Shannon

I don’t have a lot of memories from my childhood. As a matter of fact, I have a hard time even now remembering dates, and the only way I can remember what year it was or how old I was in connection with one of the few memories I do have is by certain events or goings on that were significant. One of the very few memories I do have from my childhood is of him shaving in the bathroom in his white fruit of the looms and a white undershirt. I can smell his Old Spice, and to this day that smell makes me nauseous. Something about a young child being in the room during such intimate grooming, like that,  has always felt dirty to me. I have always tried to convince myself that it’s what came after that colors that. But I still don’t know if it was entirely normal. From there, none of my memories fall into any kind of order that makes sense. I remember asking him when Madonna released Like A Virgin, what a virgin was. He shushed me while in the presence of others, but went into detail later when no one was around. I don’t know how old I was, though I suppose I could figure it out. All I do know is I was very young and had no business knowing. I remember watching TV in the living room. He would sit on one end of the couch and have me kind of lean on his side. When my grandmother was engrossed in her ‘programs’ he would put his arm around me, slip his hand into my pants and panties, and touch me. She was not more than five feet away, and I never thought of it this way before; honestly I don’t think of it much at all, but now I don’t know if she didn’t know, or if she turned a blind eye. I would like to think she would never, but some things make better sense if she did. That hurts more than anything, I think. But being an adult, and knowing how hard it is to miss things that are right in your face, I have to think she probably did know. And it makes me sick. I remember when I was about 10 and began to develop breasts, he touched them. Tried to get a response from my nipples. By this time I had shut down and never did react. When I began to grow pubic hair I remember how he whispered in my ear, commenting on it as he tugged on them. I don’t remember ever touching him, but I get a sick feeling thinking of the possibility that I don’t get in response to other things that I know did not happen, so I think it’s a good possibility he did take it there. There was never penetration, and for this I am very grateful. I’m sickened by all that he did take from me, but at least that one thing wasn’t one of them. It ended around the time I approached puberty. I don’t know if it ended because I was getting older, or if it ended because he got sick. I distanced myself from that house around that time, and all I remember of him after that was his struggles with his health. I didn’t hate him, and I didn’t wish anything bad on him; that came later. But I was disconnected, watching my grandfather die. I didn’t talk to anyone about it for a long time. You see, he was revered in my family. He could do no wrong. And in truth, there were a lot of things he excelled at. He was an excellent driver, and teacher. He was great at working with his hands. His garage forever smelled of fresh sawdust and cars. When we moved into our new (to us) house, he hung drywall, replaced the roof, strung a fence, and did whatever other maintenance it needed to be livable. And because he was a hard worker, and a family man, I was left feeling like what happened was my fault. Or that I misunderstood. So I shut down. I have lived my life since that first day watching him shave in his underwear with my every sense dulled. Muted. I have 20/20 vision, but don’t see most of what’s there. My hearing is fine, yet I’m constantly asking people to repeat themselves because I just. don’t. hear. it. Nothing has ever really tasted good. Nor smelled good. And my skin feels like it’s coated with a thin layer of wax. My emotions are just as dulled. I neither love nor hate most anybody. I just don’t care. The people I DO love? My kids. They are the only people I have been able to let in fully. Other than them, the only people who have been close enough to hurt me are always unavailable. Usually emotionally. But sometimes by physical distance. There is ALWAYS some element of disconnect. And I hate it. It’s like living in a bubble. A clear one, sure. But like the glass bathroom windows or shower doors are made of. I can see and hear those around me, and they can see me. By some trick of the light, most don’t even see the glass between us. But we can never, ever touch. The closest we can ever get is each holding up our hands to the glass, and maybe feeling a ghost of the warmth from each other. Maybe hearing a ghost of a whisper when we try to speak. What I give, and receive, is warped by the glass, and what I see is never what IS. And I don’t know if I will ever either escape my bubble, or be able to let another into it. I did eventually tell my mother, after he was gone. She encouraged me to get counseling, but I never did. I felt like I was fine. I lived. I did well in school, had some friends, and didn’t think about it. I’m only now, at 36, really seeing what it did to me. I’m just now seeing more clearly that my perceptions are NOT normal. That life can be so much brighter and more vibrant. That maybe, just MAYBE, I can regain some of what was lost so long ago. I haven’t started looking for a counselor yet, but I am thinking about it. I’m afraid. Afraid of talking about it. Afraid that speaking the words will unleash the pain that I suspect lurks under the glass. Locked away until now. But I’m ready. Living this way isn’t really living at all. My kids, my boys, my heart and my soul, deserve better. They deserve a mother who is in the moment. Who laughs and runs and plays, and really means it. I deserve the same. We all do. ###

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