Things We Won't Talk About. I grew up in a rural area supposedly sheltered from the dangers of city life. As children, we all knew that there were those in the neighborhood who had a sexual interest in us. For the most part, we stayed away from them. Some didn't. We talked to each other about it but we never told other adults. In a reality TV show some years ago, they did several stories about adults pretending to be pre-teens who talked on the internet with men who expressed an interest in sex with a child. They had a constant stream of men who wanted to have sex with these youngsters. While we would like to think these are rare examples, I am afraid it is not.
I am posting this essay by a woman in her 60's who has a need to let others know what happened to her as a child. I have known her via the internet for several years and can vouch for her honesty. I recommend this article for those who want to be more aware of this social problem and the effect that it can have years after it happened. Your comments would be appreciated. The article is unedited by me and based on her thoughts only.
THE INVADED CHILD
“Shhhhh” was what he used to say. “Don’t make any noise” he would whisper,
As his fingers found the innermost secrets of a small girl child. What was he
looking for? Why was he touching her down there? Nobody had ever done that
before. Why shouldn’t the child say anything? He obviously didn’t want
anyone else to know what was going on. But why? What was wrong with what
he was doing? What was he doing when he would back her up against his
body? What was he doing wrong when he would reach down to what she only
knew as something that would be going between her legs? At the time she
thought it was warm and comforting. “I guess my Daddy does love me,” she
would think to herself. This activity must be ok. He is her Daddy now. And
certainly Daddy wouldn’t hurt her. Her Mommy married him. He had
promised her Mommy that he would take care of her and her children. “I must
be safe”, she thought.
Why did the Mommy marry him? I guess she loved him. Why did he
marry her? Did he love her or did he just want some little girls for his
enjoyment. Why does he do this? Does he understand that he is ruining this
little girl’s life? Does he understand that when she grows older she is going to
realize what he is doing today is wrong? Does he care? Does the mother know
what is going on? Does she care or is she afraid if she says something the
marriage will be over. The little girl wonders.
The little girl is all grown up now and is still doing a lot of wondering.
That little girl was me. I often wonder, as I grow older if my mother really did
knew. I will never know. Both of them have since gone to the other side. All I
can do is guess.
I was 2 years old when my real father passed away. I hear stories about
him, good and bad. I don’t think he would have been sexually abusive. I would
hope not anyway. I guess when I was young, I did really love my stepfather to
be. I have no recollection of any sexual activity with him before I was 6. There
might have been but I don’t remember it. I remember that I was excited about
calling my new stepfather, Daddy. It was very important to me to have a
Daddy. And my mom seemed to love him so it should have been ok. I do
remember, though, that my oldest sister did not like him. And when we moved
to the farm she did not come with us. To me that was sad. I loved her very
much and didn’t want her to stay behind. But he said “We are going to buy a
farm” and it was ok with mother. My sister chose to stay behind and stay with
my aunt and Uncle and their kids. STRANGE. So it was Mom and Dad and
us two small girls, my sister, and myself who was 2 years older than I.
I found moving to the farm as both scary and exciting as only a 6-year
-old could see it. I wonder to this day why he wanted to move us so far from
anyone that we knew and loved. He must have had a plan. As I have stated
before, I don’t know if any of the abuse happened before the move to the farm.
My memory doesn’t go that far back.
I can say I do remember for sure at the age of 6 and 7, my Dad had
started his secret activity. I can remember some evenings when Dad went to
bed and Mom wanted to stay up and read or watch TV, I would go into the
bedroom and lie down with Dad. (Normally that would be an absolutely safe
situation for a little girl) I would love to cuddle in moms’ blankets on her side of
the bed. The blankets were always warm and cuddly and smelled like my mom.
I somehow felt some affection from her when I was under those blankets. I
would fall asleep very fast. To this day I have a blanket that I enjoy taking to
bed with me when I am sick or under stress. Somehow it makes me feel better
Our house was very small and only one bedroom so my sister and I
always slept on the hide-a-bed. But until Mom would go to bed we would sleep
in her bed. If we were tired the only choice we had was to sleep in moms bed.
Which you would think would normally be ok. BUT…
Then one night the hand came and started probing. I didn’t know what
to do but I trusted him. I had mixed feeling about what was happening. Was
it wrong? Couldn’t be. My dad was doing it. It was attention and it did feel
good. So then why did I feel something was wrong? Why did he keep shushing
me? What was the secret all about? Mom would come in the bedroom
sometimes during this time. He would stop the movements immediately. But
when she left the room he would start again. Did she know this was
happening? I often wonder. My mother was a very devoted wife and always put
him before her children. Honor thy husband. Whatever happened to honor thy
children?
