Sheila
There are many people out there who say that words have no power or, alternatively, they only have the power that you give them.
I’m here to tell you that words do have power.
In my experience, words have the power to take an extreme amount of weight off of your shoulders….they have the power to set you free.
When I was in third grade, my innocence was shattered….and even now, almost twenty years later, I’m still trying to figure out how to cope with all of it.
I’ve gone through a whole hell of a lot of crazy since that day but in the last few weeks, I’ve surprised myself with just how crazy I can be.
I finally spoke up and even though I’ve only told a few close friends, I feel a thousand times better.
And so, since I cannot stand in the middle of the street and scream about my personal injustice, I decided to turn to the same place I went to to make friends and complain about my life….the Internet.
The victim was me.
The perpetrator was my brother.
I remember how it started….an innocent game of truth or dare.
I remember how it stopped….I told my older sister.
What I don’t remember is how long it went on for but, based on the time line I’ve been able to piece together, it was at least a year but no more than two.
I don’t remember how often it occurred.
In fact, for some reason, most of my childhood is trapped in shadows, with only bits and pieces peeking through with startling clarity.
When I told my sister about the abuse, she confronted my brother and the abuse stopped. I am thankful that she did the best she could to protect me. I begged her not to tell my parents. I don’t remember why but I’m figuring it was because of the guilt and shame that I felt. Also, for some reason, I felt it was necessary to protect him, which seems really fucked up to me but my therapist assures me that this is normal for people in my “situation.” When she told me this, all I could think was “Hot damn, there is something normal about me!”
When I was fourteen, my sister got into a fight with my parents and she blurted out my big, bad, dark secret. All at once, all of the things that I had hoped and prayed were just figments of my imagination, were right there in my face….the truth, blinding me with the intensity of football stadium lights. I denied it over and over again to my parents. I let my sister look like a liar because I was a coward. For years after that night, my mother would talk about my “poor brother, having those horrible lies made up about him” and “where in the world did she come up with that nonsense” and “you’re telling the truth, right?” And every time I either sat silently or I said exactly what my mother wanted to hear.
This is when my world started really spinning out of control and I started sliding down a slippery slope.
I suppose that I am one of the “lucky” ones, insofar as I did not ever become an alcoholic, a drug addict or sexually promiscuous. I did not wind up trapped in any abusive relationships. In fact, I immediately broke up with a guy who, after only dating for a few short weeks, decided it would be smart to try to force me into having sex with him and, when I freaked out when his penis replaced his hands, thought it would be smart to pinch me as hard as he could.
But I’m only lucky if you don’t find out about the progressively more intense methods of self-harm that I employed to chase away the panic and anxiety attacks….from pacing around the room as fast as I could until I was so dizzy I could hardly see straight, to digging my nails into my palms, to pulling my hair, to repeatedly throwing myself onto couch, to punching myself, and when eventually those things no longer calmed my stampeding heart, using razors as a coping mechanism. Oh, and, of course, let’s not forget the periods of uncontrollable crying and going for days and days with no sleep because I’m terrified of the dreams that come once I hit the REM phase.
I’ve had periods of time in my life when I’ve almost forgotten….where I could face my brother, look him in the eye, hug him and even tell him that I love him.
Because one of the most fucked up things about me is that I do still love him and want to somehow have a relationship with him.
I hope and pray that all of this happened because he was a shy, awkward, slightly unfortunate looking teenager who took an opportunity that was presented to him when my best friend in third grade dared him to show us his penis. I hope and pray that I was his only “victim.” He has a wife now….and kids.
But recently, just when I thought that I’d worked it all out of my system, my past was thrown back into my face by someone who had no right to open their mouth, burning me like acid.
And I’m back to square one.
This time around though, I’m not doing it alone.
I’ve swallowed the fear and shame and managed to eke out the words, one of those people being my husband. In some ways, this is harder for him than it is me. I’ve had a lot of practice with the whole “faking” routine.
I’ve built up a support system.
I have not confronted him, nor have I told my parents.
Honestly, I have no plans to because, in my mind, it will do nothing but cause more stress in my life, which I obviously do not need.
I do not speak to him, I do not see him.
I’ve got a crew of people who are there to help ensure that it stays this way until the thought of him does not put me into a panic.
I’m healing but I’m doing it on my terms.
Because I’m not nine years old anymore and, these days, I have a choice in the matter.
I am not at a point in my life where I can say that I am a survivor but I hope one day I can.
This post is my Step Two.
My name is Sheila. My brother molested me. I’m not fully healed but I’m getting there.
