth. With his hand up my shirt. While he apologized and said he would never hurt me.

I got up. I didn't just get up, I jumped up and out, away from him so he could not touch me. I ran to the kitchen and I grabbed the knife.

It was a very big knife.

Just the kind of knife a girl at 11 may need to keep herself safe.
Because she knew no one else would help her.
And I did. I kept myself safe that day and each day since. I have been safe from him. From them. They cannot touch me. Not physically anyway.

The rest of it... well, I'm working on it.

I cried while I wrote this and thought of my Grammy. I haven't thought of her in a very long time. I don't know how the 33 year old me feels about her just yet, but the 8 year old me, she loved her. Very much.

Prelude.....

Choosing to write about events so personal was not an easy decision. So many questions entered my mind. Why am I doing this? What do I hope to accomplish? Is it wrong? Does anyone want to read this? After all, I am about to lay out my garbage for all the world to see when really, everyone has their own garbage. The past two weeks have been very reflective for me.
I have chosen to do this because I know I am not the only one. I didn't do anything wrong. No one did that has experienced this and yet, we don't talk about it. Why am i being punished for what someone else did? Why am i allowing someone else's horrible acts push me into silence? I can't do it anymore. That only lets them win. It is my hope that in writing that I will be healed. Not to "get over it", not to forget, but to be at peace. If anyone doesn't want to read my garbage, then don't but I'm letting it go. It's time to clean out the gunk, all the crappy leftovers that are rotting inside, and throw the trash out.

What have I survived? Take your pick. Just about all of it applies. I'm sure my thoughts and posts will vary from one topic to another but for now, specifically I'm going to face my molestation. I recently started seeing a therapist to deal with it. Well, originally it was to examine my "anger issues" but surprise, surprise, the stem of my anger is with this. On the outside, I am doing alright. Hell, most days I'm doing alright on the inside too. But every now and then (ok probably more than I'd want to admit) the anger creeps up, like an ugly vine, spreading itself all over until it grips the walls of my mind and begins eating away at the pretty paint I'd like to call my life. Then I'm really pissed. Pissed that it happened, pissed about the outcome, and then pissed that it's affecting me. Still. I've worked hard to make my life what it is; to get away from the stigma of being a "victim". I don't like the word, much less the label. If I could smash it to bits and erase it from my vocabulary, I would. But really, more than the word, I'd like to smash to bits the people that forced the label on me. Without my permission. In spite of my protests. Whether the protest was a whimpering "no", a physical struggle that I was too weak to win, my plea of tears, or my silent screams inside because I knew it was all useless....i still protested. And nobody listened. Even when I told.
I shake even now when I think of it. It's not uncontrollable yet, but sometimes I shake so bad, my teeth chatter. And I hate it. Each tremor my body has, every tear that runs down my face, each time I clench my teeth, and every time I am unable to speak because I don't know what will come out; I get disgusted with all of it. How dare I allow them to have this physical control over me? How dare i shed a single tear for those that couldn't care less about what they did to me? I know what some would say, perhaps those tears are for myself and not for them. That's probably true but right now, it doesn't feel that way. Right now, it feels weak and pointless. Right now, it feels like I am letting them win. Again. And dammit, I'm not going to let them.
I am the outcast in their big, sick, happy family. I am ok with being that. I certainly don't want to be a part of that circle. The circle of make believe and sickness. I don't want to pretend. I don't want to sweep it under the rug anymore. Guess what? What happened to me is that dirt. I am that dirt. I have been swept under the rug so they don't have to see how ugly it is. How ugly what happened to me is. They'd rather pretend I'm not there. They can do that for now. But you can only sweep dirt under the rug for so long. Eventually the pile gets so big, it begins to seep out. Particles show up here and there and pretty soon there's so much dirt, the rug is full and they have to step around the rug. This is what they have done. Stepped around. But I'm not going to stay under that rug any longer. Covered up. Hidden. The rug isn't big enough anymore. I am bigger.
I am not a victim. I am a survivor. And someone is going to hear me.