I take a call from my little sister. There are three, and she’s the one I giggle and shop with. We grab some tea and settle down for chat and news and silliness. Eventually, she asks how I am and what I’ve been doing. In the next five seconds my mind rejects the polite noises I was about to make.
See the thing is, we don’t talk about things. It’s all just… there.
I don’t because, well you know, survivor — so there’s the whole secret-keeping thing, and besides, if I ever had, out loud, in front of my father, I don’t think I’d be here to tell the tale. Oh, I wanted to. I lacked courage, wherewithal, words really.
There was a siblings’ conversation once as adults about messy family secrets, an exchange of information, but even then it was the thing that was never said, not out loud. Obliquely and without prejudice it exists in our shared history. We just don’t know what to do with it.
Little sister was seven when I walked away, so she is blameless, and I have never found a reason to cast shadows where they are not needed. It has been referenced and noted — we don’t pretend it never happened — but we didn’t understand it then and we don’t understand it now.
There is a silent, still understanding that none of their children will ever experience the same. None of us would ever let it happen, and he is never left alone with a single one of them. We all know how quickly anger can explode. We’ve all witnessed the uncontrolled rage, and we all hold sacred the vow that it stops with us. I know I took that vow, and I don’t need to ask — I know they did as well.
I hesitate in the silence and don’t know which way to go. Two weeks ago I stepped into an arena of honesty. I had no intention to compromise or fudge this or sidestep, and I know this human loves me with all her heart, so I take a breath and I tell her.
I tell her that my time is spent thousands of miles away crying, laughing, talking, growing, understanding, being me.
For the first time, I actually voice the thought: “our father beat me a lot and locked me in rooms” — so I have just been understanding that beating me was abuse as well — and she says, “yeah and I know your childhood was different from mine and locking in rooms as well… locking in rooms is abuse, not just the beating.”
Little sister tells me how those two boys of hers — who I adore and have watched grow into the most amazing adults — never once has it even been an idea, let alone an action. Nobody does that. It’s imprisonment. It’s wrong. Yeah, but those two weren’t bad like me. “It’s wrong and it’s abuse,” she repeats.
I am starting to think I am a complete moron. Of course it is.
In my head, it has always been like other people say “naughty stair now” or “you are so grounded mister” or “that’s no pocket money for a week.” Just a punishment. Just a way of dealing with the unruly. A way of re-establishing authority.
We tell each other how we were both scared of him. We cry a little and we speak words of comfort and love. There is nothing to be done. He is long dead. Everyone is grown up and we all survived.
Here I am, 3am, staring at a pile of stuff that wasn’t there two weeks ago. It’s all in an overflowing box labelled “abuse I have known.” It used to have just the one file full of many incidents, but now there are new files. I’m not sure what order they go in. Order of appearance seems the most logical, and for now, I guess it’s as good as any.
Does that mean they have to be seen in sequence, handled one after the other, or is it ok to just pick things out and watch random clips? Who decides these things?
In the still of the night, I start to ponder how I ever got this far. Why did I never succumb to the lure of suicide? How come I didn’t end up a rent-boy? Why have I never tried to wipe away footage by swallowing gallons of vodka? Why didn’t I grab drugs and shove them into my veins until my mind exploded into darkness and silence? What is wrong with me? Why did I just keep on trying to make sense of it? I still am.
I used to dismiss the violence. And what is the title on the new file? The abusive imprisonment. It was just a fact of life. Well, this life. So normal it was hardly worthy of note. Now I am not so sure. I admit to a sense of shock. Now it’s been added to the pile of things that need my attention. The growing pile of abuse.
As a child, I was beaten and locked in rooms.
As a teen, I was sexually abused.
It was all abuse. I think I know that now.
Little sister is the first family member who has heard me.
That’s enough for one day ~ bring on the night.