Posted: Thursday, January 31, 2013 3:37:16 PM
I took Creative Writing in college freshman year, and I ended up writing a letter to my mom, which was completely real. There was something laying heavily on my chest for years that I needed to tell her, and so I thought this might be the best way.
I took Creative Writing in college freshman year, and I ended up writing a letter to my mom, which was completely real. There was something laying heavily on my chest for years that I needed to tell her, and so I thought this might be the best way.
Dear Mom,
Remember when I was on the dive team way back in elementary school? I soaked in the sun from 9AM ‘til 9PM; I looked like an eight-year-old Mexican girl with bleached blonde hair. Hard to think I’m the porcelain-skinned young lady I am today. Learning new dives was always scary, but I always tried my hardest each practice.
Remember when I learned the Front Twist? That’s the one where I started out with a front dive, then twisted in the air and entered the water in the form of a back dive. It was easy, but still cool. I was so proud of myself--my excitement took over.
After practice, I ran over to you and dad on the lawn chairs, jumping up and down as I told you both to watch me. Prancing to the diving board, I hopped on, completed my lay up and dove perfectly, if not close-to. Coming up for air, I swam to Ben, my brother who is two years older than me, who was in the swimming portion of the pool, and asked him to watch me too. He did. Then I swam to Marc, my brother who is six years older than me, and asked him to watch me dive. He told me that if he watched me, that I would have to do something for him in return, such as call him Master or clean his room. I agreed.
That night, you, dad, and Ben sat outside on the deck while dad smoked a cheap cigar, passing it along to Ben: hooking him early. The three of you talked and laughed as I sat inside on the couch, watching TV. Marc entered the living room, and told me to follow him. I didn’t want to, because I was so immersed in The Addams Family, but he told me, “You owe me for today.” So I followed him into his and Ben’s small bedroom, onto the bunk bed against the far sidewall.
He closed the door. Facing me, his eyes seemed to slurp up my body from face to feet. They made me shift awkwardly, and I couldn’t look at him. I figured he wanted me to clean his room, so I picked myself up, plucking Legos and other objects off the floor. He sat on his bed and called me over. I stood in front of him as he grinned up at me, his eyes slowing for a second at my bosom. His hand slid around my waist. “I’m going to teach you how to be sexy,” he told me.
“What?” I asked. Being young, I hardly even knew the word sexy. Why do I have to be sexy? I’m not looking to get a boyfriend any time soon. They have cooties.
He told me to strip for him. I was eight; I didn’t even know what stripping meant. Before I knew it, my shorts fell around my ankles, and my shirt was lifted to my neck. Why did he do that? I barely had enough cleavage to wear a sports bra, so at the time, I wasn’t wearing a bra at all. He pulled me forward into his lap, grinded the hard object in his pants against my underwear, and sucked on my nipples.
I didn’t know what he was doing. All I knew was that it felt … good.
Never have I ever told someone before that I enjoyed it. Out of everything stated before or after this, that fact is the absolute hardest fact for me to admit. Especially to you, mom. I don’t want you blaming Marc for any decisions I made later in life.
Maybe a week later, dad found my earring in Marc’s bed. He was furious. He said that he didn’t trust Marc, and that I shouldn’t climb into his bed with him. You fought with dad about it. It didn’t come as close as other times when dad has physically hit one of us, but there was a decent amount of yelling. Whatever dad thought, you always thought the opposite, and vice versa. Even with my ex-boyfriend. But that is a whole ‘nother story.
Dad and Marc never got along very well. I assume it was because of Marc’s A.D.D. Sometimes dad would hit Marc, or tell him that he was a @#$%ing idiot, or an asshole, or any other words like those. He never worked hard enough in school, he never did anything around the house, so dad would say. I think dad was angry his son was challenged. He has a big ego, you know. Giving birth to a child less than extraordinary was a burden to it. They fought constantly, so you always protected Marc. Maybe that’s another reason why you never believed dad.
The point is: he accused Marc of touching me inappropriately. And even though he was so vehement about it, you never believed him.
But dad was right. Whenever Marc and I were home alone together (or even when we weren’t home alone, but everyone was outside or simply not in the room), he would grind on me and suck my nipples. It got to the point where sometimes I would go find him and start grinding on him and taking my shirt off for him. It felt so good. I wanted to feel that good all the time.