As time went on there were more secret meetings. The warm hardness of his being always felt good and natural but, though he never penetrated my
inner aspects, it was wrong just the same. Why was it when mom stepped into
the room to get something or to say something, he would stop. Why didn’t she
see what was going on? Was she that naïve or was it that she wanted to ignore
the situation. I will never know. I can only imagine.
As years went by nothing was ever mentioned. When I came to the age
of, “being a woman”, as my mother explained it, the activity stopped. I guess
maybe he thought I would start smartening up.
Oh how I loved him. Why? He had done me wrong. And by that time I
realized that it was wrong. Why didn’t I say anything then? I guess I thought
people would judge me rather than him. I don’t know. Why didn’t I at least tell
my mother? Would she believe it? I don’t think so. She absolutely thought he
could do no wrong. So as time went on I just put it in the back of my mind and
said that it didn’t matter. That it was over and done with and not one would
ever know. But I knew. And he knew.
Growing up I never had what you would call a real hug, or the real love
that a father would normally give his girl child. He was not ever affectionate,
openly. We never talked like a father and daughter. The extent of his talking
was telling us what to do. “Don’t talk at the table. Don’t interrupt when adults
were talking. Don’t chew with your mouth open.” He would pick and pick at
us until the tears started coming. Then he would scold us for crying. Mom
would be hollering at him because he made us cry and the meal would be
ruined. And God forbid if we would waste some food. At the dinner table we
either didn’t talk or we talked about the subjects he wanted. If we interrupted
when he was listening to the news. That was the end of the world.
My sister reminded me of the time we were at the table and he slapped
my hand with the table knife. I don’t remember why and neither did she but we
remembered the incident. He was a very stern man and definitely was the boss.
We never had the chance as children to advance ourselves. Never had any of
the growing up pleasures such as playing a musical instrument. Dad never felt
it was a necessary thing. It cost too much money. Yet he used to talk about
how he used to play the violin. At parties and dances. So why was a violin ok
for him but not necessary for us to learn how? We never owned a bicycle. Dad
always said feet were made for walking on or he would say, “You pedal your feet
off to give your ass a ride”. God forbid we should have it because it was fun.
We had one sled for sliding in the winter. And had that one sled for many years.
Never had an animal that didn’t earn their keep. Like a horse to ride. “Nope,
cost too much” Yet other neighbors around us were just as poor and had
bicycles and horses. Go figure. So again I ask, “Why did I love him?”
When I would spend time with my friends at their homes I used to think
they were so lucky because their Dad would talk to them. And would talk to
me. Real talk. Not hollering. Not criticizing. Just talking. Asking about me
like I was important to him. When he would give his daughters a hug good
night, he would hug me also. I loved spending the nights at their house. I
wished he could be my dad. Sounds silly doesn’t it.
Later in life I realized that the affection that I thought I was getting was
not really affection, but some kind of a perversion. Mother wasn’t very
affectionate either. I do remember when I was ill; I would lay with my head on
her lap and she would stroke my hair behind my ear. That was about the
extent of it. Never a hug. Ohhhhhh how I wanted a hug.
When I graduated from high school and went out on my own, I searched
for a kind of affection that I was missing in my life. I didn’t realize what I was
missing, just that I was missing something. I went through years of searching,
then I had my children. That was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Mother had a fit when I got pregnant with my first child. Dad was quiet. What
was he thinking? He never said a word. He never condemned me for what I
had done. Never expressed anything. Maybe he was thinking it was because of
him. I don’t know if it was. I just knew that for the first time in my life I would
have someone to truly love. And I would never treat my children the way I was
treated.
When my dad got very very ill with cancer, I was the one at his bedside
tending to him in the hospital. Mother couldn’t come to the city every day. I
would go every day and make sure he was ok. When he needed his duties
tended to, I was there for him. Why? I don’t know. I didn’t hate him. Why?
Why did I worry about him so when he was sick? I was the one he confided in
when he was so sick and wanted to die. When he did die, I hurt so badly. I
mourned him. Why? He had done me wrong so many years ago. Did he go to
heaven? Only God knows that. I had a funny dream on the eve of his death
that I never told many people about. I often wondered what it meant. I would
like to tell you about it now.
We were at his funeral. The family was going down the isle in the funeral
procession. As we are going down towards the casket, I spied my dad in
the pews with the rest of the congregation. What did that mean? I took
his hand and led him down the isle. I said, “Common Dad, you need to
come too.” When we reached the casket he stopped dead in his track
and looked inside the casket. He was looking at himself inside the
casket. Dressed only in a hospital gown. No pillows were under his
head, no padding under his body, only wood. He was withered away to
skin and bone. He screamed out, “NO!!!!!!!!” and ran back down the isle,
through all the people and ran out the door. Not attending his own
funeral. After he left the funeral the dream stopped. What did that
dream mean? Did it mean that he was going to be punished? Did it
mean that he would never have peace? I really hope not. I do hope he
had to answer in some kind of way when he got to the Golden Gate, if he
indeed got there. We will never know. I have to put that in God’s hands.
