Naming and Believing The Abuse

This week my writing assignment is to name and believe the abuse. To describe what I remember. Sure, I can say with ease, My father's a child molester. My father-in-law is a child molester. My children and I have had an overdose of child molesters.

Is that really naming the abuse though? The book says no. The book says that's our cop out which helps us survive. To really name the abuse we need to tell our story and believe it.

The Believe It sounds kinda silly. I mean here I am reading, writing, and going to therapy, obviously I believe myself... right? Uh... that would be a BIG FAT NO. I still find myself wishing with all my heart it was just a bad dream. That I imagined it. That I'm wrong. Somedays I attempt to rationalize it all away. In fact, I have championship rationalization skills as it is the foundation of my survivor skills.

Now to describe the abuse. I can't describe all of the abuse, because my body is telling me there are things I have yet to remember. My childhood memories (the ones I do remember) are so disorganized I'm not sure of the chronology. That being said, here goes....

I remember the sound of ice clinking in a glass of Wild Turkey after dark. I remember how my father always told me how he loved me more than life its self. How special and important I was to him. How I was his princess. I remember the wrinkles on his neck. The nape of his hair. His scratchy beard on my neck and chest. I remember standing in front of my dresser with his penis in my hands looking down at it curiously.

Oddly while writing this I realize I don't remember feeling any feelings. I don't remember being scared, or ashamed. It's like I was empty. Like I am still empty. I don't remember any scents. Granted I can smell beer or whiskey on a person a room away, but I don't have any smells to accompany my memories. I don't remember hearing anything during the abuse either. Which seems weird because I have amazing hearing, probably forged through necessity to signal danger. I've always been clued into the sound of foot steps approaching, no matter where I am.

I remember watching porn with my father while he spooned me, and feeling comforted and special. I mean he never did that with my older sister, so I must be special just like he always tells me I am, right? I remember the warmth of his body behind me. Seeing his beer can in front of me, but I couldn't tell you where his hands were, or if he ever spoke to me.

In short I rationalized his behavior as examples of what fathers who love their daughters do. That and I disassociated to make sure I wouldn't feel anything.

Interestingly, this past Saturday I rented and watched Mr. Popper's Penguins with my Beloveds. I recall when I was a kid finding the book in the school library. I remember it was the first chapter book I read, and how proud I felt at my accomplishment. At dinner, I relayed this memory to my Beloveds. My oldest who is eight asked how old I was when I read it. (His teacher read it to his class when he was in 2nd grade.) I thought for a second and said, I think I was eight or nine. My Beloved almost choked on his dinner. "Wow mom" he said, "Why did you start reading so late in life?"

I thought about it and the answer struck me like a hammer. See I refused to learn how to read. I also refused to do math, or pretty much any school work. I think I refused from 1st to 3rd grade but my memory is a little fuzzy. My teachers just kept passing me without much to do. I don't remember them saying anything to my parents as I fell further and further behind. Until 3rd grade where my teacher told my mother I was stupid and need special education classes. (Yes, she actually said stupid because I remember her saying it to my face more than once in class.) My mother demanded I be tested, which the tests showed I was actually quite bright. My mother decided I just wanted more of her attention, so she broke out her old teaching books and taught me to read.

I remember I loved the attention. The time we spend together. The safety and comfort I felt. So my question to myself is, what was going on in my life that I refused to participate in school work? Why can't I remember those years? Obviously it was a cry for help, but help for what? Was it during that time the abuse was going on? Did spending those evenings with my mother help curb the abuse? I remember being terribly depressed and not talking to anyone, nor having any friends. Why? And why didn't my mother realize there was something wrong? Or did she know and she just couldn't face it?

If I do the math, my half sister, who was also abused by my father, her step father had finally gotten the courage to tell my mother what he had done to her. Even though she hadn't believed my sister, did she spend more time with me so he couldn't? After all, I was Daddy's Girl. His Princess.

I'm not sure what all this means. I do know it makes me very sad. Since my mother died when I was 19 I will never hear her answers or reasoning. Is that good or bad? Would she still defend him? Or maybe that's why she died, because she couldn't face the monster she had married? Or the person she had become allowing him to go unchecked all those years?

I remember a few more things, but the above was the worst of the incidents. The rest was perceived as a natural state of family life. Even now when I talk to other women I think, You mean your father didn't________ (insert morally inappropriate action here) with you, your sisters, your friends, or your mom's friends? Huh. Strange.