Man Part 1

To say I have issues with men is an understatement.

I use the word "man" not as a noun, but as a verb. It is not only to me what someone is but what they do. And whenever it is something stupid, unethical, trashy, sleazy, sexually perverse, crass, idiotic or rude, I automatically equate it with being a man. Of course, I have a complete double standard here that I am very much aware of. I understand completely that women can behave this way as well. But I hold a special contempt for men and choose to use the verb just for them. To me, it has always been what they are. I expect this behavior and when they perform as I expected, it is with self righteous indignation that I gloat over their obvious failures. Because yes, they are such men.

Looking back over the men in my life, i am quite positive that the contempt I feel for them was birthed from a multitude of hurts, beginning with my grandfather and winding it's way up and through my life on a shaky, metal staircase. Going up this staircase, that squeaks and groans, it can barely support me as i come across all the men that have huddled on a step, attempting to block my path, refusing to move and not allowing me to push them down.
My grandfather is the king of all the hideous men. Short, white, portly, average male with gray hair and glasses. He doesn't look threatening at all. But these are the worst aren't they? Because we expect them to be different from what they are and when they show their true colors, the sickness that runs in deep angry oranges and reds, mixed with suffocating blacks and numbing grays, we are confused and shocked. The picture defies the reality and this is how we get caught. The danger is realized much too late.

Up the staircase a little futher to meet a biological father that was never there, didn't want to be, and I didn't miss him. However, he chose to come back in, pretending to care, when really he was being led by his pitiful weenie trying to find it's way back to my mother. How pathetic to be so stuck in life, that you'd try to recapture something that happened twenty years prior. The obviousness of the entire situation made me want to puke but instead I told him to stay away from me.

Moving on to the endless string of my mother's boyfriends that didn't bother to disguise their blatant intentions with her, - how many times did I wake up to find a new man in the house sneaking out the front door while i was getting ready for school? More than I'd care to remember. Once, I woke up as my mom was having sex with a boyfriend on the same bed I was sleeping on. I laid there, terrified and sick to my stomach, moving with them and listening to all of their animal noises. I finally gained the courage to get up and leave the room only to be reprimanded by my mom for making him feel uncomfortable, and then was forced to go in and meet him. As he laid on the bed with a cigarette in one hand while reaching out to shake my hand with the other, all I could think was what a sick pig he was. He just screwed my mother and now he's shaking my hand as if we are meeting over lunch? I wanted to take the cigarette and shove it deep into his eyeball. I hated him and constantly made fun of him until they broke up. I called him "shaky butt." I asked my mom once if he was gay because he shook his butt when he walked more than anyone I had ever seen. This really pissed her off, which of course, made me very happy.
My own marriage that ended in divorce. A "perfect" marriage that was ripped apart by adultery and tore my heart into pieces. It took a long time to glue those pieces back together. For months I felt like i was walking around with a gaping hole in my chest, with all my intestines hanging out and my hand clutching my heart, trying to shove it back inside but mostly, I was trying not to drop it again.
Throughout my life men have based all their decisions on one thing and one thing alone - their desires. Specifically, their sexual desires. As if their desires are the end all - be all for everyone in the universe. It's no wonder Alanis Morissette became one of my all time favorites. Finally a girl that belted out everything my soul screamed - men sucked. We see through you. We know. We're walking right through you. Fuck you. Men.

Men were never esteemed, nor respected, or ever feared again once the 8 year old girl disappeared. They were never trusted. An ulterior motive is always suspected and anything that is ever said is only with the sole purpose to benefit them.
This is what I think of men.
They think with their hard on. When can they use it, where will they get it, how often and with how many people? For most of my life I have come to know men as the most selfish people I have ever seen.
To be honest, I'm surprised I never turned lesbian. That's how much I hated them. But I guess I love their hard ons just as much as they do.
I'll never understand why it is that because they are stronger, they believe it is their right to yield that over someone else who is seen as weaker. The quest to dominate is disgusting. I'm not a believer in evolution but the only time I would even consider it is by watching men. It's as if I can hear the animal grunting inside them, and I swear the chest beating is only seconds away. Of course, they can only act this way if their boy parts are covered, even with only a leaf, because if the whole world saw the size of their ding-ding for real, well then, I guess the jig would be up. Most of the men would be out of the running and women would take over the world. After all, deep down we know our balls are bigger where it counts.

