A Little
Girl Speaks
(WARNING –
Adult content)
What would child molestation look
like through the eyes of the child being abused? This is NOT a fairy tale:
Once upon a time there was an innocent little girl. She played
with dolls, pretended to be a princess living in a castle, but her innocence
was interrupted. So, here she shares her story of molestation.
I was only seven years old the first time it happened. I
don’t even remember how he got me to his house. It was a neighbor guy. I walked
over. I think it was to carry a cup of sugar he wanted to borrow. He didn’t
cook. I did not understand why he needed sugar. When I got there, he took my
hand and led me into a bedroom. As he opened a bureau drawer, he told me he had
a big secret he wanted to show me, but I could not tell anybody, because I
would get him in trouble if I did. He pulled out a book and flipped through the
pages. He told me to sit on the edge of the bed, and he began reading about
“Peyton Place.” It was about a teenage boy and girl taking their clothes off in
the back seat of a car. I had always been told never to let boys see me naked.
Having three brothers, and being quite a bit older than the two youngest, who
were twins, I had to help give them baths and all. So, I had seen guys’
pee-pees. But I was always told not to talk about them. This felt really
creepy. I had no idea I was in the very beginning of numerous years of being
molested.
The next time he had another surprise. This time it
was “The Carpetbaggers,” and again he told me I had to keep it a secret. The
books were hidden in his mama and daddy’s dresser, and he was not supposed to
even be in their bedroom. I figured that if I was in there, too, then I was
also in trouble. He told me he would tell them I went in there, and I’d be in
trouble. He said he would tell them it was me who found the books and it
would be all my fault. He reminded me nobody would believe me because I was so
young. He was a teenager, and I knew the family thought he was pretty special.
I also knew they would believe him over me. I did not feel very special,
and I did not know this was leading to child molestation.
Things just kept going. He knew I lived close to him,
and he always managed to trap me. It was very scary. Sometimes I thought I
would throw up in my mouth. I remember the time he touched me “down there,”
rubbing and telling me some day soon I’d start getting hair like the popular
girls if I let him do it a lot. I was only eight at the time. And besides, I
didn’t want hair down there. I didn’t even know you could get hair
down there. That was just gross. But then, child molestation is gross,
especially to the poor innocent upon whom it is being perpetrated.
For about eight years I tried to stay away from him, but he
always found a way to trap me. I felt really dumb about that. I thought I was
smart, but it sure seemed I must be pretty dumb to keep falling for his tricks.
Whenever I got a “C” on my report card, it made me feel dumb, too. I figured I
was dumb all the way around in life. Smart girls made “A’s” and they did not
get into trouble like this. Smart girls did not let guys touch them “down
there” over and over again, when they didn’t want them to do it. The girls that
happened to were the ones who go to hell. That was what I figured about the
whole thing.
I knew I could not tell anybody what he was doing to
me. They would not believe me, and he told me I’d be the one to wreck the whole
family—and the church we all went to. He also told me if I said anything,
“they” would come and get me and take me to a home for bad girls who did the
things I was doing. I didn’t get that. He was the one doing the
stuff, not me! But I knew I had to stay quiet. I did not want to be taken away
from my mama and daddy, and never get to see them again, like he said.
Perpetrators of child molestation always use intimidation and fear as their
weapons of choice, isolating and overpowering their prey.
There was always this funny smell when he would get me
trapped. His skin started to smell almost musky. It was just weird.
The worst time was the last time. He promised to give
me a sweat shirt from the college he was going to. I was about 15 years old by
then. It had been awhile since he tried anything, and he was dating a girl. So,
I figured maybe it was finally okay to trust him. Maybe he had stopped being
that way. Maybe he was trying to make up for all the bad things he had
done to me by giving me a really cool college sweatshirt. When I got there he
took me into his bedroom where the shirt was, said he wanted me to listen to a
new record he got. I walked over to his stack of 45s and was looking at all the
cool records he had. I even knew the words to some of them. Standing behind me,
I heard him say, “Hey, you want this shirt?”
I turned around, and he was naked from the waist down.
His private in no way resembled the ones my little brothers had, and by that
time they were bathing themselves, so I had not gotten any recent updates on
guy stuff. He started opening what I thought was an Alka-Seltzer in a foil
wrapper. But it looked like a balloon. Then he started putting it on his
gigantic wacker. What was he doing? He grabbed me, forced me down on the
bed and began pulling my pants off—shorts AND underwear. I was trying to fight
back. He just kept saying, “I won’t give you the shirt.” He explained he was
using what was called a “rubber” to keep me from getting pregnant, and it would
be okay. Hey, I was nearly 15. Hell, no, it would not be okay! He was not
putting that where he thought he was going to put it. I came to learn that
rape and child molestation were close friends.
Suddenly there was a knock on the back door. We were
no longer alone. Someone was calling out for his brother. He stood up, pointed
his finger at me and said, “You stay here. Don’t you dare move. I’ll be right
back.” He walked to the back door to give the other kid the brush off. I could
see him standing bare-assed naked with only a shirt on. The door had a glass
pane in the top half, so the kid who came to play had no idea he was not fully
dressed. This was my one chance to get away. I grabbed my shorts and yanked
them on quickly, grabbed the sweatshirt and wrapped my panties inside it. I
didn’t have time to put them on, too. I bolted out the front door, running
home, wondering what he thought when he returned to the bedroom, finding me
gone. Later he called me on the phone. He asked me why I left. I could not
talk, my mama was standing nearby and she would find out. He told me he would
make me pay for what I did. He was quite angry I got away. That was another
part of child molestation. Threats, constant threats of retribution, or even
death.
That’s my story of child molestation. I grew up
convinced that all a guy wanted was to stick his wiener in me. There was always
an ulterior motive. No guy could just love me, and want to make love to me. It
really screwed me up. It took a long long time for me to become healed and get
over what he did to me.
My book came out. Almost without exception, every
female in the family of my generation came to me and confessed (finally) that
for so many years they thought they were “the only one” he molested. The really
sad part is that he never had to pay for what he had done. Not ever. When he
passed away, he left a large group of damaged victims. Some have overcome, some
are powerful survivors, some are still struggling with hiding their dirty dark
secrets, afraid of the fallout that may take place if they tell someone beside
me. Then there’s the short little blonde girl who just told you my story of
child molestation. Many years after the sexual abuse took place, he moved away
and it ended, I transitioned directly into an abusive marriage. The foundation
had been set, and I figured that was all I deserved. I was spoiled goods.
BUT (isn’t there always a “but”?), today I am a
very visible and outspoken survivor, a victim services practitioner, an
advocate, and a fellow traveler who extends her hand to help other victims find
their own place of healing, wholeness and belief that they were created for a
special and unique purpose. They are fearfully and wonderfully made. Yes, we
all have stories to tell. I chose to tell my story of child molestation. What’s
yours?
