Composed in 2019 and sat on until 2021.
Trigger warning: This contains material about sexual abuse, childhood trauma, and the Me Too movement.
When I backed away, I saw a look of annoyance on his face and asked, "Does it annoy you when I kiss your forehead like that?"
He nodded.
I said, "Please tell me if you don't want my affection. I know you're getting older and might start asking me to not dwell on my goodnight kisses...or even give them at all. And that's okay. Always tell people when you don't want them to touch you."
We transitioned to an age where he might not want me to show him as much affection, especially since he already struggles with affection due to his Asperger's diagnosis. It was a turning point for me. But it also triggered my trauma.
The Me Too movement is necessary. It has changed the landscape for individuals who have been sexually abused. There's a website, a hashtag, a support system, and a public voice in the media. People who have held in their pain for years have finally come forward.
When I first heard about Me Too, I thought, Finally, someone has said something. It was only after reading articles and hearing stories that it hit me—I am also part of this group. The delay didn't come because of denial or because I had blocked out my abuse...but because I had never considered it something I needed to confess or seek retribution for as an adult. It was something that happened to me. I told someone. I processed it. I moved on. I definitely acted in ways that weren't beneficial to me as a result, but I learned and am still learning. I was one of the lucky ones.
Sometime around 1991, my secret came out and it was "handled." Decisions were made. I grew up. I write all of that in the passive voice purposely—to protect my family.
I was sexually abused as a child. Before I turned 13, I experienced that abuse at the hands of an adult male family member, not related by blood, who was sick and didn't realize—even after the fact—that he did something wrong. It likely began when I was about 4 years old, but that's as far back as I can remember. He was an adult with his own family, and for the sake of that family, he was not charged with a crime. This decision was made by adults at a time when this type of activity was kept quiet for the sake of reputation or because a handful of lives would fall apart if we pursued legal action. I also agreed to it because I just wanted to move on. I didn't want the attention, no matter how much justice would be achieved. As a compromise, he received psychological treatment (I don't remember how much or for how long), and I never visited his home again until my grandmother was dying and then again after he died. At least I don't remember if I did. Maybe that's something I did block out. He had done this to others, too, even adults. The general consensus was that he was "creepy."
I lost part of my family. At least the connection with them. I lost family dinners, holiday visits, and a bond with those I held dearest to me. I managed to squeeze in a few visits with some by having them visit me, but that didn't last long. I don't know what happened in the years following my exodus, aside from what I heard secondhand and learned through letters. I never rekindled those formative relationships that could have contributed to a life replete with family dinners and spending time with people who just knew me.
I could have pressed charges, put him in jail, and watched his family struggle financially and forever hold me "at fault" for disrupting the family dynamic. Twelve-year-old me preferred to quietly walk away because at least they all knew. They knew what he was. His children were grown. It was their decision whether they would maintain a relationship with him and whether their children would as well. Perhaps their Christian virtue of forgiveness helped them to do so. Who knows—maybe his treatment reformed him.
Some of my family members had also suffered similar traumas when they were young and had triumphed over them as best they could. I had examples of how to process and move on. Looking back, I think I might have done things differently to protect anyone else he might encounter. But he was a homebody, and everyone else in our family knew what he did. I will forever feel guilty about not being brave enough to speak up for justice back then. But I've accepted that what I did was brave, and that's all I could do at the time.
After the talk with Social Services and the subsequent loneliness I experienced, I started smoking cigarettes, having sex at a younger-than-normal age, and seeking attention wherever I could get it (the latter part I know in hindsight). I bet that explains things for a lot of you who knew me then. I started relationships in high school with extreme passion and then extinguished them carefully out of guilt. I apologize to anyone I took advantage of or who was hurt by my actions.
