A Complicated & Confusing #MeToo

Do you remember, Daddy? Or is it something an elementary schooler would make up? Because I honestly don’t remember my childhood besides the few incidences we had. It’s something I’m just now dealing with at 20-years-old and I’m slowly starting to realize that you were the catalyst for my mental illnesses and personality disorder. Well, and Mom, but that’s a different kind of abuse. Now don’t get me wrong, my mother didn’t know about the abuse while it was going on. “How would she not?” I’m sure that’s what many of you are asking. The reason is because when my parents divorced when I was two, my mom moved back to Oklahoma and me and my dad stayed in Florida, coming to Oklahoma occasionally. Conveniently, most of the abuse happened in Florida from what I can remember.

Do you remember that you would have me sleep in just my underwear and one of your t-shirts? Do you remember that the room was painted pink and the two beds had pink Disney princess bedding with white princess canopies? Do you remember that you would sleep in my bed with me? Or how your body would randomly twitch and I thought it was funny so I twitched back? That was the wrong move. You somehow took that as an invitation and would start to rub up and down my chest to my stomach, or from back to butt, and edge your fingers on the lining of my underwear. You would go underneath and rub my privates until I told you that I had to pee. I would go, come back, and we would go right back to sleep. You would wake up and leave sometime during the night or in the morning when you had to go to work.

Fast forwarding to sixth grade, we live in Oklahoma now. I am living with you, Alexa, and Medium, the stepmom, because Mom got into a nearly fatal car accident and was discovered having an affair on my stepdad, Brad. Not only was that bad enough, the day of Mom’s accident I had my first visit from Aunt Flo. Now there isn’t the molestation, but there are sexual advances. One day, you come into the bathroom while I’m washing my body. You just sit on the toilet and watch me through the see-through walls of the shower. When I try to get out you tell me that I didn’t wash my body good enough and attempt to pull me back into the shower to wash my body for me. I somehow escaped. Another day, you were tickling my neck on the floor by the couch and tried to climb on top of me. I freaked out and ruined our fun by becoming scared and acting like he was going to do something to me. Another time, you sat me down and explained how to put a condom on. You wanted to show me using your own penis. I somehow escaped. One of the last times I remember is when we were lying in bed together and I was trying to stay as rigid as possible. You asked me if I wanted to play the Mommy & Daddy game. I told you no and you kept asking me how I knew what that was and to describe what I thought it was. I just kept telling you no. I somehow escaped and didn’t sleep very well that night.

The next year I moved in with Mom and made friends at her apartment complex. I eventually told them what had happened to me and they convinced me to tell the school. At school during lunch, I told one of my friends and with their help, told a teacher. Once I told the school, they had my mom come up there. She took me to the police station and all that legal stuff. I didn’t realize what I was getting myself into because when the police and detectives were asking me questions, I didn’t have the answers because I just didn’t know. For instance, they asked me how old was I, what year was I in, and how old Alexa was. I couldn’t answer any of those questions because I repressed the memory so much and for so long. When I said I didn’t realize what I was getting myself and everyone in my family into. I meant I didn’t realize that my dad would have to go to jail. I finally understood that when I was only allowed to see my dad during a supervised meeting. Once I understood, I told my family members and detectives that I had made the whole thing up and it wasn’t real. They bought it.

After that, everyone pretended like it never happened. Now it’s 2018, I’m 20 and you’re still in my life. In fact, you’re my biggest supporter and I would happily come to you with news over Mom. You support me in every decision I make, no questions asked. But our past has me all sorts of fucked up. I’m confused on how our relationship is supposed to play out. If I ever have kids, I wouldn’t be able to feel comfortable with them hanging out around you without me there. You haven’t said a word about the abuse and it’s starting to mess with my head. I keep thinking, what if I made it all up?