But see, this is the exact type of men-hating that I must get control over.
I do have a son. He's ten and I would never want him to think this is how I view him now or in the future. It would break my heart if he ever thought I loved him less than his sisters or that I would hate him when he grew older because he's a man. As it stands right now, I think he is the coolest little man I have ever met and I am honored that I get to be his mother. It is a privilege, a gift and I will do my best to make sure he does not turn into one of those men. In doing so, I hope he doesn't become gay either.

I also have a husband and I don't hate him. If I did, I'm pretty damn sure I wouldn't be married to him. That's not to say that he has never hurt me. He has. But I also know how much he loves me and that the hurts he has casused me, have also caused pain in him. So see, there is hope, not all men suck.

My therapist is helping me with this one. She seriously rocks. There's none of that touchy-feely crap with her. No, "so how do you feel?", while I lay on a dingy brown couch with drapes drawn and a tired clock ticking the minutes away while i sweat with dread. When I ask a question, I normally get an answer because let's face it, if I knew all the answers why would I see her in the first place? A little help please. And she delivers. My homework? I am to catch myself every time i have a bad man-thought. It's been two days since I have seen her. I've now caught myself three times. That may not seem like much but it is. Three times in the past two days I have thought that men are completely stupid and my man-hates have risen to the surface. Although my feelings are very real and I'm sure no one will argue with the validity of them, the direction in which they are flowing is wrong.

To generalize all men because of the jacked up actions of a few is unfair.
To judge them all according to what my grandpa, my biological father, and my mother's shitty boyfriends did, is ludicrous.
How can I hold all men accountable for that?

I can't.

Sometimes I want to. In my past, I have. But I can't continue to do that. The ones that have wronged me, i can hold them completely responsible. But to hold men accountable just because they are men? I have to let that go. Otherwise, it is going to eat me up and I will end up being the one to suffer. A part of me will be lonely and missing a chunck of my own joy because in hating them, I am giving away that space in my heart.

I remember saying that if Jesus was God and God walked the earth as a man, who would be Jesus, that I would never, ever, EVER, serve God. I would never ever ask some man to forgive me. Forgive me for what exactly? For trying to survive in a world where everywhere I turned some man was going balls out trying to screw me over? Is that what I should be forgiven for? Should I be forgiven for running away and fighting back? Should i be forgiven for doing everything i could to escape my life?
No way.
If anything I felt that God, that this Jesus man, owed me a few explanations. Like, where were you when I was giving my grandpa blow jobs? Hmm? Where were you when it was nap time and I had a pillow over my head so he didn't have to hear me scream and cry? Where were you when my mother told me she'd rather have a child molester for a father than a daughter like me? Oh and hey Jesus,. what's so wrong with me anyway? How come you made me so defective? You know, if you're God and all? Do you think you can answer that for me?

To say I have issues with men is an understatement. One that is not going to be solved in two weeks worth of homework and one night's blog. Nope. This.... this is going to be painful. I can feel it. I can feel the scab breaking away and the blood and pus is starting to ooze out. I am choking on it. The hard part is going to be not choking it back down, but to instead puke it up and get all the bad shit out.

I just wonder how long it's going to take.

Broken glass

Why? The question that is forever asked and never answered. It holds me hostage. Keeps me firmly in place. Stuck. Immobile. It is flaunted in my face; mocking me. Why? It laughs at my pleading and my anger, my desire to break free and move. A last stance. His last showing of control. The one thing he'll never give up.

I 've asked this so many times.
Why did you do this to me?
Why did you let him?
Why didn't you protect me?
Why did you leave me there?
Why don't you defend me?
Why don't you love me?
Why don't you believe me?
Why do you hate me?
Why? Why? Please.....God....... please, tell me why.

