I continue to try and make sense of what happened to me, as if understanding what happened will make it better. Nothing will make what my family did to me okay, but I deserve to love the rest of my life, even when I lost 18 years of it. I have always been somewhat quiet about certain events that happened throughout the years, while some I only remember tiny bits.
Throughout the many years I was with my grandma, there were multiple occasions that things became sexual. I don’t remember many times fully, only pieces of them. There is only one memory that I remember from start to finish. Its easy for me to block out some of the memories simply by telling myself they didn’t happen, which sometimes I do to protect myself from them. It’s frustrating trying to make sense of what happened when truthfully there is no sense to it. There was no reason I deserved it, and I didn’t understand what was actually going on back then.
I remember my grandma sitting in corner of the living room in a large chair that was beige with colored lines throughout it, as if the entire outside of the chair was made with thin yarn. She sat there as I vacuumed and when I finished I put the vacuum away, unaware I had missed a spot in front of the couch. She looked at me and told me that I had missed it purposely because i’m lazy and don’t care, when in reality I truly just didn’t notice. I tried to explain that it was a accident and I would vacuum it, but no matter what I said it would not be the answer she wanted. She told me to come towards her, with the motion many people do with their finger gesturing you to come to them. I knew immediately what was going to happen but I always hoped that maybe I would be wrong, maybe I wouldn’t be hurt. I was hesitant to go closer like she was asking just in case should was going to hit me. The longer I stood away from her, the more she became aggravated, which added to a already bad situation. Finally she started yelling at me “Get over here, now!” and at that point fear started to creep in because I knew exactly what was going to happen now. I slowly took baby steps closer to her, praying she would take mercy on me, even though that never happened. When I was within two feet of her she reached out and grabbed my wrists, gripping so hard that later I had bruises. She pulled me the rest of the way to her. To the right of the chair when looking at it, there were two white laundry baskets stacked with folded clothes. She pulled me across her lap, hitting my face on the top laundry basket. She pulled down my pants and started spanking me. Usually I was lucky and she only did it three times, but this time she kept going. I think she stopped after around ten times. I thought she would just let me go and that would be the end of it, but not this time. She continued to hold me down, and I didn’t know why because this was the first time she didn’t just let go. A few seconds later I felt why, and I was frozen from shock yet crying from pain. I was in fifth or sixth grade, and never felt this kind of pain before. She wasn’t using a object, only her hand. This was my second time ever feeling this, and two fingers was way to much, and she knew that, but she did it anyway. I could feel them causing incredible pressure and pain caused by her nails. She was do “a sexual motion” as ill put it. At one point the pain started to switch to feeling good, as she was “rubbing” me as she was doing it. It felt good but I didn’t understand why I couldn’t just stop myself. Once I climaxed she stopped and pushed me off of her on the floor. I quickly pulled my pants back up and went away from her. She acted like nothing happened and went to the kitchen to do dishes. I just sat on the floor, crying, from the remaining pain and knowing I was powerless.