The Secret

I don’t know how young I was.

But I was old enough to know that this wasn’t right.

It wasn’t ok.

This shouldn’t be happening.

I was sleeping my mom’s bed that she shared with him at the time.

She was at work. I think.

I woke up.

I was scared.

This wasn’t right.

What was he rubbing on my arm?

On my side?

Why was he looking at that way.

I need to get away.

The first time I said something was to my sister.

She then shared my secret during a family counseling session.

I think to divert the attention from her to me.

My dad didn’t know how to respond. He went silent.

After that I never really talked it about again with a therapist or anyone.

I told the therapist at the time that I had moved on. I was fine. I got over it.

I’m sure she knew that wasn’t true.

He knew my dad.

He really knew my mom.

His ex-wife was friends with my dad.

I knew his daughter.

After that therapy session I guess a call or something was made to that friend’s mother.

She said that it couldn’t be true.

It wasn’t him.

But I knew.

I know.

When I was in high school I finally told my mom.

I told her in the middle of an argument about her then alcoholic boyfriend.

I was mad. Because it felt like she always chose the men in her life over her children.

I wanted her to know that she didn’t know me at all.

And that one of the men in her life sexually abused me when I was too young to say no.

She didn’t protect me.

Even though I didn’t talk about it for years. It still happened. And it still shaped so much of my beliefs around sex, validation, acceptance.

So much of my childhood is blocked out from my memory.

I sometimes have to question the memories that do pop up and ask did that really happen?

Was this real?

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