I've come to realize asking "why" is a form of self-inflicted punishment. Each time it is asked I give a piece of myself to them. A piece of my pride, my well-being, my peace, my sanity, my heart. Each time I ask, the darkest, most secret places of my soul are opened, exposed, laid out bare and they start to bleed. It bleeds for me.
For the girl that used to play with dolls and sing Strawberry Shortcake.
For the childhood that was stolen in the shadows of his bedroom.
For the girl that opened her mouth to show her mom freshly brushed teeth before going to bed, and was slapped across the face because she thought I was trying to kiss her.
For the girl that was told I love you, I hate you, I wish you were dead; in the same breath.
For the girl that slept on a mountain because the police were looking for her and she couldn't go back.
For the girl on suicide watch in juvenile hall and was not allowed a blanket with square corners.
For the girl that preferred living in trucking yard and showering with a water hose than being at home.
For the girl that sold produce on the side of the road after school so she could eat.
For the girl that enrolled herself in school even as a runaway because she knew somehow she was going to have a better life.
For the girl that had no clue what a mother should be even when she became one .......
i bleed for her.

Each answer to my "why" is a joke.
What can be said? What answer can be given? What will satisfy my heart? what response is there that will allow me to say, "ohhh, well NOW i get it ." There isn't one. Any excuse given is a mockery of my horror and the road I traveled. I am asking for validation from all the people that stole it from me in the first place.

The only answer that can be given, really, is so simple, so clear, and so unimaginably cold and heartless that my head wants to scream at it in denial. To yell and shout, " That isn't good enough! Give me more." No, it's not. But there it is anyway. I might as well face it because it's not going to change. The answer to my why ......

Simple.

Because he wanted to.
Because she is sick too.
Because she doesn't know how.
Because she chose to.
Because she can't even defend herself.
She does.
She does.
They do.

Even now as I write this, I shudder with anger and I gulp back tears because the answers to all my whys are so, so.............. not enough. I want to argue with myself, to scream out, but I have to remember what I am dealing with. I am expecting the sick and perverted, the perpetrators and the enablers, to react the way I would react. The way the healthy and sane react.
But I can't get caught up in what should be.
I can only be in touch with what is.

A grandfather that molested his daughter and his granddaughter.
A grammy that knew.... and did nothing.
Aunts that knew.... and did nothing.
A mom that knew.... and did nothing.
A family that turns its back .....and denies.
A daughter that runs, fast and far, and then stops running, choosing instead to turn and fight.

It is what it is. I can't make them any different.
I can only change myself and the lives of my children.

I've been told that when something like this happens to us, it is like swallowing glass. It goes down, ripping us apart and leaving our insides with huge, gaping wounds that can't be patched. Our insides are in pain and we start to die.

In making the choice to live, to be free and whole, I have to throw the glass back up. It is still glass. It rips and tears. I fling myself open, arms stretched wide and let it pour out, through all of me, to the tips of my fingers and out of my mouth.
It hurts and I bleed.
But I am not silent. I am not denying. I am not running. I am not turning my back.

I am healing.

And one day, I will be complete.

Stand

Does anyone care? Does anyone care? a mantra. a song that's set on repeat. It ends. It starts again. Does anyone care? Does she? Does she??

It was Thanksgiving. I was in my early twenties. My girls were still small; in car seats. I was still married to their dad. Life was life. It moved along and I went with it. Bouncing along on the tide that swept me through changing diapers, doctor appointments, cleaning the house, making hamburger helper for dinner, hating the way I looked, and living in Levi's and Hanes white T-shirts. It could have been any one's family. Just trying to make it. It was Thanksgiving. A time when families come together whether you liked each other or not because, well, that's what families do.

My relationship with my mom never fully repaired from the day I told. We wouldn't talk for months, years, and then I'd get a card in the mail. A blinking light on the machine. A hand held out, inviting me to take it, walk with her for awhile, and maybe this time would be different. Maybe we'd be able to see each other, hang out, laugh, shop, talk about the kids and our husband's, drink coffee or even a margarita, and give each other advice. You know, all the things moms and daughters do together when they've both become grown-ups.

Key word being "grown ups." I'm sure both of us would point the other finger as far as we could in the other's direction to make sure everyone else knew who the grown -up wasn't. Of course it was me. Of course it was.

It was Thanksgiving. We were at my mom and step dad's house. They live in a really nice neighborhood, full of sophisticated beach houses, nicely landscaped lawns, dogs that wore sweaters and gem-studded collars when their owners walked them. They lived in the neighborhood where the women would wear shorts and a t-shirt but somehow you could tell their t-shirt cost $80 while yours only cost $10. It wasn't silk and diamonds but it was obvious they had more money than you. It was in their attitude, the very steps they took resounded with green colored class.

