A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words

If a picture speaks a thousand words, what am I to make of this
Incest in the Suburbs: A Sixties Docudrama photo? That's me with The King of the Mountain's arm draped over my shoulder, one hand dangling possessively, cockily over my 11year old unblossomed breast.

I'd never seen this photo before. Sissyface and I fell into one of our infrequent probes into our childhoods last night and decided to bring out the photo albums. 

I've no memory of posing for this snapshot--but then why should I? I haven't a whole lot of memories of my earlier years. I'm not sure why I should be so haunted by this particular moment captured on film for all time. Is it because of the arrogance of my stepdad's hand placed so precisely where it shouldn't be? My mother is the only family member not included in this little domestic scene, which pretty much tells me she snapped the photo. Was she really so blind to the smirk on his face as his fingers inched toward my little girl's breast? Was he sending her a deliberate message, one she chose not to decipher?

Mother is heavy with child (Sissyface) and my eyes are heavy with the misery of my existence. When I first glanced at this next photo I asked Sissyface who that was holding our sister.

"That's you," she told me.

 I peered more closely, staring in disbelief. Something about my features look off. My face looks swollen, my eyes heavy-lidded.

"Hey," I complained to Sissyface, "I look like a young Danny Bonaduce!"

It wasn't until I scanned this picture and zoomed in for a closer inspection of my features that I realized why I hadn't recognized myself: my eyes were swollen, more than likely from crying. As my gaze took in all of  the picture's details, one thing stood out: my mother was obviously very pregnant. Judging by the ages of myself and my younger siblings, I calculated that this photo was taken very close to one fateful night--the night mother blundered into the room just in time to witness her better half molesting me.

Very possibly my stepdad snapped this photo just days before my mortification. Days before mother saw what she saw, weighed what she would have to give up in terms of financial security should she hold my stepdad accountable for his heinous crimes, and decided that mum was the word.

I've heard some horrendous things this weekend. I've discovered that our House of Incest was even more twisted and brutal than I knew by firsthand experience. What does this mean, exactly? It means, for one thing, that it's not going to be so easy in the future to slide comfortably into denial. It means that my mother's stance of Hear No Evil, See No Evil was more comprehensive than I'd known.

It means that anger is seeping to the surface, anger that she exposed every one of us kids to one sick man. I knew that Sissyface didn't just happen to be a fellow multiple by some bizarre coincidence. Of course something happened to her within the walls of that nasty, non-kid friendly house. What I didn't know was how insidious, how all pervasive was the rottenness of sexual perversions coupled with a woman who had no business calling herself "mother."

When I look into the eyes of my 11 year old self and see the depth of misery they contain, I shake with anger. How dare she even think that I would have wanted to spend time with her when she came to town? Doesn't she realize that the little girl of that photo with the expression of absolute despair still resides within me?

I went through a bit of agony trying to determine whether I should include these photos with my post. Why should I publish my abuser's mug on my blog? Why give him any kind of publicity? Or my mother, for that matter?

Here's why. I won't be intimidated by my abusers any more. Neither will I continue to cover them with the cloak of anonymity. They did what they did, let them answer for it in some fashion. My stepdad is no longer among the living, but his reputation lives on. That will speak volumes if I stop trying to protect his memory.

I'm not taking all of this uncontested to my grave. I'm not. I will look at these photos because I need to. I need to see the faces of evil. Why should I shy away from truth? I wasn't the one who did anything wrong. 

I've been nauseated and switching lots since yesterday. I feel as if I've caught some kind of soul sickness. Whatever it is, it's better than the fatal sickness of a hardened heart, the blackness of heart it would require in order to condemn a child to a life sentence of misery.

What I'd like to know more than anything is: why was I so visible as a kid to everyone but my mom? I obviously had a physical self which took up space in the world. A body which had working appendages. My arms held my little sister, made it possible to do my chores of dishes and sweeping the floor. I was obviously not invisible to my abuser. HE was aware of my existence.

It's not even so much, mother, that when you focused the camera on your motley crew of a family you failed to notice your hubby's hand caressing your daughter's breast. Oh that's bad enough. What is worse in some ways is the fact that you didn't notice my face, either. Didn't notice. Didn't notice: me.

Comments

[Enola]

I look at pictures of my 11 year old self and ask the same questions. I think people don't see things they aren't equipped to deal with. Or, like our mothers, they bury their heads under the sand. They sell their children (us) for their own personal protection and comfort.

You said there is anger there - there should be. Your mother knew and did nothing. To me that is worse than than the act itself.

((Hugs)) as you try to cope with all of these memories.

[wolfbaby]

im so very sorry for your pain. I hope there comes a time for a peacful feeling to settle in your heart.
take care and staty strong