My story really begins about age 6 or 7...I'm not quite sure exactly how far back it went, but I think that's probably about it. Most people have quite a few vivid memories of their childhood, but not me. For the most part, with the exception of my teenage years, my chilhood is really just a slideshow...glimpses here and there, with nothing really set or concrete for me to reminisce about.
Except the sex.
As I mentioned, it all started around 6 or so. I really have no way to definitively say when it all began, because it was so ingrained into me for so long, it made no difference. I liken it to getting a pet. At first, there's a lot of getting used to it, but after a few months, you can't really think of a time without it. That's how the molestation was for me.
My sister was my perpetrator. I think back now, thinking that I should've known better, but really, how could I? True, I did grow up in the 80s, where there were so many PSA's and very special episodes of Punky Brewster and Diff'rent Strokes, where they warned kids of the dangers of predators and "touching". (I specifically remember a coloring book where McGruff the crime dog defined inappropriate touching as anywhere covered by a swimsuit, which is actually a pretty good definition) In any event, given that much exposure (no pun intended), you'd think I would have been well aware of the danger I was being exposed to. But, most of those shows and ads made the predator out to be some man, usually a friend of the family, an uncle type, or some stranger in a car, again, a man. They rarely, if ever, used immediate family, or, in my case, females. as the example of a predator. Of course, in this day and age, they still don't. I would love to see Stone Phillips do an episode on that.
I'm getting off track. Gotta love the manic episodes.
My sister was my primary...hell, only babysitter growing up. My parents divorced when I was a toddler, and my mother didn't get remarried till I was 8. So, mom would go out on LOTS of dates, leaving us home alone.
Windy (my sister, five years older than me) knew exactly where mom's porn stash was, a piece of knowledge expanded on once she remarried. I don't remember exactly how it started, but I do remember that an awful lot of our times alone involved mock "dates", where we'd play house...literally. She would have me knock on the back door, and come in. We'd eat a meal, then put on a porn movie. She would then have us act it out, trying to do what they did. We did just about everything the actors did...I don't think I need to spell it out for you any clearer than that.
To this day, I can only remember snippets here and there of the actual actions. Its funny, I remember the porn much clearer...perhaps that is due to repetition. I do know that it happened quite often, at least once a week, and was compounded by the fact we shared a room, up till I was about 11. We dared to do things a few times in that room when parents were home. I can also go into nudity and sexual boundary issues regarding my parents, but this isn't the time for that.
Fast forward a few years. I am sixteen years old, and having my very first nervous breakdown. (Up till now, I'd been in therapy for about 3 years, and NONE of this had surfaced yet) My parents decide that what I really need is to have a short stay in a mental hospital, which is to this day one of the few decisions they made I agree with. During my stay there, I had my first real interaction with other mentally ill people, something I had never had before. The thing that still strikes me to this day is how wonderful and accepting they all were. We all had similar reasons for being there, and we were all nice and loving to each other...kind of like here, I guess.
It was during this stay that I finally reflected on my life. I was hearing the emotional pleas and pains of people my own age, hearing about molestations, rapes, abuse, and all manner of pain. I must implore you not to think I was doing what follows to fit in, on the contrary. It was during that stay that I realized the truth. What my sister and I had wasn't fun, it wasn't what siblings did. It was INCEST. She RAPED me. I may not have thought it wrong, I may not have fought, but I WAS A VICTIM. This realization knocked me on my ass.
At that time, I said nothing. As much as I was hurting, I knew I still loved her. I knew what saying anything would do to her...plus, she was a preschool teacher. I knew that her charges were in no danger, so, I decided to keep my mouth shut.
A few weeks after getting out (from a 3 week stay, mind you), I was finally starting to regain my bearings. I knew that I could not go on with my life until I talked to Windy. One evening, as we were getting the Christmas decorations out of the garage, I confronted her...this I remember vividly.
"I remember what you did."
She looked at me innocently. "Huh?"
"I know what you did to me. I REMEMBER."
She looked at me for a few moments, obviously mounting her defense...and mount it well, did she.
"I didn't do anything you didn't want."
That was the end of that conversation.
I went reeling for the next few months, landing back in the same hospital the next April. But this time, I knew what was happening to me, and I couldn't keep it in any longer. I HAD to tell.
It was during a group therapy session that I finally let it out. I had told only one or two friends up till this point, and I knew there was no going back. But, I had to. I was tired of holding this secret in. And it was right about that moment that my life turned to shit.
The next day, my social worker (we all had one assigned, just in case of things like this) sat me down to go over my story. I told her everything, and she listened kindly, and believed me. But this feeling of relief, finally getting it all out, came crashing down when she said the ten words that ruined the rest of my teenage years.
"You do realize, that we have to tell your parents."
Needless to say, the acceptance from the hospital staff and my peers was not shared by my family. My father actually called me the next day on the hall pay phone, telling me I was full of shit, a liar, and that I was not only ruining my sister's life, but mine. He told me if I knew what was good for me, I'd admit I was a liar.
My only mistake was not hanging up on him.
At the end of that call, my meek little self turned ferocious. I slammed down the phone, and ran screaming through the halls, crying, hitting walls, out of control. The staff put me into an isolation room, where after screaming and crying, I finally just passed out.
This visit I only spent 10 days in, but had a much longer lasting effect. My sister moved out shortly thereafter. The CPS worker assigned to my case ruled that since it happened when we were both under 18, there was no crime. To this day, they still don't know that, as angry as I was, I was still protecting her. The last time we slept together I was 15...which made her 20.
There is plenty more I can go into, but I am still afraid to. The lingering effects of what I have done to others as a result of my early induction into sexuality haunts me still. The reactions of my parents, specifically, mom and stepdad, need to be addressed, as does the final results of my sister and my experiences. But, this post is already too damn long. I don't know if I will post that here, but since I am x-posting this to my own journal, I will probably post the follow up posts there.
Thanks for listening.