The Sad Story of What Happened When I Was Four

After 9-11, I started visiting a psychologist to help with a bit of PTSD. (I was born and raised in Arlington and I could watch the Pentagon burn from my house.) I was already pretty dang depressed, but the additional stress of being afraid of further attacks, plus being one of the 50,000 area residents to lose their job that week as part of the aftermath, warranted some professional help (despite my grad-student poverty).

Working with Dr. H, I started having some memories return to me. Several traumatic incidents came to the surface, but the most scarring of them all remained partially clouded in mystery. I uncovered that I had been molested as a young girl. Yet, much of the story remained hidden from me. For instance, I have this memory of walking to school in the first grade, fervently telling myself to forget forget forget forget but I feel in my gut that what I was trying to hide wasn't just the incident. There was more to it than that.

In the five days since I alluded to the incident in my birthday blog post, much of the shroud over this history has been lifted. It turns out that I never fully discussed it with my Mom. I thought I had! I was sure I had. So I told her again, for the first time.

It really hurt her to hear it.

And, as she talked with me about it, it became clear why I never told her. She could pretty easily figure out who did it.

And here we come to the cruz of my messed-upedness around this incident. It was more important to me that I forget who than what. This is because, long story short, I saw my humiliation as my fault, not his. You see, I didn't understand that he had done something wrong until months later, at which point, I was completely humiliated to think about it, realizing that I let him take advantage of me without any clue that it was a bad thing.

At the time he molested me, we were about to move. We moved. Some time passed (Days? Months? All the same to a kid.) He had his own personal demons, and ultimately committed suicide.

And... he was one of my Mom's best friends. Best friends! My Mom didn't have many close friends, ever. She cherished her friendship with this man. I couldn't take that away from her, when it was my fault! So instead, I chose to forget it ever happened. Which really worked for a good, oh... 20 years. It worked so well that when asked in class if anyone had been molested or knew someone who had been molested, I didn't raise my hand. Thank God that's not me, I thought. Yet I remember this type of class discussion so vividly. SO vividly.

Mom had always wondered why that friend suddenly became so distant after we moved. It wasn't like we were in another state or anything - just a couple counties over. My parents still moved in the same circles.

And I tried desperately to pretend like nothing happened. Both to save my face, and his. I think I must have decided to forget about it after his suicide, to protect his memory. Since I hadn't seen him since, and he could never hurt me again, why allow the knowledge of events to humiliate my parents and ruin my Mother's dear memories of the man. They went through a lot of personal growth together. And I believe (have ALWAYS believed) that all personal growth is valid and that all people have the potential for good.

I know that I forgave this man - the individual - for his actions long ago. However I did not forgive myself. I made sure that it would never happen again. Thirty years later, I'm still punishing myself. Thirty years later, I'm still remembering what happened, everyday, hidden deep within the way I lead my life.