I worshipped him. I never suspected my favorite uncle sexually abused me. At family parties, I shadowed his every move. I felt safe around him. A perfect example of the place he held in my attachment hierarchy occurred at the age of six when he vacationed with my grandparents and my immediate family in New Hampshire. While everyone was visiting, I rode my bike down the street against my parent’s rule about going anywhere alone. When a car nearly hit me because I turned my bike too quickly, blood trickled down my legs as I limped home and slipped in through the back door so no one would see me. My tendency of being an annoying interruption forced me to stay under the radar. My countless journeys to my bedroom for being “naughty” proved that theory.

 

            Mom busily prepared dinner in the kitchen while conversations streamed from the living room. My uncle sat on the floor watching television while my grandparents went on and on about who died in New York, how many funerals they went to, and how the deceased looked so good while lying in their casket. Morbid discussions abound in our family. Even with the bathroom door open and muffled whimpers slipping through my lips, nobody noticed until my uncle glanced in my direction. When our eyes met, I called his name for help, not my parents. After I found out what he did to me, I didn’t understand why his very presence enthralled me so much. Perhaps his actions created a soul tie that bound us together for eternity.  Unfortunately, our hellish bond stayed in my head and carried on long after the revelation; in fact, my inability to face the trauma made me run away from my parent’s home, my marriage, or anything that made me feel like I was no longer in control.

 

            My revelation began the summer of 1969 in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Leaving my parents for an adventure hundreds of miles away with my favorite uncle, who was a Marine, and his new wife far exceeded my parent’s original plan to send me to Camp Susque in Pennsylvania, which I loathed because of the caddy little girls who attended. When Uncle Joe asked me to spend the summer with him and his new wife, of course I jumped at the chance. My parents gladly pushed me out the door since the throes of menstruation took over their brooding daughter like some demonic presence. Their sanity departed the minute my willfulness took over. Sometimes they wanted to run away from my shenanigans just as much as I wanted to run away from their parental ten commandments. The perfect word for me: incorrigible. I admit it. My father loves to tell people how my willful disobedience drove the neighbors crazy when we lived in a side-by-side duplex. Stamping up the stairs helped alleviate the rage I felt during fights with my dad. His remedy: forcing me to walk back up the stairs again like a lady. Not this girl. I would stomp even harder. My father would wait it out by placing a chair at the bottom of the stairs. He grabbed a newspaper and would tell my mother what was happening in the world while she cooked dinner in the kitchen, which was just around the corner from the stairs. Eventually every muscle in my legs would ache with fatigue. I would walk up the stairs correctly but defeated and, quite frankly, pissed off. It wasn’t hard to understand why they were ready for a break. I, too, needed a reprieve.  

 

            So off to North Carolina I went. My Uncle Joe lived in military housing in Midway Park. His 750 square foot home had a living room, two bedrooms, and a tiny kitchen. Even though they had two bedrooms, I slept on the couch in the living room because their cat occupied the guest room. It does beg the question as to why a cat took priority over a niece, but since sleeping with the stench of kitty litter didn’t thrill me, I didn’t question their motives.

 

            If I wanted to be center stage with some attention, a Marine base was the perfect venue. Uncle Joe’s desperate Marine friends took an interest and flirted with me whenever they had the chance. Warren Keith was one of them. He wanted to take me to dinner. My uncle’s face turned electric crimson when he bastardized this poor soldier’s plans. “My 12-year-old niece will not be running around base or off base with some horny Marine. Do you hear me soldier?” I don’t think he knew my age.  

 

            The attention felt incredible. I wanted more. With Uncle Joe’s marine buddies, a simple smile said you are pretty. A touch on the shoulder said you are worthy of my attention. A hug goodbye said I will protect you with these strong muscular arms. But as the marines paid attention to me, Uncle Joe hovered over them, watching their every move. Eventually they stopped coming around.

 

            Even though Uncle Joe’s Marine buddies dropped out of sight, Uncle Joe had a fun-loving side to him that helped pass the time. Laughing at each other’s corny jokes, fighting make-believe wars with squirt guns, and wrestling on the floor entertained us. One night he chased me through the house while my Aunt was sleeping. When he finally caught me, he pinned me on the couch. His playful tickling became aggressive and, quite frankly, painful. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but my laughter still resounded throughout the room. I could barely breathe as his fingers moved up and down my body. He didn’t know when to stop. Or maybe he didn’t want to. When I caught my breath, instead of telling him to take a break, I yelled, “Stop, because I have something to hold against you.”    

             

             He knew what the accusation meant, even though they were innocent words on my part. His startled expression sent a chill through my sunburned body. His fun-loving demeanor plummeted into a rage. His halting, yet abrupt threat, “Don’t ever tell anyone about this or you will regret it” haunted me that night and for years to come.

