I will survive.
Jan. 17th, 2002 11:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deliriumcrowSo I've decided on a main theme for a while. I'm going to start therapy soon, and I though this might be a good way to start. Some things are to be left unsaid, some have to be told. These are terribly painful, but I need to say it. Not only do I need it to be out and no longer a source of shame, but other people may see it and realize they are not alone. Also it's important that these stories be heard, and not pushed back into silence. The more we are silent, the more we accept the blame, that we have done something wrong. This was *not* my fault, and I will not allow anyone to silence me.
Question is, do I go chronologically, or by order of importance, ar as tehy occur to me? If by time, is it the order in which they actually happened, or in which I remembered them?
I think I'll go as it happened, with side notes. Here goes....
(really big TMI warning. Just so y'all know. :) )
My parents divorced when I was very young, and eventually my mother met a man who made her very happy. I was eight at the time. (I thought he was kind of lurpy, but whatever. At that age you have no say in anything.) He had two sons, Chris was 17, Eric was 12. Chris was often called on to babysit us, which usually involved him talking to his girlfriend while Eric watched us. There were several nights when our parents were out until late, and many of these night Eric would come into my room, and into my bed. My memories of this are hazy, at best. They come back at odd moments, at the edge of dreams, at work once. (jumping time.... :) ) at 18, I lived with the boyfriend I would eventually marry and divorce. As we lay in bed after sex one night, just as I fell asleep I had what I can only call a memory, very faint, of Eric in my bed, touching me between my legs in that place that my mother always said no one was supposed to ever see or touch, not until I was married to him. (And of course it had to be a him. That's just how things were.) I think I screamed. At any rate, I was shaking terribly and wouldn't let him touch me, and I think that's part of the reason we're no longer married. While I realize it wasn't him, would never be him, he would never hurt me like that and the only reason I remembered there was the fact that I was comfortable and safe with him, the fact remained that I lost a _lot_ of trust for him that night, through no fault of his. What I can (sort of) blame him for was the fact that it took him a very long time to believe me. I think it was about a year of seeing that the story did not change, except for the little sketchy almost memories that would come up, and the fact that the trauma never quite dissipated. Flash forward again to 1999, I was 20 and working in a Price Chopper as a cashier. I met someone there who helped me get through several harder days. The worst came in the late spring, I think, during a break. Someone told the joke following:
A little boy goes into his parents' bedroom as they're having sex one night and gets into bed with them. He reaches down and touches his father's penis and says "daddy, what's that?" His father says, "that's my car." Then he touches his mother's vagina, and says "mommy, what's that?" and she answers, "that's my garage." So the little boy asks "what are you doing?" and they answer "parking daddy's car in mommy's garage."
I immediately had the most vivid flashback to that time I have ever had. I have no doubt that this happened, I can almost pinpoint the night. Some of the details added are from that knowledge. Our parents were at a party or some other night time, adult activity, Chris was at a teenage activity, and my grandmother was watching us. I was in the guest room upstairs, my brother was in another room, and I think Eric snuck into mine. I'm not clear on that point, but I can't imagine my grandmother assigning us to the same bed, except for the fact that he terrorized my little brother and I got on passably well with him. It still doesn't make any sense, though. Anyway, he told me that joke, and when I questioned it, he illustrated. As in, what's the car? (takes my hand and puts it on his) and, what's the garage? (puts his hand on mine and started rubbing) I was warned not to tell or my life would be as miserable as my brother's. I don't know how long this went on for. A few instances are distinctly different, Like that was the only one in my grandmother's house, all the rest were in my room at home. (By the way, I still have the bed, which is unfortunately the only one I own so I have to use it. I *really* need a new one.) The other Things done were less extreme. He acted out sex play with my Barbie dolls (I still can't bear to look at them. Just out of contrariness I go to the toystore and look at them just to force myself to get used to them. I mean come on, they're just dolls, for crying out loud!) By the time our parents broke up (thank the gods) I was acting out bondage scenes with them, complete with whips and suspension. Masturbation was almost a need, of which I was incredibly ashamed. This included objects, several times a day. I was miserable, hating myself and all that I had let myself become, all that I had allowed to happen to me. That was the only year I ever received an F in any class, until the 11th grade when my home life was again miserable, for another reason. My grades never really recovered from that, not even after I could not remember that year, or however long it lasted.... I don't know why I forgot. I don't suppose it really matters. It happened, I forgot it, these things happen. I remember it now, I'm dealing with it, however slowly.
Side note. When I was at work, remembering, a friend who worked there, I met him there in fact, made sure I was ok when he noticed something was going wrong. He said it was something in my eyes.... I told him the memory, and he helped me get through it and survive several difficult days there. For a while I couldn't even go in the break room. :) I recently found that he died just before Thanksgiving. Good journey, Billy, I'll miss you. I hope you're happier when you get there than you were when I knew you best.
