I have found the thought of what I believe at this time to be my first sexual experience invading my peace lately (and with it an increase in addictive behavior). I hope to learn eventually why that connection (between memories and behaviors) exists, and how to short circuit the drive to act out. But for now, I simply want to get this incident down on paper in the hopes that it will cease to antagonize me daily.
I believe I was five when it happened, though I may have been just four years of age. My reasoning is as follows; I got the blue radio for Christmas when I was five, and we would have moved sometime the following summer to Wesso Circle.
Leading up the hill from the sidewalk, only the cracked and crumbling concrete steps remain of the once grand old house on Rutherford St. that we were living in at the time. It seems only fitting that the old place is gone now, leaving this decaying reminder of an innocence stolen under the floor boards of a pier-and-beam that I can only imagine as a home once full of love, happiness, and a functional family. Insert Irony: The rest of the houses on Rutherford Street are still standing in 2005.
I’d be lying if I said I remembered this clearly, but it wouldn’t be a long stretch. I feel that the forgotten name of my assailant is a mute point in the grand scheme of things, but in a effort to stop trivializing, rationalizing, and/or otherwise minimizing the impact of various losses in my childhood, I have decided to call this person Mark. This name immediately sprang to mind, and I can’t shake it, so Mark it is, at the very least, for the sake of our story, and my recovery.
I remember Mark as being a teenager. I thought he was cool before I had ever heard the word cool. What I remember about him is quite limited; he had short, dark hair; he lived on Barret in a two story (I remember that because he took me upstairs during a subsequent encounter). I think his mother may have babysat me a time or two, but I could be confusing memories.
I believe the first assault began innocently enough. Mark came over one day, and I invited him under the house to look for a lizard skeleton that I had once found there in the dirt. So we’re on our hands and knees looking through the dirt when he starts pulling my pants down. Somehow he convinced me that this was OK and got behind and pulled his own pants down, and began to rub his penis on my buttocks. I believe that I continued to look for the skeleton as he basically masturbated on my legs and buttocks. I did not watch, as least I do not remember watching. I do not remember any penetration or ejaculation.
Right now, as I write this. I definitely feel the shame that I have stuffed from this incident. I am physically numb. My skin seems to almost tingle, and my ears are ringing. I feel used and dirty; He used me in the most selfish of ways. He stole a piece of my innocence! How completely cruel can one be to a child? He hurt me and I am mad about it. And not only that, I am mad at my mother for not protecting me. And, what’s more, I am mad at God for allowing me to be born in the first place. Lord, heal me. Make me whole and happy. Thank you Jesus.
I have to acknowledge that I can not be justified in my anger at Mark. The Lord has seen fit to allow me to learn and understand to some degree the situation that I was born into, and I am confident that Mark was born into the same situation, or worse. Granted, he made his own decisions, but being of a like nature, I understand that his very decision-making process was corrupt.
I don’t believe I ever told my mother, or anyone else for that matter. I guess thanks to the abandonment losses I had already learned to stuff, I was already a master of rationalization.
Believe it not, I am feeling something positive from this. I have just realized that I was an intelligent little boy. I remember my mother calling me “mama’s little man”. While I remember that tag fondly, I also recognize it as a negative principle.
My mother was dealing with her own issues. Am I am now going to rationalize my mother’s behavior?
-b
