Freedom's Just Another Word

Paulette and I hung out together in Jr. High, usually at lunch time. We were two misfits who'd gravitated together and spent most of our time giggling. We sat together on the school bus; I don't remember what we talked about during the ride home, I just recall being relieved that I had someone I knew and liked to sit with.

Though we weren't close friends, one weekend I invited Paulette to spend the night. We stayed up late gabbing and giggling, as teen girls do, and then began talking in earnest about boys.

By this time I was getting drowsy. It must have been well after midnight. 

When Paulette said, "I could never allow a boy to put his thing in me," I was half asleep. Not thinking clearly.

"You get used to it," I said dully. The sudden silence in the room alerted me to the fact that I'd just said the wrong thing.

"You've done it?" Paulette whispered fiercely. "With who?"

This was more than she'd bargained for when she brought the whole subject up. She was not about to let loose of it.

"Oh never mind," I told her, trying my best to sound bored. My heart was tripping all over the place as I mentally willed her to just shut up and go to sleep.

"No, you have to tell me!" Paulette continued. "Who was it? Did you like it? Was it gross?"

To this day I don't know if I spilled the beans merely to get her to shut up, or what. 

"Sometimes my . . . my stepdad does things to me."

Now the silence in the room was deafening. My little bit of news seemed to have left Paulette speechless.

Finally she whispered, "Oh, he can't do that to you. You have to tell someone. That's wrong! I can tell my mother and she'll let you come live with us, I know she will. And we can call the police and have him arrested."

Hearing the word 'police' brought all sorts of unwanted images to mind. I couldn't imagine the authorities invading the sanctity of my mother's hard won suburban world. Beyond that, I really for the life of me didn't believe that any authority on earth could or would stop my stepfather. Why had I opened my big mouth? Why on earth spill the beans when I'd managed for 7 years to keep my mouth shut?

Eventually Paulette relunctantly accepted the fact that I wouldn't allow her to tell her mother, or anyone. We never discussed the subject again, and within several months of my secret coming out we'd stopped hanging out together. I think that the ugly secret between us was too much for our casual friendship.

Today while reading Enola's latest post, all this came back to me. Of course I kicked myself all over again for not accepting the help that was available to me. The one and only time during those years that I confided in someone, and someone who  wanted to do something about my dilemma, and I ended up running back into my little world of denial.

I don't know why I did this.  

I can only think that my stepdad had me so brainwashed into believing that no one could stop his disgusting crimes against my body that when help presented itself, my automatic reaction was What's the use? I'm going to extend to myself a little bit of grace now, because there's something else to be factored in. When my mother stumbled into the room and caught her hubby molesting me, there were no consequences to him. Absolutely nothing in his world changed, which means he was allowed to continue his pedophilia without any interference from her.

How then could I imagine that a simple phone call to the authorities would change all that?

It sickens me to think of the hold our abusers had on our emotions and our thinking abilities. We truly believed we would never be free of the humiliating molestations, rapes and beatings. We truly believed this because somewhere along the way we also became absolutely certain that we deserved what was done to us.

This, I believe, is why I didn't tell, why Enola didn't tell.

We thought we couldn't tell because we deserved such treatment. Why would anyone want to help someone so unlovable that their own family would do such disgusting things to them?

Oh, the pain of writing that! I know, for myself at least, it's all too true. I was convinced that I deserved everything I got. My own mother said as much by her refusal to hold my abuser accountable. 

Often I've wondered how things would have turned out had I given Paulette permission to tell her mother about my situation. Who would I be now? Would I have gone to live with them, and hated it? Loved it? Would I have been sent to live with my real father? Would he, upon hearing the reason for my sudden reappearance in his life, had tracked down my stepdad and blown his brains out?

There is no sense in going too far with these kinds of thoughts. For whatever reason, I chose not to tell. I have to live with that the rest of my life--but I'm not going to beat myself up for it. I know how defeated I felt, constantly. I was a hostage who in my wildest dreams couldn't imagine freedom.

Comments

[enola]

I read your post and find myself saying "It's not your fault" or "it wasn't your duty to tell" or "don't fall into the 'what if' trap" - I should take my own words into consideration, huh? I was in that same situation - had an exchange student stay over and find out what was going on in my house. She told some others at school - and I covered it up and lied about it. I wonder what would have happened if it had been reported?

I guess we can go round and round and round - all to the result that we can't undo things - and it wasn't our job to keep us safe. It was our parents -and they failed.
(((((Hugs)))))

[Perfect]

You are so right. What a totally true statement. When the people who were supposed to love us and protect us more than any other were the ones abusing us through action or INaction, as the case may be...what message did we receive? Ones of utter worthlessness.