I'm not always sure what and how much to say here. I remind myself that no one is forced to read this, and hopefully those who choose to read it are helped in some way. It helps me immensely to share my experiences publicly. One of the most devastating effects of childhood abuse is the secrecy. By telling openly and honestly, and having people respond appropriately (i.e., with compassion for me and outrage toward the abusers) validates the belief that I am not responsible for the abuse, nor do I need to feel shame for what they did to me.
This most recent memory is another regarding my cousin. I do not like to label people as "good" or "bad" because I recognize that those are absolutes. We all have good and bad in us. That being said, she was, in my child's eye view, a very bad person. And confusing as well. At times she was my friend and playmate. At other times she became my tormentor and abuser. I never have known what set her off. I have never known if she was herself abused.
She was essentially an only child. Her father had children from a previous marriage, but they were older and lived with their mother. In some ways her parents doted on her, as parents of only children often do.
She had a playroom set up as a school room. I think it was attached in some way to the chicken coop, but it could be that the buildings were just close to one another. My cousin, my sister and I would play school. There were real school desks in the playroom and a chalkboard on the wall.
She was big on threats, and often carried through on them.
I am to be punished for some infraction. It may have had something to do with failing to solve a math problem.
She walks me to the chicken coop, lecturing as we walk. I am to stay there until she comes to retrieve me. I must keep my eyes shut and covered with my hands or the birds will peck my eyes out. If they see me looking at them, they will attack me.
It is dark and dusty in the coop. The hens are on their roosts. I am terrified of them. She has warned me of their malicious intent.
I am instructed to sit on the floor with my back against the wall. If my eyes were opened and uncovered I would be able to see the door and cracks of sunlight filtering through it. But I must not uncover my eyes.
The smell is vile. The air is filled with dust, hay and feathers. I begin to cough.
I have asthma.
If I could cover my mouth, I might be able to control the coughing, but my hands must remain over my eyes as protection from the chickens.
Which is worse? Suffocating or being blinded by chickens?
Showing posts with label farm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label farm. Show all posts
Friday, November 18, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Cousin
(Warning: Adult content)
When I was a little girl, maybe 4 or 5, my sister and I used to go and visit an aunt, uncle and cousin in the country. We went to stay on their farm. It was supposed to be fun. It wasn't.
My uncle ran the farm, but was also a truck driver, so he was gone a lot of the time. My aunt was Scottish. How a woman from Scotland wound up married to a farmer in rural Tennessee I've never known. She was harsh and abrupt -- totally different from my other relatives. They had one child -- a daughter. In truth they were my great aunt and uncle, and she was my second cousin, but because of our ages . . . well you get the idea. She was 5 years older than I and 2 years older than my sister. Since she was an only child, we were intended to be her playmates, while the benefit for us was getting to spend time on the farm. City cousins and country cousin.
The primary memories of these times, which span perhaps 5 years, are horrific. The expectation was something of a cross between Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and Charlotte's Web, but the reality was completely different. Even all these years later, as I sit and type these words, I feel my breathing quicken, my chest tightens, as do the muscles in my shoulders and abdomen. An ache begins low in my belly, and bile begins to creep up my throat. The headache begins as my hands start to shake.
The desire as always, is to escape. To get away from the events, the memories, the sensations. And yet I am driven to tell the stories.
Time is fluid in memory, and perhaps especially so in the memories of the very young. I can't tell you which episode occurred first or last. There is no scale to rate which was the worst, or for that matter the least painful. In truth there are only flashes, which over time have been pieced together to form a sort of timeline. Early on there is the suggestion of game to be played. It will be fun she says, or at least implies. But it's not. It is scary, painful, shameful and degrading. She touches me and makes me touch her. I don't want to, but I don't know how to make it stop.
Over time things escalate. It's interesting to me that when I sit down to write it all out, I invariably find myself rushing through it. Part of me wants to look at each incident and get it sorted out. But another part of me wants to move past or through it as quickly as possible. Which is better? Hard to know.
Later on there will be incidents in the chicken coop, the barn, the pig pen. More things will happen in her bedroom and the den. Where was my sister? Where was my aunt? How is it that no one knew? There will be soiled clothes (vomit, blood, whiskey, excrement). I will be reprimanded by her mother for creating extra work. My sister will later confirm that she remembers episodes of sickness, and yet no one ever intervened to say something is not right here. How is that possible?
I have never been able to put the episodes in chronological order. No one else seems troubled by this, but it eats at me. If indeed all these things happened, why can't I organize them correctly?
