The Whole Truth: Part V

  The author of this story is very dear to me. She kept this secret for 25 years. The first person she told was me. It was a whirlwind of her finally telling someone, deciding to write this post for this blog and then realizing her power. I believe that little girl would be proud of the woman she became.
                                                                                                                                                                        
 I don’t know how old I was but I was old enough to remember. I don’t know how long it went on but it never should have happened. I knew it was wrong but I didn’t have a voice.

I do now.

My grandmother owned a two family home in Greenfield, MA. After my parents divorced when I was 2, we moved into the first floor apartment.  After some time, my mother remarried and after a while we moved to the apartment on the second and third floors. My grandmother found tenants for the bottom apartment; a nice young couple just starting out.

          
The details from that time in my life are hazy at best. A couple of years passed and my mother remarried a verbally abusive and controlling man. She divorced again (thank God), and we were on our own. We were happy about that. Looking back, and now being a mother myself, that must have been the hardest thing for my mother do to-be a single parent.

         
 When I was growing up, I struggled with the absence of my father. All of my friends had the “perfect” family; mother, child, sibling, and father. I struggled, I was confused, I was angry, I thought I was missing out.  So when the nice man who lived downstairs started to talk to me, I was loving the attention.

         
I remember his name. I remember he was tall, dark haired, had a mustache, and married. He also had a computer. Which was just so exciting to me because this was back in the 80’s, and we didn’t even have a cordless phone. It all started over that damn computer. The computer and a game of SIMS. I still can’t handle looking at that game, or seeing the commercials. He would invite me to come downstairs to play SIMS. It started with me sitting in the spare bedroom on their swivel computer chair, learning how to build my homes and cities. He would come in, ask me how it was going, ask if I f needed help and if he could show me how to do something. I stood up, he sat down, and I sat on his lap.

           

This is what hurts…the innocence of my actions…I don’t know how a grown man go see a child as anything but pure innocence.

 I remember my mom had bought me little tank tops to go under my shirts because I saw her wearing a bra and I wanted one. One was red and white, the other blue and white. They had a little lace trim. I was so grownup. So proud. And so embarrassed- when one day, while I was sitting on his lap, his hand went up the back of my shirt and started rubbing my back.  His fingers traced the lace trim, and I remember him smiling and giving a little chuckle. I can still feel my embarrassment. I can still feel the feeling of “wrong”.

           

The lap sitting and back rubbing continued. His wife was always cooking dinner in the next room.

 The room began to change. The computer was moved to the back corner of the bedroom. The back corner of the bedroom that used to be mine. I had my rocking chair and my teddy bear in that corner only a couple of years before. All of a sudden there were tall metal shelves that divided the room- placed perfectly to obstruct the view of the computer from the kitchen. They were filled.

The lap sitting was usually on one leg. I don’t remember the first time…but I remember him moving me so that I was sitting on both of his legs, with mine spread over the tops of both of his. His hands eventually began to find my legs. First my shins, and then my thighs, and then he moved to my inner thighs. It was almost as though he was testing me. Would I say anything? Would I react?

 I remember moving my legs together and he would tickle my knee to draw attention away from my reaction and to make me laugh. One of those times his hands moved to my private area. That’s what my mom called it. I remembered my mother’s words, “private areas are just for you. Only Mommy, the Doctor, and Grammy can look or touch”. But I also remembered my mother’s words, “You don’t correct adults. You respect adults. You can trust adults”. So I said nothing…

I remember him moaning. I remember him touching me; my back, my thighs, my vagina, and him moaning. He would always say that he was moaning because his back hurt.

 We would play a card game called Mille Borne. I loved it. I loved that he had time to play it with me. We would sit in their dining room at the table. He would always sit across from me.  I don’t remember his wife being home. He would make me question my moves in the game, he would joke with me saying I messed up, and that I was going to, “get it good”. He stared. Oh my Lord, did he stare. He would just stare at me from across the table. His smirk is what still gives me goose bumps. He would always make sure that my chair was pushed in nice and close to the table, because when it was, he could reach my vagina with his foot from the opposite side of the table. When I tried to sit on my knees, he would remind me that his wife would get mad if I marked up the white cushion, so I needed to sit on my bottom.  He would rub me with his foot and smirk. I tried to scoot my bottom to the very back of the chair…but it was never far enough. He never let me win...

