As I figure it, I must have had “Molest Me” tattooed onto my forehead with visible-only-to-pervert ink. A five year old with come-hither eyes, I was not. But for the middle child in a family rife with drama, I got lost in the shuffle and trusted much too easily as kids are apt to do.
My older brother had emotional issues, my younger brother had congenital heart problems, thus me being healthy in mind and body, I wasn’t considered to be at risk as much as my siblings.
Ha.
Six.
That’s the number of males who did inappropriate things to a lonely little girl-- that I can recall at this time. Really hoping that's a final count. I don't have many memories of my formative years. Figured I blocked a lot out. Can't blame myself, either.
When I tried to tell my mother, I took inspiration from a recent viewing of Roger and Hammerstein’s Cinderella starring Leslie Ann Warren. There is a line that goes something like, “People treat me like dirt.” I took that to heart. That’s what I tried telling my mother when I was in second grade. She took it to mean that they, my parents, treated me like dirt. It wasn’t until she told me to take my crying elsewhere, that it was confirmed—people do treat me like dirt, and it was parent-approved.
To this day, I have immense issues confiding what I consider important to others. The fear of rejection goes very deep, and so I hoard my secrets like a dragon does gold. What use is it to tell someone something so important to have it brushed off and basically condoned in the eyes of a child?
In third grade I smoked grass for the first time. And by grass, I mean backyard lawn clippings, not cannabis. My parents often spoke of my mother’s little sister, the grass-smoking hippie, and I took inspiration. With a sheet of typing paper in one hand and a fistful of dry lawn, I rolled my first joint and lit it with matches—I was feeling very rebellious by using them. Not so much with the smoking part. I wretched and coughed, and didn’t repeat it. As far as I could tell, my aunt was stupid if she liked smoking grass.
After that, I became very introverted. Books were my escape from my older brother chasing me with kitchen knives or my parent’s anger at life. I didn’t care much for people and tended to stay aloof when around others. I didn’t care. Solace lived in my school’s library and given half a chance, so would I. Books were always my salvation.
Middle school was unremarkable. Made fun of, I again turned to the library and counted the days until I got to high school, only to find out high school sucked, too.
Being the resident fatass, I became the walking joke. Didn’t care so much because books don’t judge. By then, I found happiness in photography. Every facet of the process, from selecting a subject to processing film and developing the photos, it all appealed to me in an amalgamation of chemistry and art. I loved it all, including the vinegary smell of stop bath. My teacher was awesome. He’d let me skip rallies to print pictures for the yearbook or newspaper, and being that I disliked loud noise, the respite from school spirit was welcome.
I became the “Photo Liaison” being that I had my hands in photo, yearbook and newspaper. I arranged my classes so I had all three, plus being a Teacher’s Aide for photography 101. My teacher let me loose training people to the ways of image capturing while he graded papers. He used to joke that I should get my teaching degree so I could take over when he retired.
It was seriously considered; until I found out they canned the photo program after I graduated in favor of digital photography.
I thought I’d be a photographer one day. Professional, like Ansel Adams. I’d have exhibitions showcasing my work, I’d be famous and rich, and wouldn’t ever return to the hellhole I called my hometown. It’d be my way to freedom, to a new life, a new identity.
At this time, since middle school, I was an active part of the county’s theatre company. I always sang in the chorus, but did have parts in some productions. I did make up for both the high school drama department and theatre company. Even got an invitation from a San Francisco art school to attend a weekend workshop to learn special effects. Didn’t go, though. Cost two grand and I knew my parents didn’t have that kind of cash to spend on something that wouldn’t guarantee future employment.
When I was in high school, my older brother became a tweaker. For those not familiar on a firsthand basis of dealing with a meth addict, the basic rule is to walk on eggshells. Anything would set him off, anything would trigger him to start punching. Being that my younger brother had heart problems, I became the main target for aggression.
During summer break, my brother came into my room one morning, told me to go clean the garage—which my parents had paid him to do. I ignored him and tried going back to sleep. He dragged me from my bed, choked me to the point of unconsciousness, and I awoke with him sitting on my back, trying to punch a hole through my head to the floor beneath.
He left, I called my mom at work, in a terror. She told me if he does it again, to call the sheriff.
That was big—always it seemed that law enforcement were not to ever get involved. Not sure exactly what the reasoning was, but suffice it to say my brother had every member in the family cowed by his emotional, mental, and physical abuse. I was conditioned to believe that to call law enforcement would lead to punishment. That was ingrained since youth.
To this day, I view it as a kind of betrayal on my mother’s part. Had that been a stranger come through my window, choked and beat me, my mother would have urged me to call the police right then. But because it was her son, she enabled him. And I let her do it.
I should have fucking called the police right then. I would have spared the family bullshit and drama for the next ten years.
On my parent’s 25th wedding anniversary, my older brother went psycho and tried killing my father and lighting my mom’s SUV on fire. The police were called then. Took six officers and as many cans of mace to subdue him. My little brother and I made a pact one night after my older brother’s arrest: if he ever hit either of us again, we’d cut his throat while he slept. It’d be self-defense, and worth going to prison over, if only to be free from the terror. If executed, it’d still be better than being beaten to death by a meth addict.
Although my older brother is now sober, I cannot erase the memories of violence and mental abuse. I cannot forgive him for indulging in douche-baggery.
Besides, the asshole never apologized.