1. The game in bedroom.
2. The cat on the carport and later the swingset where she strangled it.
3. The box of small skulls.
4. The threat of being drowned in the well.
5. The Jack Daniels pouring down my throat as I am forced to hold a pistol.
6. The purse strap that strangles me.
7. The broom handle she uses to rape me.
8. The incident in the barn that involved much planning and time to be executed.
9. The episode at my grandmother's house with the scissors and the buttonhook.
10. The final (I think) episode in my own bedroom while my sister slept in the same room.
How do I come to grips with these memories? How do I move on beyond them? The short answer is by the grace of God. The longer answer is prayer, hard work, time, therapy, and acceptance that the memories won't go away. That I'm not a bad person for not being able to "forget" about it all. That it's okay to need to think and talk about it. These recent memories have been triggered by recent news events: the shooting in Arizona, the suicide of the Princeton grad student. There will always be triggers, because we live in a fallen world. The only hope for peace and contentment is in the love of God, which He extends to us all.
When I was a little girl, maybe 4 or 5, my sister and I used to go and visit an aunt, uncle and cousin in the country. We went to stay on their farm. It was supposed to be fun. It wasn't.
My uncle ran the farm, but was also a truck driver, so he was gone a lot of the time. My aunt was Scottish. How a woman from Scotland wound up married to a farmer in rural Tennessee I've never known. She was harsh and abrupt -- totally different from my other relatives. They had one child -- a daughter. In truth they were my great aunt and uncle, and she was my second cousin, but because of our ages . . . well you get the idea. She was 5 years older than I and 2 years older than my sister. Since she was an only child, we were intended to be her playmates, while the benefit for us was getting to spend time on the farm. City cousins and country cousin.
The primary memories of these times, which span perhaps 5 years, are horrific. The expectation was something of a cross between Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and Charlotte's Web, but the reality was completely different. Even all these years later, as I sit and type these words, I feel my breathing quicken, my chest tightens, as do the muscles in my shoulders and abdomen. An ache begins low in my belly, and bile begins to creep up my throat. The headache begins as my hands start to shake.
The desire as always, is to escape. To get away from the events, the memories, the sensations. And yet I am driven to tell the stories.
Time is fluid in memory, and perhaps especially so in the memories of the very young. I can't tell you which episode occurred first or last. There is no scale to rate which was the worst, or for that matter the least painful. In truth there are only flashes, which over time have been pieced together to form a sort of timeline. Early on there is the suggestion of game to be played. It will be fun she says, or at least implies. But it's not. It is scary, painful, shameful and degrading. She touches me and makes me touch her. I don't want to, but I don't know how to make it stop.
Over time things escalate. It's interesting to me that when I sit down to write it all out, I invariably find myself rushing through it. Part of me wants to look at each incident and get it sorted out. But another part of me wants to move past or through it as quickly as possible. Which is better? Hard to know.
Later on there will be incidents in the chicken coop, the barn, the pig pen. More things will happen in her bedroom and the den. Where was my sister? Where was my aunt? How is it that no one knew? There will be soiled clothes (vomit, blood, whiskey, excrement). I will be reprimanded by her mother for creating extra work. My sister will later confirm that she remembers episodes of sickness, and yet no one ever intervened to say something is not right here. How is that possible?
I have never been able to put the episodes in chronological order. No one else seems troubled by this, but it eats at me. If indeed all these things happened, why can't I organize them correctly?
1. The game in bedroom.
2. The cat on the carport and later the swingset where she strangled it.
3. The box of small skulls.
4. The threat of being drowned in the well.
5. The Jack Daniels pouring down my throat as I am forced to hold a pistol.
6. The purse strap that strangles me.
7. The broom handle she uses to rape me.
8. The incident in the barn that involved much planning and time to be executed.
9. The episode at my grandmother's house with the scissors and the buttonhook.
10. The final (I think) episode in my own bedroom while my sister slept in the same room.
How do I come to grips with these memories? How do I move on beyond them? The short answer is by the grace of God. The longer answer is prayer, hard work, time, therapy, and acceptance that the memories won't go away. That I'm not a bad person for not being able to "forget" about it all. That it's okay to need to think and talk about it. These recent memories have been triggered by recent news events: the shooting in Arizona, the suicide of the Princeton grad student. There will always be triggers, because we live in a fallen world. The only hope for peace and contentment is in the love of God, which He extends to us all.
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