Who knows if I would have done all of those things anyway as a way to explore my individuality and sexuality during a time when our culture told us to be different, be creative, and be strong. After all, high school girls were wearing baggy T-shirts with flannels and baggy jeans, and boys thought that was attractive. My friends and I were so far removed from the need to use our bodies to attract men. We used our words, our actions, and our connections to explore new feelings. I often took that a step further when allowed because I considered myself a passionate person. I guess I still do.
Thank goodness for the 1990s. If I had come out of my abuse into a generation of women who wore mini skirts and tube tops to attract men and took nude selfies that sometimes were maliciously distributed elsewhere, I might have gone down a different path. But I was supported by good friends and a community that emphasized inclusiveness and individuality. I know I told some of my friends about my abuse, and that's probably what helped me process things so early and provided a foundation for acceptance.
Then my grandmother died. My mom died shortly after, and I married pretty much right away. I had children and watched them grow without ever letting a man come close to them that I didn't extremely trust. I taught them to speak up and say what they feel—and to never accept affection when they didn't want it. Hopefully, I'm raising two individuals who will never experience what I experienced and will never have to consider themselves part of a movement that vocalizes their trauma. But when my son didn't push my affection away last night, I wondered how good of a job I'm doing. Have I become so complacent to where my confidence and expression have given them the impression that anything is okay? Or did he just simply not want to hurt his mom's feelings?
When I was a teenager, I used to change clothes in front of my friends (even males) with the blinds open in the dark and my lights on. I'm sure people could see me from the street, but I didn't care. Most of my friends were male and they rarely looked when I did those things. Who knows—maybe I made them uncomfortable. I wasn't embarrassed about my body, although I did have the normal teenage self-esteem issues regarding my acne and small breasts. My husband jokingly calls me an exhibitionist because I wouldn't wear clothes if I didn't have to. I've had to adapt my habits to fit my children's level of comfort because, unlike me, they both became uncomfortable with me changing in front of them as they got older. My mom, sister, niece, and I regularly changed in front of each other and other people. It was just how I grew up.
Looking back, I can now see where my identity drastically changed. Before I told my family about my sexual abuse, I was insecure, I tried everything to fit in, I got contacts at 12 so I wasn't "four eyes," and I fell in love with every boy at the playground. A while after I came clean, I faced the world with intense spirit and felt free of the burden—the secret—that put me in the shadows without any reason to feel like I belonged there. Why did I feel like I needed to come clean? What did I do? Nothing. It's like my secret was this blockage in my brain that wouldn't let me evolve. Once the secret wasn't a secret anymore, I felt free. I didn't have to choose a different room to sit in to avoid abuse. I didn't have to experience mixed feelings about spending time with family.
I've been learning over the years to love myself in spite of my flaws and to disregard anyone's views of me that aren't supportive of that approach. Now, at 40, I'm watching women unleash a lifetime of darkness and learning how to heal through being outspoken about their trauma. Those women are admirable, and it took a few brave souls to inspire the thousands (millions?) who have come forward so far. I'm proud of them. I'm happy that they're finally seeking their justice and that they've found a platform to do so.
But I'm not going to say "me too" on social media. It's my choice to openly condemn my abuser by name or to keep it to myself. After all, he's dead. Perhaps some of that is guilt for what my family might endure—or pity, really. My "me too" moment happened when my family member intuitively asked if I was being sexually abused...because she was too. I told her yes. We told our families. Our lives changed forever. We grieved. I grew. And here I am, telling you my story because I had written it a hundred times and never shared it with anyone other than a select few and one day at a college poetry reading.
After the talk with Social Services and the subsequent loneliness I experienced, I started smoking cigarettes, having sex at a younger-than-normal age, and seeking attention wherever I could get it (the latter part I know in hindsight). I bet that explains things for a lot of you who knew me then. I started relationships in high school with extreme passion and then extinguished them carefully out of guilt. I apologize to anyone I took advantage of or who was hurt by my actions.