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UPDATE : In the months since I have written this I have made huge leaps and bounds of progress. I still have things to work through but I’m doing really good. I can officially call myself a survivor and mean it. I still haven’t confronted my brother and still haven’t talked to my parents. And no, I still don’t plan to do so. I am, however, working on re-building a relationship with him….but I’m doing it on my terms, whether he knows it or not. I don’t expect to ever fully “get over” the molestation but each and every day it gets easier to cope. I’m so very thankful for Violence Unsilenced and for all of my wonderful friends who have been there for me. Having so many people to hold my hand while I faced my demons made it so much easier.
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Sheila blogs here, but she asks that all comments on this post be kept on Violence UnSilenced, rather than her own blog.
Kellye
you.
you weren’t supposed to take advantage of me, knowing i would follow in fear.
you weren’t supposed to feed me those lies, convincing me to turn against myself.
you weren’t supposed to rob me of that, doing so one day shy of my fourteenth.
you weren’t supposed to – feet away from my mother’s turned back, pinning my mouth shut.
you weren’t supposed to do it over and over and over, rejoicing in your success.
you weren’t supposed to cite crazy excuses, painting yourself as the victim.
you weren’t supposed to keep me in a world of terror, thinking i’d never leave.
you weren’t supposed to…
but you did.
for seven and a half long, painful years.
i.
i wasn’t supposed to love the way i look, not after you carved my body there.
i wasn’t supposed to have healthy relationships, not after you dirtied me.
i wasn’t supposed to tell, not after you threatened with my life and my family’s.
i wasn’t supposed to recall “the worst time,” not after you shoved those pills down my throat.
i wasn’t supposed to live, not after you held the gun to my head and counted…
i wasn’t supposed to hate you, not after you begged and pleaded for forgiveness.
i wasn’t supposed to share this and inspire, not after you deemed me worthless.
i wasn’t supposed to…
but i did.
and i don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.
Christine
My father used to tell me, “If you stand up to a bully they won’t bother you anymore.”
I always thought that was easy for him to say because his wife and three young children were no match for his 220 lb., almost 6 foot tall frame.
Oh, I tried to hold my ground. As a toddler I was already aware of my father’s deep rooted anger and his controlling ways. I used that knowledge to ignite the fire in him. I liked to walk past him, and as I blatantly glared in his direction, I would jump into my mother’s lap and cuddle up to her.
In other words, I liked to fuck with him and it made him furious.
I suppose that could be a reason for his need to break me. Not that he seemed to need a reason to break any of us.
I was beat down, physically and emotionally. I learned to keep my mouth shut. And my instigating glare turned into a dead stare at the floor. I couldn’t look at him because he always took it as a challenge. And THAT would make things worse.
I believe he felt I was the one he needed to control the most. I think he felt the most intimidated by me because he knew how much I hated him. Though that feisty toddler I had once been was long gone, he knew I had the same temper and fire in me that he had. And he was unsure if I would ever turn it on him.
My mother walked on eggshells around him for most of my childhood and into my teen-aged years. She did what he said or she paid the price. He had weakened her into a scared little mouse. My sister was born with a mild case of Cerebral Palsy and my brother was five years younger than me. In my heart I felt the need to protect them.
When he would inflict one of his alcohol induced rages on someone, I always found the need to enter the room. It was my way of cushioning the verbal blows; because if I were in the room, his attention always became directed at me. No matter what the circumstances were. He would spew his “lectures” for hours and I would sit there, silently and accept it all.
I didn’t mind my role. I didn’t care what he said to me or what he did to me. And there was plenty he did. I was taking the brunt so my family wouldn’t have to.
Sometimes this worked and after he vented and blew off stream, just like that, it would be over. But other times we weren’t so lucky.
Other times there were heavy glass ashtray’s smashed into his wife’s nose. Or a fist that blackened his son’s eyes. Or the time that an eleven year old girl, who had just had her ears pierced, was thrown into a wall so hard, that her new earring had been ripped from her ear, leaving it painfully bleeding.
When I was about nineteen, during dinner one night, he began one of his rants. I can’t recall the reason but I remember, quite clearly, the outcome. As he screamed at my mother, she got up from her seat. He chased her across the kitchen and pinned her against the counter. He began to choke her.
I looked at the faces of my siblings and could no longer sit in silence.
I stood, ran toward my father, grabbed him by the arms, and threw him across the room. I then braced myself between him and my mother.
He stared at me with a look of astonishment. I am sure I had the same look on my face.
“ENOUGH!” I shouted.
Then I smirked and in a disgusted laugh I said, “THAT’S what I have been afraid of all of these years? YOU ARE NOTHING! NEVER touch any of us again.”
As I said this, my brother and sister stood up and placed themselves in front of my mother. My father simply left the room.
My father lost control of us that evening. He lost his power. Shortly later he moved out and we moved on.
“If you stand up to a bully they won’t bother you anymore.”
I guess he was right about something.
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Christine (Mrs. Schmitty) writes at It’s A Schmitty Life (http://www.aschmittylife.com).
