Don’t Feel Sorry For Me

when I was 4 almost 5 years old I was sexually molested
raped by a teen age son
of neighbors
took me into a
fort hideout playhouse construction
that the neighborhood kids had build out of
cardboard and
fallen limbs
it was dark inside
light came through cracks
I don’t remember what he did
I don’t remember if it hurt
I know it happened more than once
I’ve always known
from the time that I was a little girl
that I was bad
that I wasn’t
the same
as my sisters were
that there was something wrong with me
and I didn’t know what it was because
because this was all swept under the rug
I knew I was bad because I was the one that was punished
was told
that it was something that I made up
that I shouldn’t tell lies
I know
that my parents thought
that if they didn’t
admit that it happened that I would forget about it
that it wouldn’t touch me
but I had
and night terrors
and I have unreasonable fears
and I
have never had
a normal, healthy view of myself
I’ve always known
that there was something wrong with me
and I didn’t know what it was
years later
when I began to
know what had happened to me
my dreams
what they really were
which was memories
that I had
the same value
as other girls
and I know now that the reason was
I knew I had done something wrong
I knew that I had done something wrong and that was the reason why
I was punished
and the boy wasn’t
my mom and dad didn’t love me any more
why they didn’t hold me
and protect me
and tell me that everything was alright
and that I was a good girl
and I had done nothing wrong
two or three years after
when I was five
or maybe six or seven
we’d moved to another neighborhood
and this family moved to the same neighborhood
and I had vivid images of the boy
and I
I couldn’t say anything
I couldn’t say I was afraid
I had to act
as if nothing
had ever
I was told to never
say what had happened
never use those words
I was told that it never happened
that I made it up
and eventually
I forgot
Follow-Up: Even today, no one wants me to admit accept it. Husband, children, sister ~ all say “Don’t talk about it. It’s embarrassing. Why do you have to write that stuff?” 50 years later and I’m still the one at fault.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: