How do you convince a little girl of five, who has become a grown woman of forty seven, that its safe now? When the grown woman has endured unspeakable abuses, rape and at the hands of those who were supposed to protect her.
I’m forty seven years young, and still have this horrible fear of repetition of events long gone. Only not with myself but with my own children. I am what they call, “over protective” with my own kids. Should I not be? What can anyone do to change how I feel today? In my opinion, nothing. I am going to feel this way until I am six feet under. And I will feel this way about the welfare of my children as well.
The first time I can remember something going terrible wrong, and never feeling innocent again, was when I was about four years old or so. I remember my mother loading me and my sisters up in the station wagon. I sat on the floor in the backseat, one of my special spots. I would sit on the floor and gaze out the window at the sky while we drove. I loved doing that. It seemed to be a long drive, maybe forty five minutes or so until we arrived.
I remember pulling in a dirt driveway, and the entrance was behind the house. It was a two story house, one that I had never seen before. I didn’t know the people in the house, which was an older woman and a younger man. My mother parked in the back of the house and then got out. She went to the door, knocked and the older woman came out. Then my mother told us to get out of the car. We did as we were told, we knew better not to. She told us to come over to the old woman and to go in the house with her. I was scared, very scared. And ran back in the car and sat on the floor. My mother came around to the door, opened it and ripped me out of the car, with great anger. I started to cry, I was frightened of this woman I had never seen before, a house I had never seen before, and my mother telling me I had to go inside with her.
Kicking and screaming all the way through that door. As I turned back and saw my mother climb behind the wheel and drive away. Leaving us there. The old woman threw us in the house, slammed the back door, and locked it. Then made us stand there facing her, I was still crying. She took out a belt and started to hit me, yelling that I had better shut my mouth, or she would do worse. I did.
Then she gave us something to drink, while we were still standing there. I can’t remember what it looked like, I think it was milk. But I do remember drinking it as I was told to do. Then I recall walking around the place a bit. It was decorated with bright colors and ruffles everywhere. I distinctly remember the ruffles - they were on the curtains, the bedspread, the trim around the vanity, everywhere.
The next thing I remember, I am waking up on one of the beds. Everything in that room was pink ruffles. I felt very strange, like I was in a cloud. I didn’t have anything on but my underwear. And I was very sore. I was alone.
It was dark outside I had no idea where my mother was. Suddenly, we were led outside to where she was waiting for us, and we loaded up and went back home. This was the very first time I can remember when my mother drove us to strangers homes and left us there. Only as the years rolled by, she would drive further, and we would stay longer.
Such a strange feeling, getting used to showing up at a complete stranger’s house. Walking inside with my mother, being introduced, and then her simply leaving. Not knowing when she was coming back; where we were, or who these people were she was leaving us with. I can’t even recall any of their names. But I do recall what was done to me.
I’ve never been able to figure out whether she was paid for leaving me off at these places or what. What was her motive? Why did she do it and so often? I was so young, and learned so much. As I got older I realized exactly what men were capable of. They never seemed to mind that I was just so young.
Therein lies the fear that I have grown up with and retain to this very day about my own children. I will not, ever, allow them to be with anyone I don’t know. Simple as that. Yet I have been criticized immensely by my own in-laws for this. I can’t understand how they cannot see why I am who I am. What events have brought me to the person that stands before them. I will never change. I will feel the same way about my grandbabies when I have them as well. We cannot change the past, but we can chose our future.
