Background
This is my story. I intend to leave these chapters for my grandchildren. They should know about Grammy's life, and the roots of the family. History should never be ignored.
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As I thought about how to start this journey through my life, I tried to find a defining moment. It seemed to me that to understand who I am and where I came from, I needed to sum up my existence with the first chapter. This is that story.
When I was almost nine years old, I suffered through a day that never quite leaves my mind. This singular event served to shape all that came after, and severely color what came before. A recurring nightmare takes me back to that day, and therapists have identified this moment in time as the beginning of my PTSD.
It was the first day of the fourth grade, September 1967. Events of the summer had turned my life upside down. In mid-August, my father had been put in jail. No one would tell me the reason. My mother said I was too young to know. When asked, my aunt said she must have been too young to know too – no one would tell her either. My grandmother didn't have any answers, or if she did, she kept them to herself. Left to my own devices, I decided he must have committed murder. I was only eight, and prone to exaggeration.
This lack of knowledge and my own naivety made me a target for the other kids in the neighborhood. We were all walking to school together and excitedly talking about meeting our new teachers. I can still see the new dress my aunt had bought for me and feel the pinch of new shoes.
I remember the moment of being with the neighbors, and the next thing I remember was sitting in a hallway outside the new classroom. A large coat was draped across my shoulders, and I was shivering uncontrollably. That time in between remains a complete blank.
I now have an idea of what must have been said. For years, my mind simply wouldn't let me recall the conversation. I have a blank space instead of a memory. A dark hole that would cause me grief for years to come. I still try to hear the voices or see the faces that were there. I ended up at school, so I had to finish walking those few blocks to get there. I must have met my new teacher – although I can't remember that, either. It's all just one big blank.
The little girl that sat in that hallway, with her teacher's raincoat held closed, was broken. Something terrible had taken place. A tragic word had been uttered. Her mind couldn't accept it, and she ran far away. Receding into the dark recesses of her brain, the little girl that was, ceased to exist.
I did finally find out why my father went to jail. My mother told me in the spring of 1975, almost eight years after that fateful day. I had applied to enter the FBI's clerical staff. The background check asked me if any members of my family had done any time. I indicated that my father had, but I didn't know the reason.
My FBI recruiter asked my mother while I was out of earshot. She answered his questions and decided it was time to tell me the truth. So, I found out the truth when we got home.
My sister, like so many other women, was the victim of sexual abuse at the hands of her own father. For years, she suffered in silence. But when he wouldn't let her date after she turned sixteen, she vowed to get even. She told my mother what had been going on. My mother, tired of her own abuse, called the police.
Instead of serving the years in prison he deserved, he only spent nine months in jail. The charges were dropped to 'contributing to the delinquency of a minor' because my sister couldn't and wouldn't testify in open court. He hadn't only physically abused her, but mentally as well. He told her if she ever told, he would kill all of us.
When my mother said the words, I felt like she was telling me something I already knew. I only wish she had told me years before. You see, my father came back into our lives in 1968. He only stayed for about fifteen months, but by the time he left, my childhood was over.
As it turned out, there had been a murder committed involving my father. He'd murdered my innocence.
Author Notes
ANY suggestions or constructive criticism is more than welcome. I struggled to write about this stage of my life. Other than my husband and kids, and varied therapists, I don't share this story. This is shameful and something that causes me a great deal of pain.
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