Through my rigorous, and on-going study, in academia and of
my own volition, of literary technique, literary theory as it relates to
post-structuralism and Derrida’s Deconstruction,
of which my knowledge is limited, The New Critics, The New York intellectuals,
De man, and many others, of which my knowledge is also limited, and the
ephemeral quality of the text in
relation to the reader and the author, and to be more succinct, what language’s
relationship is to human existence, has resulted in my growth as a human being
and as a writer. I have made the sovereign decision to dedicate my life to
arranging words and in the process I hope to arrange myself. And in that
sentiment, I have found an agonizing and horrific irony. I am nurturing my
ability to craft pieces of fiction for the enjoyment of others yet I am
possessed of the inability to write directly about being sexually abused as a
child.
Through years of repressing the fact that I was sexually
abused, an agonizing chasm has formed, in my memory, that has been left for me
to trudge. How can this be? How can a person who has dedicated their life to
the word be eluded by them all? This post was very painful. Having to arrange
words, cognizant that they are being arranged in order to re-create or convey
my sexual abuse, is one of the most agonizing experiences of my life. And I know
that these streams of convoluted emotions are temporary and the essence of
myself, that I am attempting to capture in this moment, will miss the mark, is
in itself, painful. But, I am obligated to myself, to provide the following; my
best attempt at a brief narration of a moment in my childhood where I was sexually
abused. The following three paragraphs is my first time writing about my sexual
abuse in detail. Here goes nothing.
It must have been late September or early October. Of
course, I cannot be certain, however, when I delve into the corridors of my
memory, I see those autumn leaves; those beautiful autumn leaves, colored anywhere
between red and orange. It was morning and I had just awoken to the girl
whispering in my ear. She always seemed to be a playful and curious spirit. I
opened one eye than the other. Her freckled face and blue eyes were staring
right at me. I can’t recall saying much. I can’t recall ever saying much, I can
only recall lying there. There was commotion coming from outside of our shared
bedroom. It was my mother and the man, I believe she was dating. And this girl
was the man’s daughter. Bear in mind I was 7 and the girl was at least 12.
While this yelling stole my attention, the girl hopped into my bed, as she usually
did. And began undressing and playing with genitals. I do not remember resisting.
I only remember feeling a sense of prolonged estrangement.
This must have gone on for about ten minutes, when my mother
burst into the room to prepare me for school. She saw us there, together, in my
bunk, which was the top bunk of our bunk bed. She proceeded to scream. I am not
sure who the frustration was directed at, but knowing my mother, she wanted
nothing more than to protect me. My mother separated us, got me dressed, and
yelled up a storm at everyone. For those of who have mothers, I am sure you
know how intimidating it is to hear your mother yell when you are a child.
Especially if you think the yelling is directed at you. In retrospect, I know
she was yelling at the girl and her father. She finished preparing me and we
were on the way. All the while I felt as though I had betrayed my mother, the
girl, or crossed some moral or ethical boundary, but I didn’t. I was just a
boy.
On the car ride to school, I remember sitting there,
listening to my other talk to me. I didn’t know what she was saying but she
seemed concerned. This girl had been abusing me for nearly 2 years and I think
she was beginning to put the pieces together. My mother dropped me off at
school, gave me a kiss on the cheek, told me how special I was, and was on her
way. That school day had somber overtones. I kept replaying the events of that
morning, in an attempt see where I had gone wrong. And again in hindsight, I know
I did nothing wrong, but the moral implications of events, either implicit or
explicit in them, are difficult to discern as a child. After this day, my
memory goes grey for some time. I do know, my mother moved us from where we
were living, and I feel as though I never saw the girl again.
I know this isn’t the most horrific or gut-wrenching of
sexual abuse stories. And is nothing compared to what many people, including my
friend Allen, have lived through. But, this doesn’t make my experience invalid
and if you experienced anything terrible, it does not make your experience invalid
either. For me, it is difficult to gauge what impact this particular experience
has had one my emotional and mental growth. I had two other abusers in my life.
And I am not yet ready to write about them, but in time, and through the strength
I draw from this project, I know I will feel compelled too. I wrote this in
shame but the sun is shining today. I feel stronger. I know this post will be
lost with time, tucked away in some corner of the internet, maybe seen by a few
or many, I am not sure, but, I do know that I wrote it. I do know that I was
sexually abused, and I am beginning to understand that I am okay with that.
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