loneliness: VI

loneliness (noun) - sadness because one has no friends or company

I never got to be a kid. 

I never felt safe, or secure. I never felt joy. I never felt excited for anything. I never felt free. when the terrible reality of my situation of repeated abuse set in, the only things I truly felt were fear and sadness. 

I couldn’t relate to the other kids in my elementary school class. one time when we lining up to go to lunch in the 4th grade, the girl in front of me was talking about how she was so excited for the weekend because she was going to be spending it at her grandparent’s house. I remember thinking to myself, “I wonder what it’s like to be excited to spend the night at your grandparent’s house.” 

being repeatedly sexually abused and tortured and verbally berated for the entirety of my childhood left me completely empty and detached from the world. 

instead of worrying about what to bring for show and tell in kindergarten, I was worried about the wandering hands of my grandfather and how they hurt me. instead of worrying about learning how to tell time correctly in the 1st grade, I was worried about what my grandfather would do to me the next time he trapped me alone in a room with him. instead of worrying about losing my last baby tooth in the 2nd grade, I was worried about my grandfather sneaking into my room at night. instead of worrying about how to complete one pull-up for the PE fitness test in the 3rd grade, I was worried about whether my grandfather would bruise the skin on my legs again. instead of worrying about learning my multiplication tables in the 4th grade, I was worried about whether my grandfather would scream at me again or not if I cried when he put his hands on me. instead of worrying about getting braces in the 5th grade, I was worried about how the abuse I had to suffer through would probably last forever.

I wasn’t normal. I wasn’t a kid. I was so lonely.

completely isolated in an endless and miserable circle of abuse.

I still am sometimes. 

he’s gone now. the world has been free of his pathetic wretched existence since 2018.

he cannot hurt me anymore. there is no possible way he can ever physically hurt me again. I am finally safe from his hands. 

but despite this, I still feel so terrified, and disgusted, and ashamed of my childhood. it’s really scary writing all of my feelings like this out and sharing them. 

will people be disgusted with me? will they see me how I see myself? will they think I’m just too damaged? will they think I’m not worth all of the effort that this baggage may bring? will they blame me and think that the abuse was my fault? will they abandon me like how my mother and her family did? will they listen to me? will they think I’m just weak and whiny? will they care? 

am I worth it? am I worth anything at all?

he may be gone. the threat of any physical harm may be gone. but the psychological damage he did by ripping away my childhood, my innocence, my freedom, my happiness, my security, my trust, and my humanity continues to fester. 

I’m trying my best to make it through. to breathe each day. I really am. but it’s a lifelong process. and it’s hard, and scary, and lonely. 

the delicate glass full of carefully built up self confidence, happiness, and courage sometimes slips through my fingers and shatters at my feet with no rhyme or reason. 

I’m constantly caught up in this swelling storm.

it’s frustrating. it comes and goes in waves. but I need to be patient with myself.

  

because I survived. he cannot take that away from me. and I will forever continue to survive.

unbreakable: V

courage (noun) - strength in the face of pain or grief

I’ve never really viewed myself in a positive light. my grandfather liked to remind me how weak I was whenever he got the chance. 

“you’re useless” “you’re just a toy” “you mean nothing” “you are nothing” “you are a child whore” “you’re disgusting” “you will never be loved”  

that mantra beaten into my brain, repeatedly. poisoned words invading my every thought. day after day, for six years. 

after hearing those things for so long, I started to believe them to be true.

he was right. I was weak. I was powerless. I was an object. 

I was a child. and he was the boogeyman.