My mom didn't come from money. She's be the first to say that it isn't important to her and in the next breath explain that she only buys items on sale while at "Nordy's" or "Neiman's" - never full price. This was supposed to help me realize she was an everyday gal just like me even though I was hitting the clearance rack at Target. I don't begrudge my mom money - not one bit. In so many ways, she earned it. The chance to take it easy a little. There was a time in my life when she worked three jobs. I can never say my mom wasn't a hard worker and knew the value of a dollar. She was and she did. I just think that after a while, when you've become accustomed to things, when the norm is slipping into 600 count Egyptian cotton sheets every night, you start to forget where you came from.

This kind of forgetting, it's a death of convenience I think. A death of who you were and what things mean. A death of compassion and empathy.

It was time to eat. My mom was very excited and sort of, well, nervous. Like she was entertaining strangers and wanted to make a good impression. She told us where to sit, filled our water in "pretty" glasses, and set all the food at the table. I sat directly across the glass table from my step-dad. My mom was next to him. She faced my husband at the time, and he had one of our kids on each side of him. We all held hands and my step-dad prayed.

As we began to serve ourselves, conversation drifted towards Christmas. Would they see us? Of course, I answered. Oh, how exciting. What fun Christmas would be, all of us together. It had been such a long time and Christmas was a time for family. A time for love and forgiveness. A time to come together.
My stomach began to knot. I watched my mom. I recognized the tone in her voice. She was too excited. Her eyes were wide and bright. Her words were too high pitched. She was talking too fast. She was laughing too much. She wouldn't look at me.

I tod myself I was imagining things.

But I wasn't. I know my mother very, very well.

She suddenly became very calm and told me in a nonchalant voice that her parents would be visiting for Christmas.

My nonchalance matched hers. Poker voices.

Neither of us willing to show any specific emotion just yet. Just feeling each other out.
"Oh yeah? That's cool. That will be nice for you to see them." Set down napkin, pick up bowl of mashed potatoes, take a scoop, put bowl down, put napkin back in lap. Do not make eye contact. Motion, motion, motion.
"I thought it would be nice if we all had Christmas together." My mom is not following the same rule of motion that I am. She is like a statue, watching me. I felt Shaun stiffen next to me, felt him glance over at my face. I glanced back at him. Looked away.

"Hmmm. I don't know. Christmas is really busy for us. We'll see." This is the closest I can come to being diplomatic aka blow smoke up anyone's ass. I knew, Shaun knew, even my mom knew, that wasn't going to be something I would consider for even a second. But in true mom style, she kept going anyway.

"Well, I think it would be nice for you to see your grandparents. It's been a really long time." Still staring at me. Not a statue anymore though. Now she's wringing her napkin in between her hands in her lap. I could see them clench and unclench through the glass table.

Be nice for me to see my grandparents? It's been awhile? Is she f*cking serious?? My mind began to race. My heart started to pound. The whole fight or flight thing - in full force. I knew I could only squash it for so much longer. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Okay. Now.....exhale....and answer.

"Sure, I'd love to see Grammy." Now, I looked at her. Poker voice still in full effect but uh, I've never had a poker face. Everything I feel is on my face and right now my face read, Push me. I dare you.

We stared.

Shaun and my step-dad have stopped eating. It is dead silent.

My mom pushed, "Well, I'm not going to have my mom and dad here, and have my dad feel uncomfortable. I'm not going to leave him here while you just see my mom." There. She said it. As unbelieveable as it was, she made her move and her allegiance painfully clear. Check.

My mind raced full speed ahead. I passed thoughts and expletives at 100 miles an hour. What?! She doesn't want him to feel uncomfortable? She wants to make me see him? She wants to force me to do something I don't want to do?? Isn't she my mother? Who am I to her? How come what I feel isn't important? What. About. Me??? Hmmm Mother? What about me?

I took a deep breath and laid it out. "Well Mom, that's not going to happen. I'm not going to see him. I don't want to see him, ever. If that means I can't see Grammy either then I won't."
And then what really mattered, "What about how I feel? I can't believe you're worried about making him feel uncomfortable. I am your daughter. Shouldn't my feelings matter?"
Poker voice is gone. My voice is getting louder. I am starting to shake. I can feel tears in the back of my throat and I am getting pissed. There's no stopping me now.

