I grew up in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Where locking your cars and houses was unheard of, where the biggest problem on the weekends were some kids drinking beer on an abandoned country road, and where everyone was family. It was always the joke that everyone else already knew what you were doing, before you were even doing it.
My grandparents all died at young ages, and the block I grew up on, had an abundance of “fill-in” grandparents that I loved to spend time with. The couple across the street spoiled us with snacks and treats, and would play board games with my brother and I. Anytime they saw us outside, we’d run across for a hug from them. If we were outside riding bikes, they’d be outside wandering around, under the guise they were checking out the yard. We knew they were watching us, making sure we didn’t get ran over or crash. Another elderly gentleman lived down the street, and made a point of stopping us anytime he saw us, to give us a stick of gum. He’d sit by the curb and read his newspaper, and I’ve always attributed my love of news and politics to Mr. T. I was only 6 or 7, but he talked to me like I was an adult, and got me interested in something other than the cartoons my friends were watching.
Then there was A. A was a single older gentleman, who lived a few houses down. He walked everywhere, and “How Do?” was his greeting. A would invite my brother and I down to his house to watch tv, listen to the radio, bake goodies, and play games. For some reason, I went alone one day. When I got there, he realized it was just me, and told me to sit on his lap while we played. I didn’t think anything of it, until he started touching me inappropriately and trying to slide his hand up the leg of my shorts. I asked him to stop and he laughed and asked if it tickled. I didn’t know what to say, so I said yes. He picked me and threatened jokingly to throw me on his bed. All of the sudden, the next thing I remember, is me laying on the bed, him spooning me, and him trying to unbutton my shorts. A few minutes later, I said I had to go, and ran home. I didn’t tell my Mom because I was afraid I’d get into trouble. I just knew I wasn’t going to go back.
A was persistent though. He would stop at our house if anyone was in the yard, and ask when we kids were coming back to visit. I always tried to have an excuse, but then there were just times that I didn’t. And he knew it. So he’d try to bribe me with things. One day my brother and I were on our way down there, and as we were making cookies, he realized he was short of sugar. He gave my brother a cup and asked him to run home and get sugar from my mom. He started working behind me, leaning over me, and he was pushing his groin area onto my back. I tried to get away, but when I did, he grabbed my arm and made me sit on his lap again. I remember him asking if I had a tan from my swimsuit line, and trying to take my shorts off so he could see it. I begged him not to take them off, but he did. I’ve blocked out a lot about that day, and the experience as a whole, but I do know I was penetrated by a finger, and I was scared out of my mind. My brother walked back in a few minutes later, and I just felt like the worst person in the world. I wanted to scream to him to run and get out of there.
A month or so later, he stopped back at the house and said he had some things for me. A cousin of mine was over to play, so she agreed to walk down there with me. He told her to take a seat, and took me into an extra bedroom that he kept all this random junk in. He pulled out a very adult nightie, and told me he got it for me, and wanted to see if it fit. I refused to put it on, and he tried to lift my shirt up over my head to get it put on. I started to cry, and yelled for my cousin. She came in, and he asked her if she would put it on. She grabbed my arm and we ran all the way home.
I never went to his house again. I saw him every day for years, walking by our house, and I just wanted to scream at him every time I saw him. I don’t even know if he is dead or alive at this point, but I pray he didn’t do this to anyone else. He always made sure to tell me that this was our little secret and that people wouldn’t understand it, they’d think I was dirty. I’ve gone through much of my adult life thinking that I am “damaged goods” and not worth loving. It’s affected my relationship with my parents, with my husband, and I picked up some very self-destructive habits as a means to deal with it, which doesn’t work.
I wish I had told my Mom the first day. It makes me so angry that not only did he control my body when he did those things, but he also made me think that what he was doing was ok and that I was dirty if I told. I lived with this secret for the past 25 years, and there has not been a day where it doesn’t surface. I’m finally going to counseling and working on making ME better.