Issa

We met the first time when I was six, when his mother started dating my father. (Our parents lived together for a few years and married when I was eleven.) We didn’t see much of each other that first year, because our weekends rarely coincided. When we were around each other, I found him to be really touchy. He hugged me too often and I didn’t like him. I found him to be an annoying pain in the ass.

When I was seven he invented a game called “married,” which he wanted me to play. Not house, not doctor… “married.” Seeing how the alternative was follow around my younger annoying brothers, or his older sister who wanted nothing to do with me, I agreed. Playing married wasn’t a huge deal at first. It started out really small. The touching. The asking to see if I had boobies. The rubbing up against me. The fake kissing. The over-showing of his penis. I had two brothers, I’d seen penises, so I just never saw what was wrong with it. After awhile, he went a bit farther. He basically dry humped me. I had no idea what he was doing and it didn’t last longer than a minute or two, so I ignored it. I’d pretend I was somewhere else, not there with him. I think he took that as a sign that I enjoyed it.

Here’s where it gets tricky. He was not older than me. He was not some bully picking on a younger child. He was my age. Exactly my age, in fact. He is a day younger than me. I was quiet and embarrassingly shy. I didn’t know how to make him stop. I knew I didn’t like what he was doing, but I didn’t have the words to explain to anyone what was going on. In some ways, I was scared of him. I shouldn’t have been, but I was.

This went on for years. I wanted to tell my mom, but I just couldn’t make myself form the words. I tried, but I couldn’t. Each time I went to my dad’s house, I swore I’d stay away from him, but I wasn’t ever able too. He’d corner me anywhere and push me to the ground. He’d put his hands all over me. He’d hump my leg. He’d try and kiss me for reals. When I’d ask him to stop. Whenever I told him I didn’t like this, he’d tell me I did. He’d tell me he’d kill me if I told anyone. He told me if I didn’t like him, I’d have stopped letting him touch me years ago. It was too late now.

When I was twelve and we were on a camping trip, he took to the place of no return. He sneaked into my tent in the middle of the night and I woke up after he’d removed my sweatpants and panties. He would have raped me that time, but he had no idea what he was doing. He raped my leg. I tried to push him off of me, but I wasn’t able to. It was over as quick as it started.

After that I swore I’d tell my mom. Then the unthinkable happened. My innocent baby brother was molested by our uncle. He told my mom and it tore our family apart. I wanted to tell her what had happened to me, but I knew everyone would think I just wanted attention. I decided then that I’d never tell a soul. I also decided that day to sleep with a knife while at my dad’s house. It was a small knife, a pocket knife.

For awhile I got lucky. I barely saw him for the next year or two and when I did, I made sure I wasn’t ever alone with him. I’d go to sleep at friends’ houses whenever I had to go to my dad’s. At fourteen he cornered me in a bathroom and yet again raped my leg.

He only entered me once and to this day I would tell you, he couldn’t tell the difference. I did though. I knew. He held his hand over my mouth, so I couldn’t scream.

When school started that year, I thought I’d hit the freaking lottery: his parents decided to send him to boarding school. When I’d see him on school breaks I made sure to stay far away from him. I’d made my baby brother teach me how to defend myself, but the opportunity never presented itself again.

At a Christmas party one year, when I was seventeen, he asked me if I wanted to come cuddle and watch a movie later. My boyfriend (now my husband) saw the way I cringed and balled my fists, each time he talked to me. Later, I told my husband most of what had happened. I’m not sure what he did to my step-brother, but I know he’s never tried anything again.

I’ve told two people this story. One is my husband and the other my best friend, who I told in a drunken moment when I was nineteen. I will never tell my parents. I haven’t told my younger brother, someone who would understand. I avoid my dad’s house on holidays like the plague. I visit on random times and never for longer than a few days. I go years between visits. I do this for many reasons, but one is so I won’t have to see him. I have never allowed my children to be alone with him in a room. In fact, he’s only seen my girls a handful of times. Mostly at weddings and funerals.

I know logically it’s not my fault. However I also know I could have stopped it, had I had any courage. I was not raped, not in the way most people are. I let a little boy, my step-brother, a kid who was my age do this too me. I know what he did was wrong, I do. Truly. I also know, as an adult, how I could have stopped him. Adult logic however, isn’t little girl logic. I am thankful every day that my girls are stronger than me. I know if someone looked at them wrong, they’d not hesitate to tell me.

My husband understands. He knows, he gets it. He learned long ago not to rub up against me without me knowing he was there and what he was doing. My own husband has to announce when he wants to get all touchy. Ten years of marriage and he still has to do this. He is a saint.

I never wanted to tell this story. I’ve been asked many times over the years if I was abused as a kid. I’ve lied to my mother, to my friends and to therapists. I can’t seem to figure out why I am telling this now. I think its because last week a little boy told my seven year old that he had a boner. I had to explain to her what that meant. She knew what he said wasn’t okay and she told a teacher and me. She did the right thing in telling and all he did was say the word to her. But I had to explain to my seven year old child what a boner is. I can’t seem to stop thinking about this, since that day.

I am hyper-vigilant when it comes to who is around my children. I know it can be anyone though. Any one can take a child’s innocence away. I lost mine when I was seven.

I wish I could get it back.

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Issa blogs at Issa’s Crazy World. This post was originally written six months ago. Issa asks that you keep all comments here on VU, rather than on her own blog.

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94 Comments | February 8, 2010 | Filed Under sexual abuse, survivor story