I continued.

"Can't you just see my side? Can't you take my side for once? I am your daughter. He is a child molester!" I shouted. Anguish and anger echo throughout the dining room. Shaun tocuhes my arm. "Let's go." He is starting to get up.
My mother freezes him and propels me with her next words.

Dripping with hate and disgust she states, "I would rather have a child molester for a father than a daughter like you." She wants to hurt me and she succeeds. It cut me to the core. Check mate. I come unglued.

I lunged at my mom. I was out of my chair and halfway over the table before Shaun or my step-dad could move. The sound of my hand whipping across her face is the loudest sound I have ever heard and I was ecstatic about it. I felt vindicated. If she wouldn't defend me, I would defend myself. If she wanted to hold me down and force me in a corner, push me into being a player in their sick act, I would fight back. If she wanted to be his stand in, she would get everything he deserved.

Within seconds Shaun was up, grabbing the kids and putting them in their car seats. My step dad tried to hold my mom back and push me away at the same time. Everyone was shouting. Shaun, " Get in the car. Let's go RIGHT. NOW!!" My step-dad, " Get back. Get back! What the hell are you doing?!" And my mom, " You fucking little bitch! You fucking little bitch! I hate you, I hate you. I wish you were dead. You make me sick, you fucking little bitch!!!"

I took a step back and now I was calm. I looked at my mom and I laughed in her face. "Oh mom, please. Don't you have anything new? I've heard all these before." I goaded her as I grabbed a vase, held it up, and dropped it to the floor. "Oops, there goes your vase. This is all you have left, right mom? Your money, your things, and your child molester father. Tell me something mom, do you still suck his dick?" I taunted her. She let out a blood curdling growl and came for me.

By now, Shaun had the kids in the car and came back for me. He blocked me from her as he hustled me out the back door and into the car. He jumped in, backed out the driveway and we drove off into the darkness.

I was in a trance. It was a few minutes before I realized Shaun was talking to me. "Are you ok? Are you ok??" I looked at him and realized I was shaking uncontrollably. I started sobbing. Hard, gut-wrenching sobs. Snot ran out of my nose and dripped onto my upper lip. I didn't care. All I could hear, all I could focus on were her words. She did hate me. Of course she did. She preferred her sick father to me. what had I done? What had I done to deserve any of this?

"That's it. This is the last time. I can't watch her do this to you again. I can't risk the kids seeing something like this again. She's done. She's out. You don't need this shit and neither do I. You're better off without her." Shaun looked at me, grabbed my hand. "Do you understand? That's it. YOU are okay. SHE is fucked up. Okay? Okay?"

This was the last time I saw my mother for a very long time. Years in fact. She tried to apologize. She sent cards. I tore them up. She called. I refused to call her back. It was like everything I had built, all my sanity and rightness with the world, she did her best to tear down. With her words, she made it happen to me all over again. Every time i rewound and played it in mind, I was victimized over and over and over again. I felt defeated. She was my mother. But she didn't know what that meant. She doesn't know how to do it. Even now, it eludes her.

I refuse to get sucked in. I can see what happens if I did. I'd be my mother. Catering to a man that had stripped me of my innocence and childhood. Continuing to let him walk around in my life as if he deserved to be there. Suppressing my own feelings, my own innate sense of right and wrong so he won't feel bad. I won't do it. I won't be her. I won't let him visit and then be afraid to take a shower in my own house. I won't talk to him about the weather and ignore the voice that whispered to me, "They'll never believe you. They'll hate you." I won't. I refuse. I have drawn the line. I am not the pawn anymore.
I am the Queen in this game and I will knock them all down. I will win.

Jump

My mom. I love her. I've hated her. I long to hear her voice. I don't care if i ever hear it again. I want her acceptance. Her approval isn't needed. She loves me. She hates me. She's proud of me. She wishes I was dead. This has been our relationship since I was nine.

I ran away when I was 12.

I smoked pot when I was 12.

I did crystal meth when I was 12.

I lost my virginity when I was 12.

I tried to commit suicide when I was 12. The day after I lost my virginity.

I was arrested and went to juvenile hall when i was 12.

It was a big year for me.

I turned 13 in a group home.

I turned 14 with my foster parents.

I turned 15 on the street again.

