Lucky

“She’s so lucky, she’s a star 
But she cry, cry, cries in her lonely heart, thinking
If there’s nothing missing in my life
Then why do these tears come at night?”

A few years ago, I read the book The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold.  I absolutely loved this book!  In fact, if Gone with the Wind is my all-time favorite book, The Lovely Bones is the close second – the runner up!  I loved her writing and descriptions … the way she captured the family’s grief, pain and agony.  You felt like you were with the family every step in the grieving process all the while reading the back story as the main character tries to accept her own death and the afterlife and help her family look for the answers to the many, unending series of questions.  As it often happens, when one finds an author that is so compelling, you look for more books by his/her pen to devour.  I then discovered Lucky.  From a synopsis online, this is what I found: “Lucky, a memoir hailed for its searing candour and wit, Alice Sebold reveals how her life was utterly transformed when, as an eighteen-year-old college freshman, she was brutally raped and beaten in a park near campus.“ Yes, it’s autobiographical.  Yes, it’s true.  And the title comes from the fact that she was told she was “lucky” because it could have been so much worse because she could have been killed … and there is where the author found the irony.

I immediately could relate as I have a similar situation that I have often told that I was “lucky” and it could have been so much worse …

I was a victim of child sexual abuse.  There, I said it … out loud … wrote it in black and white … for the world to see.  It has taken over forty plus years to say this fact out loud for the world to hear.  Yes, I have whispered to a few … a close few – confidants, friends, lovers.  And, almost everyone has a similar reaction: “Oh, you’re so lucky; others have suffered so much worse!”

Here is how “lucky” I was … I was somewhere between five to six when the abuse happened.  Most say you cannot remember from those ages but the memory for me is as vivid in mind movie as if it happened yesterday – not in black and white, but in full high definition and technicolor.

I was an only child; however, on my dad’s side, in particular, I had much extended family in the form of aunts, uncles, and cousins.  Of all the first cousins, I was the youngest … a child that my parents supposedly tried to have for years and were finally blessed with.  Some, I am sure viewed that I was “spoiled” because of that status, however, that is from the outside … a façade … a fake outer shell … smoke and mirrors, if you will.  When I was five or six – maybe even younger – an older cousin – about twelve years older than myself – came to live with us during the summer to help my dad out on the farm.  While I am not certain about this, I think part of the scenario was for my dad to do some “mentoring” to him.  This cousin – who will remain nameless – I will continue to refer to him as Z – was the closest I had known to what the concept of a sibling could be.  I looked up to him.  I loved the idea of having another “young person” to be around as he hung out at lunch time, evenings, etc.  Until that one day when it all started.  As a child, I was curious and always wanted to be part of the action. Doesn’t the youngest always want to do so??!!!  No matter what was happening on the farm I always found a way to sneak out from the house and see how I could join in.  Most of the adults – my dad and uncle, who he farmed with – wanted me to stay out of danger and allow them to carry on the work; however, frequently, Z would come to my side.  Make me laugh … show me something that was happening with their work.  And then one day, he lead me to behind the grain bins.  Nervously, he unzipped his pants and exposed himself to me.  Before, then, I had never seen a man’s penis before (of course I wouldn’t have – I was only five or so.)  I remember him showing me how it worked and he asked me touch him.  At first, I was uncertain whether to or not – not knowing where that voice or idea was coming from in my child’s mind… but I did touch him… because he told me to. And I trusted him.  And this “game” continued … over time for months … each time he became bolder with me.  Asking me to do other things to him; asking me to show him how may parts were designed and allowing him to touch me.  I am going to stop here with the other sordid details because they really aren’t important to the story.  Suffice it say that it “stopped” before every leading to penetration and that is why I have been told so often that I am “Lucky”.

Probably at least several months later, that “voice” spoke to me again, and told me even though the “game” Z introduced me to may not be wrong, I maybe should tell my mom or dad.  So, I did.  Now, you the reader, imagine if a child significant to you came and shared such an incident, how would you react?  Would you throw him out?  Would you call the police?  Would you confront his father – your brother?  Or, would you do as my parents did when I told them both after mustering enough courage.  They told me to just say no and stay away from him.  They needed his help and there really wasn’t anything else to do.  They thought I must have been encouraging him.  Wow… really?!?! (Says Carol, the fifty year old!).  The abuse continued until Z finally moved on in his life and no longer was living or visiting us.

 

And, so started the downward spiral that I have known since that point of dealing with this abuse.  I was so “Lucky” that – in part – this abuse led to childhood obesity, insecurity in all relationships, several years of battling anorexia nervosa to the point that the general physician who cared for me wanted me to leave my parents’ home and come live with her.  She had no clue about this deep-seeded sexual abuse but what she was learning about, at the time, is that many times it was related to family issues/dynamics.  I went through a lot of counseling and therapy … a lot … from a teen to an adult.  Have I gotten better? – Most certainly! – however I have never been “cured”.  My innocence was lost so many years ago behind those grain bins.  I will never get that back or be able to completely erase this abuse from my memory~

I moved away from my parents … about as far away as I could – first England for student teaching and then California.  I hardly ever looked in the rearview mirror.  I moved on … however, every now and again something would remind me of those moments and I would become almost paralyzed and five years old all over again.

The last time I saw Z was at my parents’ funerals.  In particular, the most memorable was my mother’s funeral.  At the time, I was married and had two of my three children and I was four months pregnant with Dane. My dad made the proclamation that he’d like all of his nephews – Z included – to be a pallbearer.  What?!?!  Are you crazy?!?!  He even said to me, “I know you have issues with Z but I think it is important that he be a pallbearer for your with the other nephews.”  I had issues???!!!!  Z came to the wake/funeral. He barely brushed past me.  While in my child’s mind, he was tall, overpowering – like the Incredible Hulk; through my adult eyes, he was a mouse of a man … who could barely shake my hand and of course made no eye contact.  As it was many years ago – over twenty – and the memory is now a blur as I was in the middle of grief – I blew up at my dad about this incident at the funeral home.  And several extended family members – mostly cousins on both sides – were there to hear the story and heard about this abuse for the first time.  This secret apparently was well kept, placed gently in a box with the cover gingerly placed and taped shut so that no one could know the real truth.  And then – it was out there …

I have not thought about Z for many, many years.  Until this past week when I was recalling some events about this abuse with Thomas and I saw that Z had passed away.  Similarly to the “lookie-lous” on the freeway that I curse every time there is a slow down due to an accident, my friend, Google, and I found all sorts of things to oogle and awe over – including a video put together by the funeral home.  There were a few pictures of him on the farm with my dad and me around the time period that the abuse started.  So forty some years quickly erased themselves and the pain came through as if it were just mere months ago.

For Z – named Z in this writing as it is the end of the alphabet – the story is over.  Did he did good things throughout his life aside from this abuse?  According to his obituary, he did and I am sure that is true.  Have I forgiven Z?  After all of this time … I am pretty sure I have … forgiven … yes … forgotten … no.  Have I forgiven my parents????  … still working on that one!

So, am I “Lucky”???  … well sometimes I do think the answer is yes.  When I place a fifty cent bet on a slot machine in Vegas and get fifty bucks in return? Absolutely!  However, I will agree with Alice Sebold in regards to being “lucky” with this incident of child sexual abuse and say I am not sure that I concur!