That Time When I Was Five

Unwanted advances. Catcalling. Harassment. Abuse.  They have happened to the majority of women at one time or another in their lives. Odds are, as much as I will protect them and try to stop it, one or more of these things will happen to my daughters.

They have also happened to me.

There was the time when I was 12 and a male classmate touched me inappropriately during art class. His hand brushed the side of my breast and when I moved away startled, he asked “Did you like that?” I was too shocked to say anything. “If I say something, he will just say it was an accident, right?” I thought. I was too self-conscious to draw attention to myself in front of my peers. So I didn’t.

There was the time when I was 16 walking to my dad’s work, when two young men in a car driving by yelled out “Hey, nice tits!”  I immediately put on my sweater in the scorching heat and I never wore that shirt again. It had a blue and white pattern on it and was slightly form-fitting, but definitely not low-cut. I felt embarrassed and ashamed, and walked the rest of the way with my head down, my eyes fixed on the sidewalk ahead of me.

There was the time in my late 20’s when a coworker called me “Sweet Cheeks.” Or the time another followed me out to the parking lot, brushed his hand against mine and told me that he loved me. All uncomfortable situations, all situations that made me embarrassed and ashamed, like I had done something wrong.

And there was that time when I was five.

Even now, as I write this, planning on posting this to a personal blog, I wonder if it will ever be read by someone else. Or will I ever let someone else read it? Will I hit publish? Or chicken out at the very last minute, close my computer and move on. Even now, 35 years after the fact, I struggle to find the right words. Even now, I wonder if it is even worth mentioning, still second guessing myself. It’s been this long, why bring it up now?

That time when I was five.

One time.

Once was all it took.

I can remember it now without tears. Barely. It took a long time for that to happen. Many years of struggling. Many years of self-doubt. Many years of guilt. Many years of burying it deep down inside where no one could find it. Many years of hatred and hurt and fear and pain and pain and pain, because of that time when I was five.

My grandmother, “Gram” as we called her, died that year. She had leukemia, and I don’t have many memories of her. I vaguely remember her kind face. I remember the wig she wore to cover her thinning hair. I do remember her doting on me when she was strong enough. We didn’t live close, so I think she tried to spoil me the best she could while I was there. We were staying there when she died. My mother and her brothers stayed by her bedside in the hospital. I visited once so she could see me, but then I think my grandmother started crying so they shuffled me out of there quickly.  I didn’t know what was going on.

One night, while she was in the hospital, my parents left me with my mom’s eldest brother. He was short and stout and always wore his ball cap tilted up so you could see his whole forehead. He always smelled like beer and tobacco. He would tease me when the whole family was together and I would cry and my grandmother would tell him to leave me alone and she would hug me. I didn’t really like him much.

My mother tucked me into the pull-out couch and gave me hugs and kisses and after she left, I fell asleep. The next thing I knew, I was jolted awake with his face between my knees, and my underwear down by my ankles, his hands touching. I was groggy still and wasn’t sure what was happening, but at five, I knew the difference between good touches and bad touches and this definitely was a bad touch. I tried to kick him away and close my legs and softly said “No” and he grabbed my legs and tried to open them again. Suddenly, the phone rang. He stopped and stumbled over to the phone and answered it as I frantically pulled my underwear back up, rolled over on my side and pulled my legs up to my chest in the fetal position. I grabbed the blanket, pulled it up over my head and listened. It was my mother on the phone, calling to inform him that my grandmother had died, but I didn’t know it at the time.

I’m not a person of faith, and I question the existence of something beyond what we know on a daily basis. But, once I was old enough to realize what that phone call was about, I have never doubted that my grandmother saved me one last time that night. If not for that phone call, as terrible as my experience was, it could have gone very, very differently. That keeps me up at night too. Thoughts of worst case scenarios. My parents coming back and me not being there. As a parent myself now, it rocks me to the core.