I don’t know how dad knew, but he did. When you started attending Mounted Search and Rescue meetings on Tuesday nights, and dad would take Ben to Boy Scouts on the same night, dad made me go to Boy Scouts too. He still didn’t trust Marc. But he was right in doing so. If dad hadn’t forced me to go to Boy Scouts, I don’t know when Marc would have stopped molesting me. Before dad dragged me with him every Tuesday night, Marc would always touch me during that time. Usually when I was watching TV, he would come in and pull me on top of him. Ever since dad caught my earring in his bed, it always happened on the couch in the living room.
Maybe dad also knew because whenever Marc would hug me, he would pick me up by my butt. I know dad mentioned that a few times, but you would fight with him about it, and Marc always denied that he did it. You still believed he would never do such a thing to his little sister. I never confessed that dad was right until now anyway.
I started realizing how wrong it was when Marc tried to get me to give him a blowjob. Surprisingly, it took a couple years for him to try. At only 10 or 11, I said no, but he whipped it out anyway. I quickly turned my head away, embarrassed and thinking it was probably ugly. Before that, he always kept it in his pants. In fact, he always kept all of his clothes on. I was the one who he forced to undress down to my panties. But I never took those off.
He turned my head back toward him, and brought his hard flesh close to my face. If I had known better, I would have bit him. But I didn’t. I just did what I was told.
Around the same time, Marc and I got into a fight because I realized it was wrong, or maybe it was for something completely unrelated. I’m not really sure, but I wrote you a note telling you that he molested me. You thought I was lying to get him in trouble, and you didn’t believe me either.
Instead: you made fun of me. You repeated what I wrote in front of Marc, even Ben, in a nasally voice that was meant to mock mine. Marc stood behind you with a grin on his face. Then he smiled, much like the Cheshire cat, and I’m sure he was thinking, “Neener, neener! I’m getting away with it. She’ll never believe you.”
My tears were completely uncontrollable that night. Back then, my temper tantrums were loud. Not only did I cry, but I also screamed, shrieked, screeched, and howled. My own mother didn’t believe me. She wasn’t on my side. I felt alone. I felt shattered. Day after day, it seemed like I couldn’t do anything to stop him now. He grew more powerful each session.
He even started to molest me in front of Ben, though Ben never noticed. He would always be playing GameCube, or occupied with something else. I remember specifically one summer day, after coming home from the pool; I was still wearing my bathing suit (not even a bikini, either). Ben was playing Zelda Windwaker while I sat on the couch. Marc sat next to me, and pulled me onto his lap. He pushed his hand into my bathing suit and started playing with my breasts. Every time Ben looked back, he quickly withdrew it. Yet it always returned moments later: taunting me.
After five years of this abuse, when I turned 13, he started trying to take my underwear off. I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier. Even so, he tried taking them off a few times. I was now old enough to understand what could happen if they came off. There was no way in hell I would get pregnant at 13—especially not by my own blood brother. I would no longer stand taking his torment.
Even though I liked the way it felt when he rubbed against my underwear, my adrenaline kicked in as soon as he tried to remove my protection. I knew what could happen if this abuse lasted any longer. It was rape, and I could possibly get pregnant from it. No. No f$#$%^& way would I let that happen.
I kicked, I punched, I scratched, I defended myself with every muscle in my body. I never knew I was strong enough to fight back before. I thought I was weak. Marc was taken aback. I had liked it before; why was this different? Realizing I could fight back, I never let him touch me again after I turned 13. It took me five years, but I finally learned how to make it stop. Because I fought back, it was too much of a hassle for him to keep trying. It finally ceased. Yet I am only coming out with it another five years later.
One reason why I never outright told dad the truth, even though I believe he already knows, is because I don’t know how he would react. He always used to say it would be a miracle if Marc graduated high school or got accepted into college. So, when he did both those things, I couldn’t tell on him. I thought dad wouldn’t pay for him to go to college. Then dad said Marc probably wouldn’t graduate college. When he did, with Dean’s List, I still couldn’t tell. I didn’t want him to be thrown in jail and waste his life away there. Now he’s a prison guard. If he gets thrown in jail now, and the prisoners find out his occupation, I wouldn’t have two brothers anymore.
He may have emotionally torn me, but he is still my brother. No matter what, I love him, and I want the best for him. I could never be the person to ruin his life.
I can finally let this out, after another five years, because now I am the age he was when he finally stopped. Now, he has moved out of the house. Now, I am an adult. Now, maybe you’ll take me seriously. Now, I can finally sleep at night.
He never even watched that dive.
Love,
Your Caring Daughter