I thought that when it finally came out that he had been sexually abusing me he would have his power stripped away. I thought he would go to jail. I thought he would pay for the atrocities he committed, that he would be held accountable for each mark he left upon my skin. each piece of innocence he stole from me.

that did not happen. 

my mother and her family betrayed me, an 11 year old child, and chose to protect my abuser. 

he repeatedly sexually abused his own granddaughter for 6 consecutive years but he did not go to jail. he was not registered as a sex offender. he was free. and I could do nothing about it.

my abuser thought he had won. he thought that he had taken away any kind of fight from me.

but that was then. and this is now. 

as a child I did not have the strength, or courage to take back the fire he stole from me. as an adult, however, I can use the building resentment, fear, hatred, and anger to turn the tides and split the sky.

when I was a child, nobody fought for me. so as an adult, I will fight for myself.

in 2016 I took the first step in taking back my power. I sued my grandfather, my abuser, in civil court. I also sued my grandmother, his enabler, in civil court.

assault and battery. intentional infliction of emotional distress. negligence.

it was terrifying. but it was liberating. this was my fight. 

no matter the turn out in court, I had already won the war against my abuser the second the lawsuit was filed. 

I was now the one standing over him. in power. tall, looming, and unshakable. my shadow, dark, casting over his entire miserable existence.  

my message to him ringing out loud and clear:

as a child, you may have stolen everything from me. but I am unbreakable, and I will rise from any abyss you try to drown me in.

reputation: IV

façade (noun) - an outward appearance that is maintained to conceal a less pleasant or creditable reality

“you’re so lucky to have such a good grandfather” 

“your grandfather is a perfect example of how a Christian man should be”

“your grandfather is so loving and attentive towards you” 

I heard things of that nature for the majority of my childhood. my grandfather was heavily involved in the Southern Baptist church that my family attended. he was a well respected member of the community. everybody knew him. everybody liked him. everybody thought he was wonderful. 

he had them all fooled.

he was not a “good christian man.” no good man, christian or otherwise, would repeatedly molest his own granddaughter when she was the ages of 5-11. 

he was a monster that used his false pious reputation as a weapon to gain power and status in the church community.

christianity was not his guide, it was his shield. 

since he was such a respected member of the community, he could get away with anything. the congregation would never suspect that he was a pedophile. in their eyes, someone as religious as him could never do such a thing. he had the ultimate immunity. and he knew that. 

in Alabama, the Southern Baptists reign supreme above all else. even the law. if you had a good church reputation, you had power and influence. you had the benefit of the doubt in everything.

church was not a place of worship for my grandfather, grandmother, mother, and aunts. it was a social club. and they spent their whole lives climbing up the social hierarchy. cultivating a “good christian” reputation. charming people with their pretty smiles and soft southern accents. the only thing they cared about was maintaining that carefully crafted lie.

when I was 11 and finally had the courage to tell my mother and her family that my grandfather was sexually abusing me, when he admitted his guilt, I thought that things would get better. that my family would help me. they didn’t.   

instead, they instantly went into damage control mode. they tried to keep this “situation” quiet. their christian reputation was more important than my safety, my security, my life. they could not let anybody know that their perfectly cultivated false image of a happily functioning loving family was an intricate illusion.

I was a child, and I posed an extreme threat to their made up world. I was real, and what had been done to me was real. they needed to stomp out the fire already threatening to burn out in my eyes before I ruined them for good.

And so they went to work. fluttering their eyelashes, crying crocodile tears, managing to convince the rest of the family members to not report my abuser to the police. “this should be handled within the family,” they said. “we can’t let this get out,” they said. they worked out a deal with some loser psychiatrist. he would take on both me and my abuser as patients, and he wouldn’t report the abuse to the police.

sometimes, the psychiatrist would talk to me about his sessions with my molester. “your grandfather sat on that couch yesterday and cried because he’s so sorry for what happened.” “you should forgive your grandfather, it wasn’t his fault. he is a good christian and made a mistake.” “sometimes you need to take responsibility too.” 

