My mother and father divorced when I was the tender age of two and for a season it was just Mom, my two brothers and me. A short time later, she met a man who she moved in with us and this is when my abuse started…around the age of three.
My first memory came crashing through nearing the end of adolescence. And so it began…It was a sunny morning in 1973. Mom was up early cooking breakfast. The smell bacon and eggs carried through the house. I was getting dressed and put on my favorite white ruffled tank top with red embroidered stitching on the front and little red polyester shorts to match.
“He” lay upon Mom’s bed watching television. He was partially covered and only wearing a pair of white underwear. He looked at me as I stood in the doorway and motioned me to the bed. I don’t remember what was on TV, but I remember the prickly feeling of his mustache touching my face, the black hairs that covered his chest and the stillness of the room that filled the air around me. It was quiet. The sheets covered my body. He gently opened my legs and pulled the cloth of my little red shorts to the side. He pressed himself against me and the memory fades.
I don’t know exactly where that memory ends or where the next one begins, but what I do know is I endured years of molestation at the hands of those I trusted and loved. My boundaries were blurred, lines crossed, secrets made and never told.
Memories have a funny way of showing up in life. For years I pushed these memories to the back of my mind until I couldn’t push them back anymore; Safely tucked away for a time later in my life.