Flashbacks and Plastic Pools: A Little of My Story

Let me first clarify that the person in this picture is not me.  This is a random swimming pool picture from the internet.  I don't have access to pictures of myself at age six, so imagine a typical six-year old playing in that type of pool and you've got the right idea.

Second, I would like to warn everyone before you continue reading that this story, while not graphic or explicit, is both disturbing and true.  It might be hard to read.  It's hard for me to write.  And I understand if you choose to revisit my website tomorrow when something more innocuous may appear on your screen.

. . .

The first memory I have of being abused was when I was six years old.  I had just finished kindergarten (back when there was only one year of kindergarten), and the long summer stretched before me.  My parents had recently divorced, and my mom had to work so that she could provide for me and my baby sister.  We were planning to move later in the summer, and one of my uncles offered to take care of me and my sister while my mom was at work and to help us with our packing and moving.

I spent most of my summer days out in our yard.  I liked to ride my tricycle down our front hill, swing on my swing set (which was attached to the clothesline), play with my He-Man action figures in my sandbox, and swim in my plastic swimming pool.  The pool was especially fun when a neighborhood friend could come over because we would take turns holding the running hose for each other so that we could jump off of the picnic table, fall through the spray from the hose, and land in the pool with a big splash. 

This particular day I was alone.  Perhaps my friends were inside at their own homes.  Perhaps their families had gone on vacation.  In any case, I was outside in my yard, attempting to find a way to hold the hose and jump into the pool at the same time. I was not having much success in this experiment, but I was sure there was a way to make it work.

I heard my name being called from inside the house.  My uncle was asking me to come inside.  I was a bit confused, both because I was dripping wet from the pool and because, at six years old, I was far too old for naps.  Why would he ask me to stop my play?

Obediently I dried myself off and entered the front door of the house, my towel wrapped around me to stop the drips from landing on the carpet.  My uncle was on the couch.  He gestured for me to come over to him, then proceeded to scold me, for what I can't remember right now.  I was certain, though, that I hadn't done anything wrong.  Why was I being scolded? Was I going to be punished?

*Warning: story becomes increasingly scary/disturbing at this point.  Proceed with caution.

Then my uncle did something I never, ever would have guessed he would do.  He unwrapped my towel, pulled off my swimsuit, and raped me in the middle of our living room.  I cannot begin to describe the confusion, pain, fear, and humiliation I felt at that moment.  I didn't know what rape was.  I didn't know what abuse was.  All I knew was that I had gotten in trouble and now I hurt.  A lot.  At six, I had barely begun losing my baby teeth, and now I had lost my virginity.

When he was through with me, he wrapped me in my towel again and sent me to my room to put on clean, dry clothes.  As I headed up the stairs, I remember thinking that if this is what it meant to be in trouble, I had better be very, very good all the time. 

. . .

Many people think that abuse only happens in poor neighborhoods or in other countries or with people who are on drugs or desperate for money or something.  Those things are true: abuse does occur in those places.  But abuse also occurs in middle-class homes where the fridge is full and everyone is happy, healthy, and above average.