Letter to my brothers

I thought there was just the once, when I was 13. Now I realize there was a pattern throughout my earliest childhood. How very post post-traumatic stress can be!

At his suggestion, Mommy would drag herself out of bed and trudge downstairs to make breakfast and, on Sundays, take you boys to church. "I'll take care of J," he would assure her.

Upstairs, alone with him, I would snuggle into his warmth. He would curl his naked body around me and I felt safe and loved for a few minutes. I would let myself drift back to sleep, trying to ignore the growing hardness pressing against me. Soon he would stir and start to feel for me and begin the massage. He would find hidden places where, as he promised, he could make me feel good.

Then he would make me turn over and instead of pleasure I would feel fear welling up, and confusion. "It's okay," he said. "It's okay." I believed him. I had to believe him. He was my Daddy. But it didn't feel okay. I felt rubbed raw. He wanted my legs apart; involuntarily, nervously, I would snap them together. "You like this!" he would say gently, soothingly. "Say you like it. Say 'More! More! Do it to me!'" I would repeat all the words, the crude words, mechanically. I would hold it the way he said to and rub it like he told me to, on and on and on 'til my hand ached--but my thoughts flew out of that place, fluttering frantically to and fro. Was that bacon I smelled? Was Mommy making pancakes? Couldn't I please go now, go down and be safe with the others? I thought I heard their muffled voices, happy. Couldn't I go now? A robin sang outside and in relief my mind burst through the window and locked on birdsong. There was space around the music. In that big emptiness I was not pinned down. I was free, no matter what was happening to my body.

In bed, Daddy's arms and legs held me down. I tried to blank out what he was doing, what I was feeling and hearing. "Mommy can't do this like you can," he was whispering in my right ear. "You do it better. But don't tell her. It would make her feel bad. This is just between us, you and me. This is our special time." And when I stiffened and reared and twisted, he urged me on: "Yes, yes!" But my trained response was becoming panic. Not groans of pleasures but cries of pain: "No, no!" Something hard was filling my mouth, choking me. I couldn't breathe. I tried to pull away, fighting for my life, jerking my head first one way, then the other. He grabbed it between both hands and the whispering in my ear became an urgent hiss, "Stop it! STOP IT!" And then--did he say it aloud or did I just know?--"She can't hear you." Mommy was in church--with Jesus. Neither one of them could hear me. There was no one to rescue me. The birds? Where were the birds? There! Lock on! I must hang onto their joy because I am dying! Something thick and sticky is gagging me.

Another morning. Oh no, she's leaving us again. Mommy, don't go! Don't leave me alone with him! Take me with you. But of course she can't hear me because I am not speaking. She doesn't know. She must know! I have to stay. Besides, he says it's okay. My feelings must be wrong. I won't move. I won't move at all. I'll be asleep and he'll go back to sleep, too. No, no, please don't. Please not again. It is starting to feel good. My body is relaxing--but my mind won't relax. He says this is good too but this--OW! Don't, Daddy, don't! Please stop! He must be right. Daddies know best. Daddies don't lie. It must be me that is bad. I have to let him do this. He told me to. I have to. Mommy can't or won't do this for him. She doesn't like it, he says. He says I like it. But it's piercing me, breaking me.

THE BIRDS! Where are the birds? I will listen to the birds. I will only remember the trilling, the warbling, I will hang onto their joy. The torture, the terror, are going somewhere else. He said I liked it. He said I made him feel good, too. He showed me what to do. He praised me for doing it well.

It has taken me sixty years to sort out the lies. I am no longer helpless. I have a voice now. I can admit the truth: I hated it! Well, some of it. I did enjoy some of it--and I was ashamed of enjoying it. I felt guilty and dirty and bad. But it wasn't my fault! He hurt me. He betrayed me. He used me. I feared him--and my fear was justified.

It was his job to protect me from men like him. It was not my job to make him "feel good." It was not my job to make up for any failure on my mother's part to please him sexually. It was not my job to be his pseudo-wife. It was not my job to keep his secrets. It was not my job to protect my mother's feelings. It was not my job to save their marriage. It was not my job to be the living sacrifice.

It was not my fault. I am not bad. I do not deserve to be punished. I do not have to punish myself, cut my arms, deny myself sexual pleasure. He had no right to do that to me. What he did was wrong. It was immoral. It was illegal. He was a child molester. It was rape. He raped me. He raped his own daughter. He deserved prison. He deserved death. He deserved hell. He. was. evil. And one final truth.

I loved him.