It only takes one little piece to stop everything from coming out. Just holding back emotionally, brings everything to a halt. For me, some little piece of emotional work I am not willing to deal with, results in no writing. In fact, one of the ways I know I am withholding something emotional is when the journaling stops, the blogging stops and irritability sets in. As an abuse survivor I know that my primary way of dealing with feelings is withholding them. So I work on sharing what I am feeling and thinking. Getting it out on paper is the way I heal and help myself.
This particular piece is dealing with a family member who participated in the abuse. There were a few different relatives who knew but I am only talking about a particular incident now. They knew what was happening to me and did not get me any help. They knew because they had been asked join in on what ever Jack was calling it to entice them. Just writing it out, putting it into words, makes my stomach twist around and my chest is feels covered with hot scalding shame. The thing I hear over and over in my head is “I am not worth much of anything”. I can still hear the anguish in my teen-aged heart wanting someone to help me. Please, anyone.
We were living on Woodland Hills. Mom worked nights at a local pizza place. Her working is what kept the food on the table. At this time there was only 4 or 5 of us kids but we ate plenty. My uncle had planned on spending the night. I adored my uncle who was just a few years older than me. I loved him very much.
Jack had tried to get my uncle to get on the kitchen floor with me, so all of us could be naked and act out some group sex scene he had seen somewhere. My uncle and I pretended we didn’t understand what Jack was saying. Jack left the room to get some pictures of what he had in mind, he wanted to show us how much fun it would be. My uncle told me he felt sick and needed to go home. My uncle was rightly scared and ashamed of what Jack was saying. He didn’t really want to stay their with us anymore, and as he pulled his stuff together, he pleaded with me to understand, he just wanted to go home. I told him I understood, I didn’t like it either, he was lucky he had somewhere else to go.
When Jack came back into the room, my Uncle was gone. Jack was mad at me for letting him get away like that. He yelled at me and said he would have to find someone else now. It was all my fault I messed it up. I was just relieved, I wouldn’t have to do anything sexual with my uncle.
In some ways I don’t blame my uncle for getting out and getting away. I don’t know what he told himself about what happened or if he told anyone else so he could get me some help. I do know no one came to rescue me.
This is hard for me to tell. The pain is still as alive now as it was then. Partly for me, I am humiliated by the exposure I feel when I tell. It forces me really see how young and vulnerable I was. How as a child I was weak and unable to protect myself. And even though I was left as a sacrifice to the bastard who continued to rape and molest me, I offered understanding to the person who could have but refused to rescue me.