 I remember him picking me up. Like you do to hug a toddler. He would wrap my legs around his waste and have me wrap my arms around his neck. We would dance. He started to lower me, so that I wasn’t around his waste. I would now be hanging from his neck with my vagina directly over his crotch. I could feel him. He would bounce me up and down, as he thrust towards me as I came down. Again the smirk…and the moaning. He would then tip me upside down, with my hands searching for the ground below me. I have a memory of my shirt starting to fall up my torso and over my head. I tried to pull it back down, but he would swing me, so my hands would let go, and my shirt would leave me exposed. I remember his hands roaming up my belly and finding my nipples. He would pinch. He would grope.

The last memory I have is we were sitting on the couch. I remember this being after the “dancing”. He sat down on the couch and had me straddle him. He would say things, daring me to do things. He would say, “I bet you can’t bounce up and down”. So I did. I remember him grabbing my hips while I did this. He would say, “I bed you can’t move back and forth”. So I did. He would grab my hips and hold me down as I moved back and forth…pushing me harder and harder into him.  He would be moving too. Grinding his hips as I moved too.

He then asked me to kiss him.
 I leaned over and gave him a quick kiss.

 I had always kissed my grandfather, my dad when he came to visit, and my uncle. So I leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. He asked for another one. I leaned over to kiss him again, and he held me there. He held my head. I couldn’t move. I remember his scruff. I remember his mustache. I remember his stinky, hot breath. He held me there with one hand, while his other hand went down the front of my pants. He was still on top of my undies, but he was rubbing me, while kissing me. Grinding and moaning.

 I didn’t know what he was doing, but I knew it was wrong.
So wrong. I could feel him.
Knowing now that he was so turned on and had an erection.
But at that time, I thought that there was something hard in his pocket.
Innocence.

Again, I don’t remember how long this went on. At least a year. But I know I told my mom I didn’t want to go downstairs and visit anymore. I told her that it was boring.

My mom was friendly with his wife. We had gone to see her act in the play The Sound of Music. I remember clapping so hard because she was just so fantastic as one of the sisters at the convent. My mom invited her up for coffee.

I had to live in the apartment above him. I had to see him still. I had to walk down the stairs, past his door. I remember him opening it a couple of times and looking at me. Just staring. Staring and smirking. At first I would say hello. I then began to just stare back…and run as fast as I could past his door.

I would catch him watching me play out in our back yard through my old bedroom window. Through the computer room window. As soon as he knew I saw him, he would move away.

I remember the anxiety I had when my mother would ask me to go get something from the basement. That meant I had to pass his door. That meant I would be in the basement. Alone. One time I was coming back up from the basement, and we met on the stairs as he was coming down. He looked at me. Angry. I walked right by, but turned as I rounded the corner I looked back. He was still staring. Angry stares. Frightening stares.

          
I couldn’t sit on the front porch, because our front doors shared it. When I did, he would open his front door and position himself in his living room so he could see me. I have often wondered what else would have happened if I were younger, and he had more time.  And I thank God that it wasn’t worse than it was.

          
I have hidden this secret so far back in my memory that details of time and age escape me. The brain is so mysterious. I can’t remember duration or age, but I can remember smell. I can remember looks. These remembrances make me shiver in disgust when I truly allow myself to go back to that place.

          
I haven’t shared this secret. My mom knows something happened…but not in detail. I think it would break her heart. She would feel somehow responsible. Which of course, she’s not. And I’m okay with not sharing the details with her. We have the same heart, my mom and I. This would break her spirit, as it would break mine if this happened to my children.

         
 I haven’t told my husband. Not really. But he feels the effects of it. I don’t like to be touched certain ways. I don’t like to be held down or restricted. When I kiss him and he has face scruff, I back away. It’s been over 25 years.

Over 25 years and I still remember…

 But today, I’m remembering it differently. I’m remembering a little girl who was so confused, so scared, so timid and shy…and today that little girl has found the courage.  The courage to speak the truth. The courage to say enough. The courage to let go of the embarrassment. The courage to stand up and say, Steven, you can’t hurt me anymore. I’m rising above. I’m rising about the hate, the hurt, and the darkness…and coming into the light.