I have never been a super religious person, but I do believe that in his
own way, God will take care of this.
I never felt very close to my mom. I believe she loved me in her own way
but I don’t think she like me very well. I don’t know why. Maybe I felt that she
could have stopped the activity that I now know as being wrong. Why didn’t I
tell her before she passed what he had done? Why should I? It didn’t matter
anymore. She would not have believed me. He was gone. What could be done
now? Nothing. What would it prove? So I kept quiet. Not thinking about it
every day; just once in a while.
When mother was so very sick, both my other sisters told her that it was
ok to go. I couldn’t. Maybe because I had to get an answer to my questions
before she left. But it never happened. She died. We were sad but also happy
for her because she was out of pain. She also died without ever giving me the
hug that I so desperately needed. Just one little hug.
Mother was also not very good at explaining the facts of life to us
children. Sex to her was not talked about. When my sister got her first period,
instead of telling me the truth, Mother said that my sister had cut her leg and
she could not play with the boys anymore. What did that mean for heavens
sake. What would the boys do now to her that she had cut her leg.? It was
very hard for a girl of 9 to figure out. My sister finally told me about the
menstruation after months of me torturing her with questions.
I am writing this at this time just because I need to think things out.
People say “Put it on paper, it’s the best way for closure.” I spoke to my
middle sister about the molestations about a year ago. I told my oldest sister
just a couple weeks ago. She was surprised. My middle sister was not. As I sit
and think about the situation so many years ago, in a little house in the
country, I wondered how many he had done this to. Was there others. Did he
ever try anything with any of our friends? I don’t think so but we don’t know.
Maybe. He was in his 50’s when he married my mom. That is a lot of time
under the bridge that he could have done this to many children. We will never
know. He was also married once before he married my mom. Is that the real
reason for his breakup? He said it was because she ran around with other
men. That to is something we will never know. It doesn’t matter. It’s over now.
I still don’t hate him. I hate what he did to me and it makes me feel
resentful that he took my innocence away from me. And he did. I am also
realizing that I was not the only one in life that has had this happen to. There
are so many men, and women, out there that are destroying the lives of so
many young girls and boys alike. What gives them that right? Some of the men
out there are supposed to be religious leaders. Molesting several boys and girls
over a number of years. Church leaders are condoning this by moving them
from church to church and hiding it under the carpet. We have gym teachers,
school teachers, boy and girlscout leaders and perverts from every walk of life
taking advantage of children every where. Why does the law condone it? They
show that by not doing anything about it? They just slap the hands of the
predators.
“How could you let this happen?” people will ask. Well, at a tender age
such as I was when it happened, I knew no better. As I go through life now, I
look at children, around the age that I was, and I wonder what would make a
person molest a child that age. With there chubby little cheeks and runny noses
and eyes of total innocence. What is it in a young girl or little boy that would
turn a man or woman into a molester? I look at my pictures when I was that
age and I wonder what he saw but an innocent child. What was the turn on? A
sick turn on. I don’t have any idea what could make a grown man prey on a
child but I guess only God can judge. I forgive him because I have to for my
own sanity. But I can’t forget.
I refuse to accept responsibility for what happened so many long years
ago on a little farm in northern Minnesota. I DO know that what happened was
not my fault, it was the fault of a man that was desperate for something. Some
kind of perverted need.
I really hope by writing this and sharing this with other people, I can get
past the anger I have started feeling lately with all the media on this subject.
The predators of young children are sick people. People say, “This has been
going on for hundreds of years.” Maybe we just didn’t talk about it. Maybe it
was a forbidden topic. What ever the case may be, the molestation’s and
pervertedness of the situation needs to stop.
I have been to the cemetery to visit once since mother’s death. She past
in 1992 and my Stepfather passed in 1985. I have no reason to go there. I have
never had a need. I know people judge you if you don’t go but…….. Oh well.
You have to want to go before it does you any good. It would do me no good to
go there, nor Mom and Dad. That part of my life is over. I need to move on and
let that part of my life be in the past now. That is the reason why I am doing
this writing. People say “ Write down your thoughts” “Be truthful”. Well this is
it. My truths.
God bless us all and God forgive those who trespass against us. Amen
BY MARIE PAULSON
TOPINSMAMA@aol.com
Men of The Storms Family, Circa 1937 