After he hung up the phone, he left the room and didn’t come back. I eventually fell asleep and the next morning my parents were with me. They took me out for the day and bought me the “Angel Face” Barbie that I had been wanting and gave it to me as an early birthday present. That night they told me that my “Gram” had died. I cried because I loved her. I cried because my mother was crying. My grandparents on my father’s side, whom I saw almost daily back home, called to talk to me. After talking to them,  I climbed into my grandmother’s bed and cried some more. When my mother’s brother showed up and came into the room, I cried harder and told him to get away. He sat in the other room while I told my mother that I hated him and to keep him away. I don’t believe I told them what he had done, I just kept telling them to keep him away. They must have thought that I was grieving or just upset at him because of the way he had always teased me. They didn’t take me to the funeral. A girlfriend of one of my mom’s cousins watched me. But whenever she was around, I clinged to my mother the rest of our time there.

Our visits weren’t as frequent after my grandmother died, which was fine with me. We maybe went to visit once or twice after that. My mom went back to visit when a relative died, and by that time I was old enough to choose not to go. I never saw her brother again. But she still spoke with him and kept in touch. If he called, I would pass the phone quickly to her and leave the room. If she mentioned him, I would change the subject.

As I got older, there were so many times I wanted to tell her. Tell my dad. But then I would stop. I don’t know why I felt like I couldn’t at the time. I still can’t fully explain why I can’t tell them now.  My mother is in frail health. She still visits family there yearly. What good would it do to tell her that someone she trusted betrayed her trust so terribly?  What good would it do me?

As a teenager, I confided in one or two certain friends, one of whom in high school had also been abused and was seeing a counsellor. She gave me the name of the support group she went to. I kept that scrap piece of paper for a long time, but never called the number. “Do I need a support group?” I thought. “So many others have had it worse than I have. I can get over it.”

But I never did. After the deaths of both of my older brothers, my protectors, I thought “Who do I tell now?” And then I thought, perhaps it was better that way. If they had known, my parents would have surely found out because one or both of my brothers would have driven the 5 hours to this man’s house and beat the shit out of him. Or worse.

Why didn’t I tell? I ask myself that question often. I can’t fully explain exactly why. But I can take a guess. For the same reason I didn’t speak up when I was 12 in art class. Or immediately tell my dad when those assholes in the car yelled at me. Or kept my mouth shut those other times. Because I was embarrassed. Because I felt inadequate. Shameful. Because I thought it would be brushed off and not taken seriously. Because I just needed to get over it.  Because I thought no one would believe me. Or believe that 5-year-old, who couldn’t articulate into words what had happened at the time. And by the time I could, I thought it was too late. But I’m telling you now, that it isn’t too late. It’s never too late.

Now, I’m never going to be that person telling others who also have had to deal with something like this to speak up. That is your choice and only you can make it, if and when you are ready. If you do, I admire your strength and courage. If you don’t, I admire your courage and strength. Heal the best way you can, but please, please, please try to heal. It’s taken me 35 years to realize that. And that’s okay too. Because I’m trying now.

This terrible thing that happened, it shaped me, yes absolutely. I say that with sadness and also with anger. It’s something I have carried along with me, or should I say dragged behind me, like an anchor all of my adult life and for almost all of my childhood. Who would I be if I hadn’t experienced that? Where would I be? Would I have had a different life?  Would I have been more self-confident in my appearance? With my choices? Would I have spoken my mind more and not been as sensitive? Not as afraid? Would I have walked with my head held high instead of looking down embarrassed and ashamed like that day when I was 16? Or all of those other days?

As a mother of two daughters, even the slightest thought of something like that happening to them makes my heart ache and my blood boil. As I’m certain it would with any parent, no question. But, as someone who has experienced it, it’s hard to not think about it.  So we do our best to raise strong women. We inform them, educate them, tell them to speak up, say “NO”, fight back and protect them the best way we know how. Surround them with people who love them and care for them. People who would never hurt them in a million years. People who we trust and they trust completely. But, I can’t help but think…my parents did that too.

My mother’s brother died about 6 years ago. I cried. Hard. For a very long time.

Not for him. Never for him.

I cried for my childhood. For the invisible, cumbersome anchor I dragged behind me for decades. I cried for my daughters. For my grandmother. For my mother.

And I cried for that time when I was five.