The impetus for this blog is that I was orally sodomized at the age of four and told no one.  My parents had friends who had children ranging from four to seventeen.  I often played with their son who was my age.  Their fourteen year old son took us both into the garage one day.  It was summertime. The garage was stifling hot.  We were playing house, a game we’d played before.  I was used to being the baby and though nothing of being told to get into the playpen being stored there, because there was no use for it in the house.  I remember that his brother was the look out and that he put his penis in my mouth.  I always remembered that and only that.  I never told.  We were part of a secret club, a group of neighborhood kids that would meet in a secluded grove of trees.  The fourteen year old was always in charge and had us all do strange things.

It was all just something that happened.  I always remembered it, but didn’t attach any emotion to it.  I never wondered about the incident in the garage, never thought about what happened exactly or even how I got out of the playpen or the garage.  I know that I soiled myself later that day playing with other kids.  My mom was so upset with me.  I was made to stay in the house for the rest of the day.  I didn’t correlate the event in the garage and soiling myself then.  They were too strange but separate things that happened to me, I thought.

I also broke my arm that summer.  I remember breaking my arm, the ride to the clinic, and having a cast put on.  I do not remember having my bone set, and that is fine with me.  My arm healed. The memory of having my bone set, which my mother says was the worst thing she ever had to witness, would serve me no purpose.  apparently, the same wasn’t true about the memory of what happened in the garage that day.

In my forties, having difficulties with depression, anxiety, and the grief of losing my mother, I’ve been in a DBT (dialectical behavior therapy) group.  A while back, we were doing a breathing exercise.  I was told to do something with my arms and became terrified and nauseous.  During a break, someone asked if I was ok.  I said that something had happened, as if my body had remembered something.  I also said that if there were things I couldn’t remember, I was fine with that.  I had no idea.

That was a few of months ago.  Six weeks ago, the memory of what happened in that garage came full force all at once, every terrifying disgusting detail of that very violent traumatic event.  I relived it.  I cried for three days.  I was shattered.  I still can’t comprehend.  It’s as if it just happened to me.  Sometimes I feel like that little girl, vulnerable and needing emotional triage.  Other times, I’m in my forties sorting through it.

I usually write quite well, but I’m just trying to get it out.  I’m crying which makes it difficult to see the screen. So here we are.  I’m experiencing PTSD and nightmares.  I’m a mess.  I’m also a fighter, so I’ll learn what I need to know, go through therapy, do the work.  Somehow I was convinced to never tell a soul.  He became the chief of police in a nearby town.  YES, REALLY. He has real estate in my head, for now.  No one can shut me up any more.  I say what I want here.  I know I’ll be whole again.  Right now I’m picking up the shards of my innocence, delicate sharp pieces cutting me as I gently pick up each precious piece and slowly put it back together.

I don’t believe my innocence was lost or stolen.  I think it was disrupted. I believe my innocence still exists, as does beauty in the world!


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