Child sexual abuse: Keeping a face in a jar by the front door

Read part five here.

Read part four here.

Read part three here.

Read part two here.

Read part one here.

In the Beatles’ song “Eleanor Rigby”, the protagonist of the song keeps her face in a jar by the front door.

I wonder about that at times - how often do I now put on that mask and sail out into the world with a sweet smile on my face, and no one would know about the pain raging inside me?

The lyrics reminded me of my time in the Baltics in 2003, where I felt abandoned, cast out at sea, knowing no one, recovering from a failed relationship of six years.

I was lonely, so lonely.

But I pulled myself together and for the first time in my life started working on my abuse, and writing about it.

This morning, it took me a few moments to decide whether I wanted to see my writing from this period again. I had worked on Laura Davis' "The Courage to Heal Workbook: For Women and Men Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse", and I remember that I had written a fairly long entry at that time. I wanted to recall what I had written then. I thought that the words might jog my memory and help me fill in the blanks. It is so frustrating not remembering fully what happened, and how long this abuse went on.

I read about things that I have forgotten. But I still do not remember beyond what I already do.

These are excerpts from my entry in the journal:

21 June 2003

I can't remember when it started exactly. I remember one day being at my grandparents' as usual (they used to babysit me and my brother while my parents did whatever it was they had to do). I was in my grandparents' bedroom. I don't think it was that unusual - we would play anywhere, my cousins and I - until we were shooed away.

I sat there, 10 years old, on the bed that my grandma slept on. The TV was on in the lounge. My brother and probably my cousins - I can't remember exactly - were watching TV. I sat on the bed with my legs slightly apart, never the lady, my feet not quite touching the floor; I was so small.

I was shocked when grandpa gently spread my legs further apart, and without saying anything, hooked his finger into my panties. There was a momentary silence as I struggled within myself.

I said finally, "What are you doing, Grandpa?"

I think he replied something along the lines of "Nothing" in a raspy tone.

I have goose bumps writing this; it is so difficult. 

Sometimes it was painful, rasping, and I'd gasp and he'd say "Sorry" and be more gentle. I was always confused - what was the aim of this? What did he want?

He'd stop after a while. It's funny, it's not like I could climax, unlike now. He'd stop and move to the bathroom. He'd smell his fingers and he would have this faraway look in his eyes, then he'd disappear into the bathroom.

I was dismissed, my duty done.

There was one time, I didn't know what it was then, the fool that I was. But I know now, that he wanted to rape me.

He pushed me onto the bed (where were my brother and cousins?), and there I was on the bed, staring up at him, thinking, thinking, oh my God, what now, what's going on?

He spread my legs and I knew that whatever it was, it wasn't good, and I begged him, "Grandpa, don't want. Grandpa, don't want."

He said "Ok" and I got up. I can't remember whether I walked away or he fondled me again.

I used to rage inside against my grandmother - why can't you serve him? Look what he's doing to me!

Can't you see? Can't you see, all of you? Why is everything so normal? Can't someone see? Can't someone help me?"

I am fine now.

I will be fine.

"The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start." ~ John Bingham