He never told me it wasn’t my fault. Nobody did. 

the only thing he made me realize was that the man who had sexually abused and defiled me, the man who had ripped my innocence from my hands, was free. the monster that inhabited my bed was as free as I was. 

he lived in the same city. he knew where my house was. he knew where I went to school. he knew where I took dance lessons. he knew it all. and he was free. 

he molested me. he threatened me. and he was free. he was capable of anything. he molested his own granddaughter for six years. his hands were grotesque weapons; there was nothing they left untainted or unmarked. and he was free.

the monster that repeatedly tortured and molested me for the entirety of my childhood was walking around freely, disguised in the skin suit of a “good christian man.” 

my mother, grandmother, and aunts sacrificed my safety and well being in order to protect their treasured “christian” reputation.

fear: III

fear (noun) - an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat.

“why do victims of sexual assault just not report it right away?” “why do they let it happen to them?” “if it were me, I would have reported it to the police instantly” 

If you have never been sexually assaulted, and still ask these questions, stop. it is so easy to say what you would do in a situation that you’ve never found yourself in. instead of getting combative, I ask for you to please just listen to us. just once.

I wanted my grandfather to stop sexually abusing me. obviously. I cried and begged and clawed at his disgusting hands. leaving ugly scratch marks that would draw blood along his arms. screamed at him. tried to run away from his grasp, anything to put distance between us. but nothing was ever enough to get him to leave me alone.

he threatened me to shut up. a wide array of threats were thrown at me, all of them being equally terrifying to a five year old child. he told me that he would kill my father, and my mother if I told. he told me that he would kill my dogs. 

he told me that he would kill me, and nobody would care if trash like me died.

once, when I had to stay over at their house for a weekend I locked the door to the guest bedroom the first night. I was 6 and this was the only solution I could think of. the next morning he told me that if I ever did that again, he would rape me with a knife. 

I did not know what “rape” meant, he enjoyed informing me.

threats of physical violence weren’t all that were used. he broke me down emotionally too. he told me that nobody would believe me. that my family would disown me. they would be ashamed of me. because I was a whore. a disgrace.

he was the puppeteer and I was the puppet. the strings he pulled had me in a chokehold.

he was in control of everything. my body. my spirit. my mind. all of it. 

nothing belonged to me anymore. I was an object, gross and used and powerless.

“why didn’t you report it straight away?” “he was an old man, surely you knew he couldn’t kill you?”

he was sexually abusing his own granddaughter. hurting me. leaving bruises on my skin in areas where nobody else could see. he was torturing me. he was capable of killing me.

he was a monster. capable of unspeakable evil. and he had me fooled into believing everything he said. 

I was a child. vulnerable and alone. hearing his threats and his taunts about how my life meant nothing were all I had known. he broke me down piece by piece. stealing any kind of fire I might have had in my eyes. he said I didn’t matter - and I eventually believed him. he broke my spirit. 

I hated him. and I hated myself too.

I was trapped in an endless cycle of abuse. and I spent the years of my childhood wishing that I would die, because if I died I wouldn’t have to be violated anymore.

I knew what his hands were capable of, and the pain they could bring. I was terrified of him.

as a child I was quick to discover that the true monsters don’t hide under your bed. instead, they creep under the covers in the dead of night to rip away your innocence piece by piece until the only emotion you know is terror.

self esteem: II

self-esteem (noun) -  confidence in one’s own worth or abilities; self-respect.

this is something I’ve never spoken about with anyone before, because just simply thinking about it is too overwhelming most of the time. but I’m going to try my best to properly articulate all of these stray thoughts that have been building for 2 decades.

it’s also humiliating. how am I supposed to tell my friends and family that I completely and utterly despise everything that I am? without sounding like a petty whiny cry-baby? 

the vile things my grandfather did to me repeatedly when I was the ages of 5 to 11 haunt me. I have purposefully tried to forget most instances, but….there were a few “sessions” - as he liked to call them - that were so horrific, and painful, and terrifying, that I will unfortunately never be able to burn and bleach them from my memory. 

it has been 14 years since he last touched me, but I can still feel his hands on me. destroying me, hurting me, reminding me that all I am is an object, filling me with absolute revulsion and disgust. thinking about his hands still makes my skin crawl, I start to hyperventilate and my vision gets spotty.

