“Don’t ever forget you are beautiful, although your life, your past and your present situation may be ugly. You are beautiful.” Ricky Maye

I am a survivor of emotional, mental, occasionally physical, and sexual abuse, and it can be easily said that each led to the others. I believe the first three began when I was a very young child, perhaps a toddler. The sexual abuse began when I was about six and was without a doubt the most insidious.

My abuser was my uncle, my mother's youngest brother. It's important to note that he was only three years older than I was as this is an important element in dealing with those experiences throughout my therapy “career.” He was much bigger than I was. Big and muscular even as a child, he was controlling and had a strong sense of entitlement. That sense was a good share of his attitude where his abusive behavior was concerned.

My home life was chaotic and my parents were for the most part emotionally distant, particularly my father. I craved love and affection, and a simple loving touch, but I only rarely received them. Except when there were witnesses, then I was showered with loving attention. It lasted only until those who believed ours to be a happy home were no longer in evidence. Then everything went back to the abnormal usual.

So when my uncle decided he wanted to use me I was ripe for the picking. He knew exactly how to play me so that I would do what he wanted. I did have some sense of preservation, however, so I would only let it go so far before I'd fight him off. Until I was sixteen, that was enough. At sixteen he got tired of being put off and nearly raped me late one night, backed up against the refrigerator in the kitchen of my grandmother's home while my grandparents, my uncle's wife, and infant son slept elsewhere in the house. The only reason he didn't succeed was because he heard his wife walk into the living room. At that point, he thrust me aside and went to meet her while I escaped to the bathroom. Minutes later, as I sat huddled and rocking myself on the side of the tub, he returned, broke the chain guard on the door and walked into the bathroom. It was then that I finally stood up for myself by telling him that if he ever touched me again he would be the one who would have to explain why his face was implanted in his mother's best iron skillet. The most telling thing about the whole experience was the fact that I was more afraid of my grandmother and would rather have let him rape me than call for help.

He never touched me again, giving credence to the fact that abusers are really cowards at heart. But I was only his first victim and he learned valuable lessons from me. Those that followed were not so lucky, including a four-year-old cousin who he forcibly raped. When her mother confronted my grandmother, my grandmother declared that it didn't happen that way, that my cousin must have been running across the yard and fallen on a stick. My aunt was so afraid of my grandmother that the matter went no further. Indeed, it wasn't much different with my own parents for when I finally told my father about what had happened he was so determined to avoid confrontation that he only said if it happened again he wanted to know about it. Of course by that time I had taken care of the threat myself. When my uncle died I attended his funeral. Not out of a sense of familial obligation as many thought, but because I wanted to make sure the son-of-a-bitch was dead!

There's a history of abuse of all kinds in my family going back generations. I often refer to the sexual abuse as our family's dirty secret. My mother and her sister were raped by their uncle and I believe that man also raped my uncle. Work in therapy, which was hampered by his being only three years older than I (was he still my abuser despite our close ages?) has convinced me of it. While it doesn't excuse my abuser for his behavior, it does, at least, illustrate how abuse is a multi-generational thing. I strongly suspect his son continued the family “tradition.”

Today I'm nearly sixty-years-old. I continue to work on my deepest issues with men as well as the residual effect of having been love starved and traumatized from such a young age. I don't dismiss the issues because they are what kept me from getting involved with an abusive boyfriend or husband. Problem is, it's left me very, very lonely, and still every bit as love starved as I'd been as a child. I'm vulnerable to abusive men who would know just the right words and actions to win me over and it terrifies me.

I've come a long way in my nearly thirty-five years of therapy. I am hopeful the day will come that my uncle's impact on my life isn't as pronounced, when I am able to go out on dates and maybe one day marry. I'm too old now for a family of my own, which hurts, but I like to believe I'm not too old to find happiness with someone special.

My experiences left me with scars and diagnosis of dissociative disorder and PTSD in conjunction with being diagnosed bipolar (type 2). I have flashbacks and dream often of my uncle. I've accepted that I'll never be completely free of him. But I have hope now when once I had none. He is dead to me in body and soon he'll be dead to me in spirit.

c. 2022