It was spring, and I sat on the grass as Sarah swung in the twilight air. I watched the long curls of her brown hair trail behind her like a comet. It was just us, and I wanted to tell her something, because I could always talk to her about anything. But this time, I stayed quiet. Something had happened, twice now, and I was supposed to keep it secret.
The daughter of a family friend was abusing me when my parents brought us for overnight stays. It started the winter I was six, when I shared a bed with the girl. She was a year older than me. After lights out, I would feel her hands on me. It would start with tickling my back and then going into things that were extremely uncomfortable. Freezing became my defense mechanism, and to this day, when I panic, I freeze. We had an earthquake recently here in L.A., and instead of running for cover, I grabbed a bag of Cheetos and just stood there eating them.
The second time she abused me, it was during a spring visit, and Ashlee also shared the bed. I lay between them, fiercely protecting my sister from this monster. I didn’t want her to feel as disgusting as I felt.
For six years, I was abused by this girl during our family’s visits, which happened three times a year. Eventually it wasn’t just nighttime. She would get me to go into a closet with her, or just find a way to linger until we were alone. It got to the point that she would sneak into the bathroom to watch me shower. I did not know how to get away from her.
She continued to try to sleep next to my little sister, and I would just scooch Ashlee over and get between them whenever she did. I never let her near Ashlee, but I also never screamed or told her to stop. I was confused, wondering if it was something that I wanted to keep going. Why am I not telling anybody? I would ask myself. Is it because it feels good? The irony is that I was protecting my abuser. I thought that if I named what she was doing, she would feel the shame I felt. And I wouldn’t have wished that on anybody.
I never slept well again. Well, I could sleep, but it took forever to get there. Even at home in my own bed, there was a feeling that I had to stay up to keep watch. I stopped waiting for Ashlee to come to my room and started sleeping in her bed. I remember the humiliation of saying to my baby sister, four years younger than me, “Ashlee, can I share your room?” Even then, I would lie awake waiting for my brain to shut off. I wanted to keep us both safe, but I also wanted her protection, too. Ashlee was already becoming her own person. She always took good care of looking after herself, and I was terrified someone could take that courage from her.
Over the years of this family friend abusing me, I learned that she was being molested by an older boy. I can’t play armchair psychiatrist and guess what her motives were for abusing me, but I can feel her pain and mine at the same time. She would describe her experiences in detail, and it was all so crazy because I was so young that I didn’t know anything about sex or about my private parts. My parents never talked to me about this. I mean, they taught me my body was a temple of God, but that was in reference to some imaginary guy in the future. It was never about someone who’s supposed to be a friend making you do things you don’t want to. So, I came to understand sex and my body solely in terms of power, or in this case, lack of power. I was just gonna let her do whatever it was she wanted to do because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
That’s kind of how I was in many of my adult relationships, too. At first, I held myself back, refusing to have sex until I was married. I was afraid sex, and the need I had to give pleasure no matter what, would destroy me as I let men walk all over me.
I was right. But I am getting ahead of myself.
I only found the strength to tell my parents what was happening because I made a deal with God. I was twelve, and my family was in the car on the way out of the town where the girl lived. It was a four-hour ride, and my father would always stop at the gas station to fill up the car and buy two scratch-off lottery tickets, one for me and Ashlee. I won so often that it was like a family joke—“the wealthy one” at it again—and I always thought it was God looking out for me.
My dad handed us each a ticket and a quarter when he got back in the car. Usually, I scratched the ticket right away, but this time I stalled. First, I wanted to tell my parents what was happening to me. What had just happened again the night before. For me, this would be a confession, because I felt like I might be sinning by allowing her to continue to do these things to me. I was the victim, but somehow, I felt in the wrong.
I waited until we were on the road, when Ashlee would put her headphones on. She was eight, and I wanted to protect her from hearing what I had to say. But when she did put them on, I lost my nerve, and decided not to say anything. I rested my head against the window to feel the rhythm of the Texas road. Occasionally, I lifted my head, ready to speak. And then I didn’t. It was like back when I stuttered. The words just wouldn’t come.
I rubbed the quarter between my thumb and pointer finger. “In God we trust,” it read. God and I were always in conversation. No matter what I did in life, He was there. If I do this, my reward will be in this ticket, I thought. He’ll give me a prize for being honest.
I started with a quiet singsong of “Ummm, guys.” Like I was tuning an instrument. My parents didn’t hear me. I cleared my throat, and the worlds spilled out in a quiet rush.
“I feel like you guys might know that this has been going on,” I said, “but if you don’t know what’s been going on, she’s been touching me for years and it makes me really uncomfortable and I don’t ever want to go back there.”
I couldn’t undo it. It was done.
My mother slapped my father’s arm with the back of her hand. “I told you something was happening,” she yelled at him. Neither turned to look at me. Dad kept his eye on the road and said nothing, his shoulders sunken. It didn’t surprise me that my mother knew. I already understood denial and how much it fueled the actions of families, especially Southern families. People want to paint the picture pretty, especially a minister’s family. They were probably also shocked. These good people who did everything to help others hadn’t been able to help their own daughter.
“Hello?” I said. I expected them to say something to me. I wasn’t angry, I was just confused. I wouldn’t be angry about their silence until much later.
I scratched off the ticket, knowing that I would win something. It was fifteen hundred dollars. I looked up to God. Then I brushed the ticket against my mother’s shoulder, forcing her to look back at me. She took the ticket and screamed to my father.
“One thousand five hundred dollars,” she said, drawing out the words. Dad pulled over, and Ashlee pulled off her headphones in confusion. They told her, so excited, and she looked at me with her eyes wide. She gave me a huge smile, and I took it so I could manage to give it back to her.
Dad did a U-turn to take us back to the gas station so we could collect our winnings. My parents clung to the happiness of that ticket, thrilled to be rescued with a change in subject. We never stayed at my parents’ friends’ house again, but we also didn’t talk about what I had said.
Instead, we just went back to start. As if what I said happened to me happened to some other girl, in some other car, in some other life.
3
Saved by Failure
Spring 1993