Vacillation and closure

When I was 11 years old, I was molested by a man. The man was my uncle.

My father was an alcoholic. He was abusive to my mother when he was drunk, which was most of the time. He spent all of his money on booze. He cheated. He lied. It was the reason that my mother finally divorced him when I was 9 years old.

My mom worked hard all of her life to support my brother, my sister, and me. We didn't have the best of things, but we always had everything that we needed. Sometimes, as all kids do, I resented her. I was pissed because we lived in a nice neighborhood...upper middle class...but all of my friends had nicer clothes, nicer houses, cooler parents...

As an adult, I look back on how she struggled to take care of us. I appreciate it now. There were times that she worked 3 jobs to keep us fed and clothed. We spent a lot of time at my aunt's and uncle's house. He was disabled (legally blind), so he didn't work. It was free babysitting. Who could blame her?

I loved my aunt and uncle. I thought of him as my surrogate father. I trusted him. He was so fun for an 'old person.' He taught me how to shoot pool. He played video games. We played board games together and watched movies and cartoons. I loved him.

It started one night, when I was about 11. He brushed up against me and it didn't feel quite right. He never said anything, sorry, oops, excuse me...so that made it feel even more wrong, like somehow I knew it wasn't an accident. It continued and got progressively worse. He tried to penetrate me once, but I was so young... I won't go into the details because I know no one wants to hear it, or have to imagine it, but it was bad. It went on for 2 years.

One day, I'd finally had enough. I refused to go to their house after school. My aunt had come to pick us up on her way home from work. She worked at the same place my mom did. I told her I wouldn't go, that I'd stay home by myself. Finally, she called my mom.

Mom knew something was wrong. I think she knew exactly what was wrong because of the way I was acting.

Then came the talk...

I couldn't tell my mom or my aunt what exactly had happened, or for how long it had been happening. I did think that maybe I'd done something wrong. He told me not to tell, that they'd be mad at me, that they'd blame me, that I was a bad, dirty girl. I believed him.

I did tell though, just no details. I told them that he'd touched me. I hated him.

And now he's gone...his life taken by his own hand in one last act of selfishness. Leaving his bloodied body behind for his own children to find him.

I'm glad he's gone. I'm glad he was so wracked with guilt that he couldn't stand it anymore and finally had to make it all stop. I'd have killed him myself if I'd had the opportunity. I wanted to.

I feel an overwhelming sense of grief for his kids, my cousins. I do. What a horrible way to lose your father. They had no idea what a monster the man used to be. To them, he was just daddy. They loved him. And I love them.

I will not miss the man, but I am sorry for those that will.