Question is, do I go chronologically, or by order of importance, ar as tehy occur to me? If by time, is it the order in which they actually happened, or in which I remembered them?
I think I'll go as it happened, with side notes. Here goes....
(really big TMI warning. Just so y'all know. :) )
My parents divorced when I was very young, and eventually my mother met a man who made her very happy. I was eight at the time. (I thought he was kind of lurpy, but whatever. At that age you have no say in anything.) He had two sons, Chris was 17, Eric was 12. Chris was often called on to babysit us, which usually involved him talking to his girlfriend while Eric watched us. There were several nights when our parents were out until late, and many of these night Eric would come into my room, and into my bed. My memories of this are hazy, at best. They come back at odd moments, at the edge of dreams, at work once. (jumping time.... :) ) at 18, I lived with the boyfriend I would eventually marry and divorce. As we lay in bed after sex one night, just as I fell asleep I had what I can only call a memory, very faint, of Eric in my bed, touching me between my legs in that place that my mother always said no one was supposed to ever see or touch, not until I was married to him. (And of course it had to be a him. That's just how things were.) I think I screamed. At any rate, I was shaking terribly and wouldn't let him touch me, and I think that's part of the reason we're no longer married. While I realize it wasn't him, would never be him, he would never hurt me like that and the only reason I remembered there was the fact that I was comfortable and safe with him, the fact remained that I lost a _lot_ of trust for him that night, through no fault of his. What I can (sort of) blame him for was the fact that it took him a very long time to believe me. I think it was about a year of seeing that the story did not change, except for the little sketchy almost memories that would come up, and the fact that the trauma never quite dissipated. Flash forward again to 1999, I was 20 and working in a Price Chopper as a cashier. I met someone there who helped me get through several harder days. The worst came in the late spring, I think, during a break. Someone told the joke following:
A little boy goes into his parents' bedroom as they're having sex one night and gets into bed with them. He reaches down and touches his father's penis and says "daddy, what's that?" His father says, "that's my car." Then he touches his mother's vagina, and says "mommy, what's that?" and she answers, "that's my garage." So the little boy asks "what are you doing?" and they answer "parking daddy's car in mommy's garage."
I immediately had the most vivid flashback to that time I have ever had. I have no doubt that this happened, I can almost pinpoint the night. Some of the details added are from that knowledge. Our parents were at a party or some other night time, adult activity, Chris was at a teenage activity, and my grandmother was watching us. I was in the guest room upstairs, my brother was in another room, and I think Eric snuck into mine. I'm not clear on that point, but I can't imagine my grandmother assigning us to the same bed, except for the fact that he terrorized my little brother and I got on passably well with him. It still doesn't make any sense, though. Anyway, he told me that joke, and when I questioned it, he illustrated. As in, what's the car? (takes my hand and puts it on his) and, what's the garage? (puts his hand on mine and started rubbing) I was warned not to tell or my life would be as miserable as my brother's. I don't know how long this went on for. A few instances are distinctly different, Like that was the only one in my grandmother's house, all the rest were in my room at home. (By the way, I still have the bed, which is unfortunately the only one I own so I have to use it. I *really* need a new one.) The other Things done were less extreme. He acted out sex play with my Barbie dolls (I still can't bear to look at them. Just out of contrariness I go to the toystore and look at them just to force myself to get used to them. I mean come on, they're just dolls, for crying out loud!) By the time our parents broke up (thank the gods) I was acting out bondage scenes with them, complete with whips and suspension. Masturbation was almost a need, of which I was incredibly ashamed. This included objects, several times a day. I was miserable, hating myself and all that I had let myself become, all that I had allowed to happen to me. That was the only year I ever received an F in any class, until the 11th grade when my home life was again miserable, for another reason. My grades never really recovered from that, not even after I could not remember that year, or however long it lasted.... I don't know why I forgot. I don't suppose it really matters. It happened, I forgot it, these things happen. I remember it now, I'm dealing with it, however slowly.
Side note. When I was at work, remembering, a friend who worked there, I met him there in fact, made sure I was ok when he noticed something was going wrong. He said it was something in my eyes.... I told him the memory, and he helped me get through it and survive several difficult days there. For a while I couldn't even go in the break room. :) I recently found that he died just before Thanksgiving. Good journey, Billy, I'll miss you. I hope you're happier when you get there than you were when I knew you best.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2002-02-03 10:24 am (UTC)You're right. It's not your fault, and anyone who would have you think that should be shot. You're also brave for being able to talk about it openly. I've had some similar experiences of my own, if you ever want or need someone to talk to. My memories are still too hazy for me to remember much in the way of details at all though. Be well.
~Amanda