Again, this is another warning that this will contain discussions of child sexual abuse and molestation, as well as religious trauma.
I've been watching that new documentary series about the abuse that took place with Nickelodeon. It's eye-opening. It's heartbreaking. I feel deeply for the victims, child and adult alike, that went through the horrors of those predators. It's heartbreaking, but it's important, and I'm glad they have the chance to tell the world what happened. It makes me reflect on the things that have happened to me and how I dealt with it.
I remember it starting when I was probably five or six years old, but it could have been earlier than that. My aunt and uncle were devout Christians that attended church every Sunday and sometimes Wednesdays too. My uncle was respected. He was wheelchair-bound most of the time from a foot injury. I can't remember what happened, but I knew he had to wear a special shoe and was mostly in a self-wheeled wheelchair that I would play and roll around in when he wasn't using it.
He was a well-respected member of the church and was, in many cases, almost at the head of it. The pastor often had the church congregate at my aunt and uncle's house, and my uncle was in charge of sound-mixing and editing for the church's music, which was a huge part of the service. It was where I learned how to sing — which, in retrospect, was the only positive takeaway I got from the whole experience.
At church, he rarely paid attention to me. That was more time I spent with my aunt, making crafts or talking about different outings for the future, like going out for ice cream or toy shopping. I don't know if she knew the things he did, but she was the type that would have put herself in denial and ignored it if she knew anyway.
When we were at the house, it was different. He always invited me to sit in his lap, which, at the time, seemed innocent enough. It just seemed normal. Kids sit in relatives' laps all the time, and I was no different — It was especially warming to me because I craved that affection. My parents didn't usually offer it. He would have me sit on his lap in the living room while he worked on the church's editing and browsed Facebook. My aunt was there during these times usually and things felt fine.
But when she wasn't there, things got weirder. He would take "naps", which usually didn't involve him sleeping, but just lying down and "cuddling" me. He'd put an arm around me and I would either watch cartoons or he'd tell me to close my eyes and nap. Then, he'd grope me. I didn't know that's what it was at the time — I was a child, so of course I didn't know what was going on. But he would stick his hand down my pants and grope my butt. Sometimes my chest, which hadn't even hit puberty yet. I think on a couple of occasions he even groped my privates. It did feel a little odd even then, out of unfamiliarity — but I figured "hey, this is love and attention. I don't get a lot of that at home" so I went with it. I thought it was normal.
On one occasion for one of these sessions, I heard him making soft grunting noises, opened my eyes and raised my head and he was masturbating. I don't remember how old I was when this happened, maybe seven or eight, but I saw him masturbating while still groping me with his other hand. He demanded I put my head back down when I confusedly asked what he was doing. I didn't understand what I was seeing and rather than scared, I was just genuinely curious. I can't remember if he gave this weird excuse or if I made it up in my head to fill the gaps, but I always remembered it as being something about blood pressure.
On another occasion, he had left me alone in the living room for a few hours, telling me to watch cartoons and play with my toys. He left me there for what felt like ages, and I heard noise, so I went to open the door and he was masturbating again. I still didn't understand, but I knew I was in trouble by the way he had reacted to being caught, so I quickly backed out of the room.
I don't think we talked about it any further than that. He never told me that it was a secret or not to tell anyone — He just made it seem like a very normal, casual thing that wasn't even worth talking about among the plethora of toys and candy that I got there. It just didn't seem as important as the stuffed animals I got to play with.
The groping went on for years, though. Every time I went over there, that remained constant. He wanted me to sit in his lap. He wanted to grope my butt. He wanted to take a break from editing to do so and fantasize about... Whatever it was he wanted to do with me.
I started to distance myself from them, though I didn't really understand why. Something just felt... Wrong. Not in a "they've done something wrong" sort of way, but more of a "i just don't feel like being around them" sort of way. I didn't understand my own feelings at the time, but I think that's when the trauma really started to sink in.
My teenhood was very tumultuous. I suffered near constant thoughts of suicide and had very few meaningful connections. From about ten or eleven, my parents had stopped taking me to my aunt and uncle's house to stay the weekend and the only friends I had were the scant few I'd met online. MAYBE one or two friends at school, but other than that, I was utterly alone.
By twelve, I started to understand that the things I had experienced were not normal. That wasn't what scared me, though.
What scared me was not knowing what else he could have done to me. What I didn't remember. Because among what I COULD remember, there was an absolute sea of blurry vision — things I couldn't fill for the gaps. And that terrified me. Why couldn't I remember? Did that mean that, maybe, it was all in my head? Did I make it all up? Did that really happen to me?
It created this sort of constant nagging self-doubt that had me curled up on the inside in sickness. It bothered me. It scared me to think that maybe I had made it all up in my head and, conversely, it scared me to think I might have suffered even worse abuse that I just couldn't remember.
I think I was sixteen or seventeen when I finally told someone, but it wasn't because I was willing. I had been in and out of therapy for years by this point, and I met Renee, who was a pretty decent therapist that actually seemed to care about how I was doing. During one of our talks, she asked if I had ever been sexually abused and... Well, I hesitated.
I didn't mean to.
I didn't want to open up that can of worms; I wanted to leave it buried. But I hesitated.
And I still remember the way she looked at me when I hesitated. It was devastating.
It was the "please, tell me the truth. What did they do to you" look. That look haunts me to this day.
I spilled everything.
An investigation was opened on my behalf and I started talking to a detective that wanted to prosecute my uncle, but they wanted to get evidence. They wanted me to confront him over the phone with it recorded so that they could get his confession.
But I never did it.
Among the mental illness and fear I was dealing with, the immense pressure — I buckled and backed down. I refused to get back with the detective and nothing ever came of it.
I hear that my uncle has dementia now.
I hope it sucks for him.
I hope he lives every single day in fear.
I hope the one thing he can remember is what he did to me, and how much I want him to suffer for it.
