Why I Didn’t Tell.

You probably shouldn’t read this. 

I really don’t want you to.

I really didn’t want to write it.

I’ve composed it over and over in my head, because I didn’t want to write it down. But if I’m writing about truth, it’s part of mine. I winced through the heyday of #metoo, because yes, and because just no!

I was molested as a child. 

It didn’t hurt as much to type it as I thought it would. What hurts is the look on your face when you read it. Shock, hurt, anger, pity, sadness. That’s why I never told anyone.

Ok, I told my husband and my religious leader, many, many years after the fact. I told my husband, because I didn’t want it to interfere with our marriage, and my religious leader to deal with the guilt.

I don’t want to talk about it, so here goes. The little boy next door and I were playing doctor. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. His teenage brother caught us, but he didn’t tell on us, he wanted to participate. 

When I hear people say, “You wouldn’t forget something like that.” It makes me want to scream. You will try with every fiber of your being to forget! I don’t remember the date, even the year. I think I was 7. I remember feeling sick. I remember feeling confused. I remember wearing a one piece bathing suit under my clothes to make it harder for him to touch me. I remember asking myself if the same thing was happening to my little sisters, but being too much of a coward to try to find out.

I remember the day when my oldest brother came across us, behind some bushes, as I struggled to tell this boy that he couldn’t touch me. My brother told him to leave me alone, never touch his sister again! And, unbelievably, he didn’t! We never spoke about it. I don’t know what he thought. I was beyond grateful! 

For years, I blamed myself. There are still things I blame myself for, even though I know that wasn’t actually my fault. I was a child.

My point isn’t really to talk about what happened to me, because Jesus knows, I don’t want to talk about it!  But, I feel beyond impressed to talk about the aftermath. I’m fine by the way. But not everyone is. Don’t you dare presume to know how that victim felt or why she did or didn’t do anything afterward! I don’t know how the next person feels. Neither do you. 

I do know how I felt when about 40 years later that person sent me a message on Facebook. Like a 7 yr old. Afraid, threatened. I deleted the message. 

So when friends of mine make jokes about how ridiculous it is that someone would come forward 25, 35, 40 years later, it feels like a personal attack. I know you didn’t know. That shouldn’t matter. You thought it was funny? Which part? The part where he tried to pull her clothes off, or grabbed her breasts, or her crotch? Or was it when she was afraid that she would get in more trouble than he would? Was that funny? Was it your sister, or mom, or daughter?

I was 7. She was 15. That lady was 28. People still didn’t believe them. 

I had no doubt that my parents would believe me. I was afraid my dad would kill him. I was afraid it would break my mother’s heart. So, I decided that I should bear this burden alone. Typing this right now, I don’t know if anyone will ever see it. I am still afraid.

But, if one person thinks, maybe I should think about this from her point of view. It would probably be worth it. 

I’m not saying every story is true, but why would anyone choose to make this one up? 

Prove it? 

Why would I want to?