 

            It took me a few minutes to assess the situation and work up enough composure to say one simple word: “Okay.” After he whispered a few expletives, so my aunt would not hear, his crazed eyes fixed on mine.

 

            “You better not say anything to my wife. Do you hear me?”

 

            I shook my head in submission. What else could I do? But the greater question that ran through my brain was what the hell just happened? I didn’t have anything I could possibly tell his wife that could hurt his relationship with her, so what did he mean by that statement?

 

            As I succumb to a fitful night of sleep, the knots I tied around my unconscious mind began to unravel as a montage of memories illuminated the stage of my childhood. As each scene unfolded, I drew closer to the truth. I remembered the night in the bathroom. I remembered everything. I was sexually abused.

 

             In the beginning of my dream, our Pontiac Street house in Webster, New York loomed across the screen. Then suddenly another scene floods my dreams. Uncle Joe is chasing me through the kitchen and into the living room. Fear has its grip on me, and my heart is pounding wildly as he pushes me into the bathroom and locks the door. Pink tile that makes my stomach hurt to this day surrounds the bathtub.

 

            My mother marvels that I can remember the color of the tile in our first house. What can I say? I have a photographic memory. Although those pink tiles may seem insignificant to some, they became my focal point during the abuse. The mind has a way of protecting the body by closing the gate to pain. When you concentrate on an object, the brain has to work at seeing the object versus relaying the pain.  In the process of childbirth, I chose a focal point to help with the searing pain of delivering. As for the degrading experience that occurred that night; well, I wish the cortex of my brain didn’t capture that permanent snapshot of the pink tile and everything else that occurred.  

 

            I can see Uncle Joe standing in front of me with his muscular teenage frame and crooked smile. He pushed back his sandy blonde hair with one hand and touched my cheek with the other. His finger moved across my lips as he leaned down to kiss me on the cheek. Next, he did the detestable. He sexually abused me. I could see every detestable thing he did. The curtain closes, and my memory fades into the darkness of my psyche.

 

            Even though intense experiences often create enduring memories, my mind chose to forget. While growing up, the memories masked themselves through physical responses that lurked around every corner waiting to jump out at me. How does a child reason out events that make very little sense? I know I chose to forget the reality of what happened, and the experience that shattered my soul grew in intensity because of my silence. My fears took over. I couldn’t go to summer camp without ending up in the infirmary for the entire week with stomach complaints. After every family gathering, which included my uncle, while lying in the blackness of my room, restlessness would take over my body. My mother said I talked in my sleep, but I never said anything that made any sense. Running, wildly and frantically from someone I couldn’t see plagued my dreams. Then I would catch a glimpse of his faceless stature, powerful and strong; but his character never stayed the same. A solider with a gun strapped to his shoulder, or a clown with eerie makeup, or a Native American Indian in full headdress; these characters would often chase me through different locales. My frenzied running gained momentum as I tried to escape the inevitable. When pain surged through my tired muscles and my breathing rapidly increased its intensity, I would fall to the ground like a dog playing dead. When my perpetrator hovered over my body with a sense of familiarity to me, I would wake up frightened, alone, and unable (or was it unwilling?) to call out to my parents. The night after my revelation, the nightmares stopped; the running did not. I wasn’t sure what I was running from or what I was running toward, but I ran far, and I ran fast.

 

            Two days later my destiny had me heading away from the physical presence of my uncle, but a new nightmarish reality started the moment the plane landed. I felt exposed and ashamed. My whole demeanor changed from that day forward.  The dark side took over, and I simply didn’t care about anything anymore. Curiously, no one noticed when I changed or why. They passed it off as part of being a teenage girl.

 

            Shame also wreaked havoc on my mind, which fueled my determination to keep quiet. I knew enough about sex to know that what happened between us would disgust my family and friends. Everyone would look at me differently. I would be the freak of nature whose uncle sodomized her. My need for approval stemmed from feeling like I was dirty. I was already different because I didn’t live the typical childhood.  The kids in the neighborhood went to public school, but I went to a private school. I had a sister in a wheelchair. I didn’t wear jeans and t-shirts like the rest of my friends; my clothes were handmade. The more my experiences lowered my self-esteem, the more my attention-seeking behaviors grew in response. Even today, they make me an overachiever, a workaholic, and sometimes just a plain hot mess. My shame held me captive emotionally, and the onset of all my anxiety and negative behaviors started when my abuse came to light. 

 

            The anxieties grew worse throughout my teenage years and into my young adult life. I ran away from home over and over again, and I couldn’t stay faithful in my marriage. I still suffer today, and most of the time it is a loss of control that causes them, the kind of control a three year old doesn’t have when she is sexually abused or a twelve year old who learns nightmares can come true. Even as an adult woman I don’t know how to change my abuse into understanding and forgiveness, but every day I pray that my heart will be free from the trauma of the past. One thing I have learned is that I am a survivor, and I will win this battle.