11, 12) The 13s. Two 13-year-old parts created when I was molested by the man who lived in our house that I trusted as my big brother— my mother’s best friend’s son. Two parts engulfed in a ball of flames. Initially, I thought it was just one part whose job was to channel a lifetime of rage and use that energy for productive ends, like getting a 4.0 in school, having the strength to write my dad a letter to tell him I wouldn’t visit him anymore, and establishing myself as an outsider and someone to not be messed with as I entered high school. That was just one part…the other part was hiding behind her, the one who was abused, hurt, and scared. She can’t understand how he could do that when she trusted him so much to take care of us and keep us safe, particularly from my dad. This man actually made me feel safe when I went to my dad’s house for the last time to collect my belongings…he took me to my dad’s house and kept a watchful eye over me the entire time…he was my protector, the big brother I never had to keep me safe when I needed help. Until he sexually abused me himself.
He abused me twice, two days in a row, and as a 13-year-old child, I confronted him face-to-face after the abuse on the second day, and told him it had to stop, as, obviously, my mother could never find out—I actually said that to him, a grown man. I can see those moments in my head like a movie. I had no one to help me, no one to protect me, and only me to take care of myself. And this was all after what I had already survived with my dad. And of course, he agreed to stop. Fucking piece of shit.
My mother has known what he did to me for ten years now; we have talked about it repeatedly and she has acknowledged it as sexual abuse. And yet, she chose to attend his wedding with my younger brother 2 years ago, and fucking told me about it like it was nothing the last time my ex-partner and I saw her. My little brother doesn’t know what happened; this man was a mentor to him after living with us for years, and quite frankly, I’m afraid that my little brother would either not believe me or go out and kill him if I told the truth. I kept what happened a secret for 6 years…I never told ANYONE. Never even journaled about it. Utterly alone, as always. One day not long after he abused me, I overheard him talking to my mother in the kitchen when my mother was sharing with him her concerns about me as I had “changed” recently and seemed more depressed and withdrawn; his comment was that he had noticed and he pretended to also be as concerned as her, and to support her and muse about what might be going on with me. That is betrayal and pain like I could NEVER express with words. I was still 13 when I overheard that conversation.
This man is now a quite successful Olympic coach, and I saw him on television during the last Olympics. If I seem unexcited about the Olympics, now you know why. Please don’t ask me if I fucking watch them, or why I don’t. I get tired of lying about it.
So…after a 10-hour day at work re-entering from vacation, I had this to process when I got home. Not my happiest day, to say the least. I can feel the rage about the injustice, unfairness, lack of love and safety, betrayal, disgust, and inescapable pain boiling inside of me. Thankfully, those two parts gave up their jobs and built themselves a waterpark in the mental imagery that is my system’s playground…the other playground is for the littler kids. I suspect there will be numerous other older parts who will join them at the waterpark to play.
My adult part is left to cry about it all. Of course there is no answer to this question, but I can’t stop it from running through my head…what the fuck did I ever do to deserve this? Why me?