I turned 16 back at my mom's.

Then I got pregnant. Then I was kicked out. Well, in fairness to her she did give me a choice. Have an abortion or leave. I left.

I turned 17 and graduated from high school four months pregnant.

Pregnant. I was terrified. I didn't know how to be a mom. There was no way I wanted to be like my own mom. Or my mom's mom. Who would be my example? Terrified. You see, my mom had screamed and shouted at me that I would be a terrible mother. That I would screw up my own kid, that the baby's father would never stay with me, that no one really loved me because I was unlovable. "A piece of shit" to be exact. That I would end up alone, with a kid, and on welfare.

I remember telling the baby's dad when I was still pregnant I was afraid to give the baby a bath. I was afraid that when I bathed her, I might touch her the wrong way and, and, and, ....
I would be Just.Like. Him.

When she was born, I didn't give her the first bath. He did. I watched.But he told me I could do it, that i would never hurt her and when I was ready, he would be there to help me try.

I gave her the second bath.

And I cried.

Because I knew the moment I washed her little tiny foot, and held her tiny fingers in mine, that I would never, never, ever, hurt her. I felt this release inside. This heaviness, this fear was lifted from my heart. I could almost see it detaching itself from me. It wasn't contagious, the sickness that ran through my family. I didn't catch it. It didn't live in me. I wasn't like him or her or any of them.

I was still the one that got away.

And another part of me was free.

That was the worst feeling in the world, you know. Wondering if you would hurt your own child. If you could, in fact, turn into the very monster you hated. I suppose it happens to some people. The cycle turns and spins, all the lives blend together like the colors on a sit-n-spin. It just moves faster and faster, and you feel like you can't get off or get away because you think you're all one - all the same. I don't feel like I'm special because I didn't continue the cycle. I don't feel like I am better.

I just feel........


grateful. blessed. relieved. and hopeful.

The cycle can be broken if we want to.
It is scary.
It makes us feel small.
It makes us feel 8.
But if we try really hard and we start to let go, one finger at a time, yes we are still spinning. And yes we're afraid we're going to fly off and get hurt. And we might. We might fly off.

But then guess what happens?

We land.

And we realize we weren't really that far off the ground. We stand up and dust ourselves off. Nope, no broken bones. Maybe a skinned knee or elbow but that's all.
All of the fears we had, those were all lies. All lies that we believed because we trusted them. They were supposed to be safe. They were supposed to protect us, to love us. They were supposed to believe us.

It's not our fault they didn't do what they were supposed to.

But I can't get stuck on "supposed to". It's just as bad as "what if." They both suck. It didn't happen that way so forget it.

It happened the way it did.

It's my choice now. I can stay on the ride, I can keep spinning.

Or......

I can jump off, skin a knee, scrape an elbow, and give my daughter a bath.

because I am normal. I am sane. and now, I am not afraid.

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.

The window

His office had a window. Nothing fancy. Just a square piece of glass with brown curtains. His office was on the second story, the first room at the top of the stairs. In it were all his mementos of military service, plaques on the wall announcing what a superb human being he was, a desk that was neat but not clear, as if to show that he was important but not overwhelmed. Along the far wall was his couch bed, directly under the window. I would stare out this window, into the blue sky, drifting, lost, and imagine that the clouds floating by would let me hitch a ride to wherever it was they were going. Anyplace other than where I was. You see, every time I looked out this window, I was flat on my back.

Well, every time but one.

"Let's go take a nap." This was his code, his inside joke if you will. He'd sit and look at me, waiting for me to ask where we were taking our nap? What a sick fuck. So manipulative. As if me asking where we were going implied I wanted to. As if I had a choice. As if I could say no. It was always either their bedroom or his office.

This particular day I went up the stairs, sat on the couch bed, and waited. I was nervous this time. Not because this was the first time or the second time or even the fifth time. No, I was used to this already. I knew the drill. I was nervous because we weren't alone. I didn't understand how we were going to "nap" without being seen. Perhaps it was this incomprehension on my part that allowed me to speak up this day. Part of me thought that maybe he forgot we weren't home alone (although I didn't get how he didn't already know that) and so maybe I would be granted a last minute reprieve when I reminded him of this. I guess some part of me thought he would smack himself on the forehead as if to say, "My word! What was I thinking?!" We'd both chuckle a little and then I could leave. I felt......hopeful.

