My little girl, Me, was full of innocence and wonder
As all little girls should be.
But you came, and you touched, prodded, poked, invaded and violated
And you stole my little girl, Me.
My little girl, Me, wore little girl dresses and little girl shoes
My little girl, Me, wore little girl bows, in her little girl hair.
You took my little girl, Me, treated her like a woman
And you stole my little girl, Me.
My little girl Me, plays with other children,
But she teaches them the games you taught my little girl, Me.
My little girl, Me, doesn’t play with “these children”.
Her playmate is a grown man
Not a strange thing for my little girl, Me.
My little girl, Me, is a young woman, now
She wears baggy clothes and calls herself “gay”,
She’s never touched a woman,
She’s so afraid of men,
She’s a woman-child lost.
Crying for my little girl, Me.
My little girl, Me, is grown now.
She has a husband, but finds it difficult to physically love him.
She cries for my little girl, Me.
My little girl, Me, is an adult, now.
Finally aware of memories repressed.
Knowing the beast inside of one so kind.
Promiscuity and abusive relationships
Trying to pacify the little girl, Me.
My little girl, Me, is a rabbit that howls.
Cry for my little girl, Me.
The little girls in this piece were all violated by someone that we trusted. We were unwittingly placed in their care, by others who trusted them. The other ladies remembered the incident(s) from the moment it happened. I, on the other hand, did not. I’m not sure if I was lucky or unlucky, cursed or blessed.
There were so many things going on in my life. My family was falling apart. My mother was gone, then, there was a new mom. My life was changing. In the midst of all of that, I was being molested. In the summer of 1972, my mother came back, she took me, and left my brothers. We moved to Washington, DC. It seems like it was all of a sudden, but I know it was about 2 years or more. I write this as I am seeing it. Through the eyes of my little girl, me.
Three months later, we moved to California. I was going into the 5th grade, not yet ten years old. There was a new school, new classmates, new teacher, new home, new cousins. No brothers. I remember being so homesick, I cried a lot. But I got on with life in California, and I forgot about my life in New York. I remember only one friend from my old life.
The Friday before Mother’s Day, 25 years later, I was unexpectedly terminated from a job I really enjoyed. Five months into the unemployment, I was under tremendous stress, and I started having memories and dreams that just didn’t make sense. I told someone I loved and trusted, and all was confirmed. There was nothing that they could do, at the time, being a child themselves.
Angry, hurt, frustrated, betrayed, and confused; I was physically sick. The next day was Sunday, I had to go to church. I was in charge of the Youth Choir, and needed to be able to perform my duties. But I could not. I went to church, and a very good friend found me curled up in a chair in the ladies lounge. She took me to the First Lady of the church. When I told her what I was going through, I expected arms to hold me, and console me or maybe disbelief. What I got instead was “this happens”. She proceeded to give me examples of “this” happening and near misses. I wasn’t satisfied, I wasn’t calmed, I wasn’t vindicated. I was pissed. “This” is not supposed to happen!
We are blessed and privileged to have children in our lives. We are supposed to love, guide and protect them. What gives anyone the right to abuse a child? I told my mother, but I am still not convinced that she believes me. I ended up in therapy for a few weeks before I came to the realization that my only cure for what I was feeling was to forgive.
The next few sessions were spent with me telling the therapist how forgiving was working for me. I didn’t write the letter, I didn’t confront the molester. I prayed for my little girl, me. I asked God to forgive the abuser, I asked him to heal my heart. I asked him to not let me go through another foul relationship, or another one night stand. I wanted out of the rabbit hole. I was the rabbit howling, but I didn’t know why. The men that were attracted to me, heard the howl, and they preyed upon the rabbit. No more. I dug into myself, and I dug into my God and I was better. Not perfect, but better. No longer a victim, but a victor.
This cavern of pain has been explored. Yet, there are walls that still need to be scraped. I was afraid to start this blog, because, I don’t like opening myself up to ridicule or criticism. That same friend who found me, said, “that’s the molestation talking”. That fueled my fire! Molestation is no longer my spokesperson. I don’t hide in shame from the conversation, so why should I hide from the written word?
I am created to worship God. I choose to worship him, by using my gift of life to share my victory with you.
We are not broken vessels.