surviving child abuse: one of the lucky ones

“Let This be Our Secret”: The Secret of the Abused Child

It came out of nowhere. An early morning, a basement, a cousin, name being called, mothers bedroom,questions,crying, shame, forgetting. The details buried.

Years later a sudden memory of murmured words "...it'll be fun...don't tell...pull down pajamas...be quiet..." Details return over the years. A cardboard fireplace stored in the basement, bright red bricks printed perfectly. In the corner. Perfect hiding place.

What happened? I still don't know for sure. Some details elude recall.

From early on a lingering sense of guilt about something recalled as a protective mother tried to get to the truth. She couldn't have known that the inquisition would be the first lasting memory. The session ended with "let this be our secret."

Well, it was. So far as I know, no one in the family ever knew that the cousin was an ---what?

And here the story pauses for a question. I have always been repulsed and revolted by the cousin. Had to be with him in many family gatherings. He never seemed to be different. Always playing, cutting up, joking with everyone, an all around goofy guy. He grew up to a hard life of failed work. Job after job. Wife after wife, more than a dozen kids all together and grandchildren by the score. The question is this: What exactly was/is he? Pedophile? Ordinary child abuser? Experimenting kid? Monster? Sick shit that should have been put down? You know, I really don't know because I know of no history except my own. I was 5 or 6 he was 12 or 13.

For years I didn't see him didn't want to see him didn't want to think about him. Then it happened. On a trip with my kids we stopped to see his mother. And he was there. Looming. And I realize that he was a sad, failed (for all his kids and grand kids who he loved and seemed to love him in return) human being. On the fringes of society moving from one menial job to another, unfocused. I couldn't hate him. I wanted to and told myself I would kill him when I saw him. But I couldn't hate him. And I didn't kill him. Instead we had dinner, a few beers and left. I kept a close eye on my boys.

Years later I think about him and what he did. How did that change me? I don't know that either. As Popeye is oft quoted "I yam who I yam" and "I yam what I yam". Me too. No point in dwelling, and I think the healing has long been underway. Forgiving is hard, but forgetting isn't going to happen. So I forgive him for his acts of long ago. Pax vobiscum.

One of the lucky ones? I think so. You see I knew something happened in that basement. I remembered something. Not all of it, but something. Many abused children suppress the abuse so deeply that they never know why they feel and act the way they do. They go through life damaged and guilt ridden and don't know why. One more effect of the assault. (see the July 28th 2009  post for another story on child abuse.)
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