I hate my body. I hate how I look. I hate how I feel. 

I can’t even look at myself in the mirror most of the time. the feelings of disgust and shame and humiliation that have been building since the first time that monster molested me have completely altered how I view myself. or maybe I just never learned how to view myself at all, since he stole everything from me before I even knew what was happening.

it’s almost like I don’t see a person when I look at myself, I just see what was done to me. 

and I’m disgusted by it. 

why did this happen to me? what did I do wrong to deserve this? I was only 5 years old, what could I have possibly done to warrant being sexually abused? is it my fault? is it not my fault? 

my abuser blamed me. my mother and her family blamed me.  

shame. humiliation. hatred. vile. ugly.

disgusting.

telling people about my childhood is terrifying. what happened to me was so gross. I feel gross about it. 

my mother and her side of the family made sure to treat me as if I was the criminal, and that everything that I had to endure was my fault. I was the 5 year old whore that tempted their “good christian” patriarch to sin. I was the problem. I was the one they were ashamed of. I was the one they cast aside. my mother, her sisters, and my grandmother all took the side of my abuser. instead of protecting me, a terrified 11 year old that had to endure 6 years of repeated molestation and torture - they chose to protect the boogeyman that would sneak into my bed at night and steal my humanity away. 

the pain I feel from that betrayal is excruciating.   

the fear that my friends will abandon me like that after I tell them is there, but it isn’t the most pressing fear I have. 

my biggest fear is that when I tell someone about the sexual abuse I had to suffer through for the entirety of my childhood, they’ll start to see me how I see myself. 

foundation: I

when I look at pieces of media I’ve noticed a theme of sexual assault victims having the mentality of, “how will I ever be the same/how will I go back to how I was or how I felt before this?” and it really and truly got me thinking about my own experience in terms of applying that mindset - and I realized that I couldn’t.

my (maternal) grandfather started molesting me when I was 5 years old. i didn’t know who I was as a person, what my character, and mentality were at that age - nobody does. children use the tools of love, care, safety, and trust they’re given to build themselves into a person throughout the early and mid development years. 

now, think of children as home builders. they use everything that I listed above (love, care, safety, trust - among other things) as tools to form and shape their foundation of who they are for that home. 

all structures need foundations, and in our earliest years as children we build that.

construction isn’t always smooth over the years, but they have that foundation to go back to if anything goes awry. a sturdy foundation that has been shaped and formed and strengthened. the windows of the house may be shattered, the door might have been caved in, a wall or two may crumble, the roof might get blown away, but the pillars of the foundation always stand.

I didn’t get a chance to build that foundation. when I tried to start around the ages of 3-5, everything crumbled the first time my grandfather molested me. I tried to rebuild what had fallen, but then he molested me again - this time taking away one of my essential tools, trust. I tried to rebuild again with fewer materials, but then he molested me again - taking away another essential tool - safety. 

this continued for 6 consecutive years. repeated molestation. 

over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. 

I cannot tell you how many times, I couldn’t count beyond 20 when I was 5, and eventually I gave up.

that foundation I was trying to build, and then rebuild, being destroyed over and over and over again. tools being taken away from me until I had nothing left. no tools, no structure, no foundation.

no love. no care. no safety. no trust. nothing. 

years of repeated sexual abuse left me empty. I had nothing. I was nothing. I was no longer a child. I was reduced down to being an object. I was not a human, I was not a person, I was merely an object to be used over and over again in order for a monster to achieve some sick form of sexual gratification. that’s all I was. I was disgusting and worthless. 

I was not a child. I was an object. 

there was no foundation for me to fall back to. no “me before the abuse.” there wasn’t anything of me at all. nothing.

every time my grandfather touched me, he stole another piece of myself away that I didn’t even have yet. until nothing remained.