Monday, August 7, 2017

Car rides and boiled sweets

I'm older now...I'm not sure how old, but I'm going to school with my sister now, at the convent, and there's another girl on the car that I'm not sure who she is but goes to the same school and rides with us.
For some reason my grandfather picks us up from school, and I'm not sure why but this happens more than once, it is a repetitive scripted event that makes my stomach churn. It starts with the arrangement in the car. My sister and her friend always sit together in the backseat leaving me in the front seat with my grandfather. As we're driving, my grandfather offers us all boiled sweets that he keeps in a tin in his glove compartment which is in front of me. Of course the girls want sweets and I am instructed to get them out and offer them to the girls. It is at this point that the plan begins to take shape.  In the moment of offering the sweets I have to physically twist around with the tin and hold it out while they pick. During this time my grandfather slides his hand up my school tunic and to my panties. I am terrified that my sister is going to see what's happening and just want to throw up while he massages my thigh enjoying the whole situation. It only takes a few minutes for them to pick their sweets but it feels like hours. Once they pick I quickly push myself back into my seat and away from his grasp. He tells me to take a sweet which I dutifully do and then he says, speaking to us all but staring at me..." Say Thank you", the girls chime out "thank you" but the words stick in my throat along with the vomit I'm now swallowing. He pursues it again and finally I manage the words and he smiles knowingly at me.
This event plays out enough times as to make is a repetitive and dreaded activity rather than a shocking one time experience. Each time he picks us up it is a dreaded event, evoking nausea and anxiety, wanting to escape or scream but somehow I'm trapped by his stare and the knowing this is secret, wrong, but I'm in it with him. I can still smell the tooth powder he uses and the sound of his breathing which changes whenever he is doing these things to me.  It's disgusting, and I am ashamed. To this day I haven't discussed all the things he did to me with my family and it's partly because I'm afraid of their reaction. Will they believe me? Will they think badly of me? In therapeutic sessions I've been able to share most of my experiences and received support from my therapists but it still feels like it's a secret in a way.
Secrets are bad.
Secrets keep you trapped.


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