Silly, stupid girl.

He came in and began to unhook his belt. My confusion grew. My hands sweat ed. I remember gripping the blanket, rubbing my thumbs back and forth over the material. Back and forth, back and forth, oh my God, oh my God. He looked at me and told me to take my pants off. I was frozen. What? We weren't alone.

I told him I didn't want to. I told him we couldn't. Not today. He took his belt off and looked at me. "And why not?" he asked. I fumbled, stuttered, stammered, gripped the blanket, and then looked out the window. He followed my gaze and looked down into the backyard with me.

My brother was playing in the leaves with their dog, Mickey.

He leaned over, his face just inches from mine,looked me straight in the eyes and smiled. Not a happy smile. Not a comforting smile. Not an "oops - I goofed up" smile. No, it was a smile that reeked and dripped of slime and horror. An eager smile. My stomach knotted and became queasy. I started breathing hard. His smile grew.
He could tell I didn't get it yet.

"But......????"

"Well now, we're going to do this right now. We need to be quick." Then he looked back out at my brother and back to me. "You don't want me to go get him..... do you?"

Then he just stared at me and patiently waited for me to answer.
Sick fuck.

I stared back. I stared at the lines on his face. Deep grooves, valleys that gave the illusion of wisdom and comfort. I stared at his gray hair. I stared at his glasses. I stared at everything that showed he was my grandpa. Then I looked down and stared at his pants. They were already undone. He was already out.

It's amazing how the mind works. I'm not a pysch major or highly educated. But yes, I know how the mind grasps for a way to cope in order to stay sane and retain the ability to think and function. It was almost like I could feel my mind doing this. Situating itself, creaking, turning this way and that, so that I wouldn't go mad. And yet, still, at eight years old, make a decision to sacrifice myself however was necessary, all while staring at his thing.

It was at that moment that I became my brother's protector. I didn't hesitate. My brother was two years younger than me. Only six. At eight I knew that I would never, ever, want him to live through what I was doing and what was being done to me. Wasn't it bad enough this was happening to me? But to know my little brother would be next if I didn't try stop it, well, that was an easy choice. If someone could have prevented it from being done to me, I would hope they would have.

I almost threw up. But I didn't. I just cried. Silent, hot tears of defeat and courage ran swiftly down my face. It was when he kissed my face, kissed the very tears that he caused, that my throat broke open and i began gasping for air. Trying to stop crying, Trying to be quiet, trying now to get it over with so that i could go back downstairs to where my brother was playing. I was hysterical and desperate..... and then I was silent because I heard him.

The glass slider had opened and then closed. My brother yelled out my name.

He got off me and pulled up his pants. He yelled down to my brother, "We'll be right there. Just a second." But my brother was six. He didn't wait. I heard him running to the stairs and start to come up.

I knew I needed to move quickly but I felt like I was drugged. I couldn't move fast enough. He threw my panties at me and told me to get dressed. I'll never forget the way he looked at me or how his voice sounded when he said it. Like he was repulsed by me. Like I had done something that disgusted him. Like I was the twisted one.

My brother was almost to the top of the stairs.
He went out of the room and laid down on the landing so my brother couldn't see that his pants were still undone. And then, to my horror, he pushed my brother back down the stairs. He pretended like it was a joke, like he was playing with him. He laughed. I heard my brother yell out and fall back down.
I felt near hysterical again. It was my fault. It was my fault that he had been pushed. I wasn't fast enough getting my clothes on. I wasted too much time crying like a baby. And now my brother was at the bottom of the stairs. It was all my fault.

I got my pants on and I ran out of the room, past him, and down the stairs. I asked my brother if he was ok and told him I was sorry. He came down and told my brother not to cry like a baby and then he went to his room.

My brother doesn't know that happened. I never told him. It would only hurt him if he knew. The way I see it, there has been enough pain. Pain that has nowhere to go. It sits. I've learned to live with it, to manage it. It sucks. Why pass it on?

From that day forward, I have always been the one that has stood by my brother. I would step in front of a bullet for him if I thought it would save him. Like a mama bear protecting her cub.

Except.... I'm not his mama. I'm just his sister. His mama, our mama, was unable and unwilling to protect us. She could have. She should have. But she didn't.

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.