Who knows if I would have done all of those things anyway as a way to explore my individuality and sexuality during a time when our culture told us to be different, be creative, and be strong. After all, high school girls were wearing baggy T-shirts with flannels and baggy jeans, and boys thought that was attractive. My friends and I were so far removed from the need to use our bodies to attract men. We used our words, our actions, and our connections to explore new feelings. I often took that a step further when allowed because I considered myself a passionate person. I guess I still do.
Thank goodness for the 1990s. If I had come out of my abuse into a generation of women who wore mini skirts and tube tops to attract men and took nude selfies that sometimes were maliciously distributed elsewhere, I might have gone down a different path. But I was supported by good friends and a community that emphasized inclusiveness and individuality. I know I told some of my friends about my abuse, and that's probably what helped me process things so early and provided a foundation for acceptance.
Then my grandmother died. My mom died shortly after, and I married pretty much right away. I had children and watched them grow without ever letting a man come close to them that I didn't extremely trust. I taught them to speak up and say what they feel—and to never accept affection when they didn't want it. Hopefully, I'm raising two individuals who will never experience what I experienced and will never have to consider themselves part of a movement that vocalizes their trauma. But when my son didn't push my affection away last night, I wondered how good of a job I'm doing. Have I become so complacent to where my confidence and expression have given them the impression that anything is okay? Or did he just simply not want to hurt his mom's feelings?
When I was a teenager, I used to change clothes in front of my friends (even males) with the blinds open in the dark and my lights on. I'm sure people could see me from the street, but I didn't care. Most of my friends were male and they rarely looked when I did those things. Who knows—maybe I made them uncomfortable. I wasn't embarrassed about my body, although I did have the normal teenage self-esteem issues regarding my acne and small breasts. My husband jokingly calls me an exhibitionist because I wouldn't wear clothes if I didn't have to. I've had to adapt my habits to fit my children's level of comfort because, unlike me, they both became uncomfortable with me changing in front of them as they got older. My mom, sister, niece, and I regularly changed in front of each other and other people. It was just how I grew up.
Looking back, I can now see where my identity drastically changed. Before I told my family about my sexual abuse, I was insecure, I tried everything to fit in, I got contacts at 12 so I wasn't "four eyes," and I fell in love with every boy at the playground. A while after I came clean, I faced the world with intense spirit and felt free of the burden—the secret—that put me in the shadows without any reason to feel like I belonged there. Why did I feel like I needed to come clean? What did I do? Nothing. It's like my secret was this blockage in my brain that wouldn't let me evolve. Once the secret wasn't a secret anymore, I felt free. I didn't have to choose a different room to sit in to avoid abuse. I didn't have to experience mixed feelings about spending time with family.
I've been learning over the years to love myself in spite of my flaws and to disregard anyone's views of me that aren't supportive of that approach. Now, at 40, I'm watching women unleash a lifetime of darkness and learning how to heal through being outspoken about their trauma. Those women are admirable, and it took a few brave souls to inspire the thousands (millions?) who have come forward so far. I'm proud of them. I'm happy that they're finally seeking their justice and that they've found a platform to do so.
But I'm not going to say "me too" on social media. It's my choice to openly condemn my abuser by name or to keep it to myself. After all, he's dead. Perhaps some of that is guilt for what my family might endure—or pity, really. My "me too" moment happened when my family member intuitively asked if I was being sexually abused...because she was too. I told her yes. We told our families. Our lives changed forever. We grieved. I grew. And here I am, telling you my story because I had written it a hundred times and never shared it with anyone other than a select few and one day at a college poetry reading.
I want my children to one day see this and know that it's okay to deal with trauma—no matter what kind—in the way they feel comfortable handling it. They don't have to join a movement. They can tell a few close friends and heal over time, like I did, if they want to. (Or they can write a blog post about not following a movement while actively participating in one while doing so. 😳 ) What's most important is that they learn from me how to be strong and advocate for themselves so they never have to decide whether to say "Me too."
