Who Will Save Me from Grandpa?: The Impact of 10 Years of Sexual Abuse at the Hands of My Grandfather and My Journey of Healing
144
Who Will Save Me from Grandpa?: The Impact of 10 Years of Sexual Abuse at the Hands of My Grandfather and My Journey of Healing
144eBook
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781546243915 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 05/26/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 144 |
| File size: | 323 KB |
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Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Something a Child Should Never Have to Do
"Come over here for a minute."
I heard this request many times before, but this time it was different.
Interrupted from my casual walk through the living room, I glance into the kitchen from where the request was made. On the other side of the aluminum-edged, yellow Formica peninsula that separates the dated kitchen from the living room, sits my grandfather.
He is a well groomed man with a full head of dark hair which he keeps neatly combed back and he always smells of Zest soap and aftershave. His gently lined face is rounded, but with a defined jaw line and chin.
Before I take a step towards him to honor his request, I pause and think to myself in my thirteen year old mind, He has had a couple of strokes recently ... and he has seemed to have forgotten a lot of things. Maybe he has forgotten about this, too.
Hesitantly, I walk over to the man sitting on the perch from where he has beckoned for me many times before.
As I stand awkwardly in front of him, not knowing what to expect, he begins to touch be inappropriately.
He has NOT forgotten.
Suddenly, a powerful jolt of consciousness screams through my body as I grab his age spotted hand and forcefully pull it away from me. The unrestrained words explode from my mouth, "YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME ANYMORE!"
Frozen with shock from the powerful words that just exited my broken soul, I stand terrified of the repercussions of my perceived disrespect towards my grandfather.
"You know, you could have stopped it any time you wanted to," he replies.
Confusion courses through me. Time seems to stop as waves of intense emotion crash into me. I attempt to process what has just occurred. I struggle to take my next breath, silently maintain my newly acquired courage, and walk away from the kitchen chair where my grandfather is sitting. Ironically, this notorious chair is one of the frequent places from which he repetitively thieved my innocence over the past ten years.
This moment of immense life change passes, the clock restarts again, and we both move forward with our days, acting as if nothing extraordinary has just happened.
It was over.
CHAPTER 2A Sheltered Childhood?
I was born on a warm spring day in late April in 1966, as the third child of a young couple in the Midwest. I was a welcome addition to my two older brothers; three year old Calvin and one and a half year old Craig. I was an adorable little blonde-haired, curly-headed little girl with great big blue eyes.
* * *
Cathy is my mom. She is a tall woman with a beautifully sculpted face, kind blue eyes and a genuine and beautiful smile. She has worn her light brown hair in short styles for as long as I can remember. I used to like watching her use the old-fashioned "rollers" to set her hair after she would wash it. She would use a rat tail comb, part each section, put the curler in and use a plastic pin to keep the curler in place. Magically, in the morning, she removed the brush-like curlers and her hair was curled! She wasn't blessed with the head full of ringlets that I have always had. Mom always told me those I got from my Dad, since he has some waviness to his hair.
Mom is the elder sister to two younger brothers produced within the marriage of my grandfather and my grandmother. She also has a half-brother from my grandmother's first marriage. I never knew him because he suddenly passed away when he was seventeen years old.
She was raised in a very devout Catholic family and attended parochial school. She was reared with typical "1950s" idealism; a woman is to marry, bear children, raise said children, and be an efficient homemaker, loving wife, and caring mother.
Ken is my dad. He is a handsome man with rounded facial features and a prematurely gray, receding hairline. My childhood memories of my remarkably brilliant dad are of him as the provider of food and home who went to work each day to take care of his kids and his wife. Much like the "Ward Cleaver" type of father, he was always quick with a word of advice and with discipline when needed.
Mom was never opposed to doling out punishment but I would tremble when she used the phrase, "YOU JUST WAIT 'TIL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME!" I would sit in my bedroom, where I had been sequestered for whatever dirty deed I had just committed, waiting ... and waiting. When I would hear the front door open at exactly 5:30 pm, my ever-increasing anxiety would overwhelm me. While I nervously strained to hear my Mom inform him of my crime, he would sternly walk into my room, take his belt off and ready it for delivering my sentence. He had a way of looping his belt and pulling on it with both hands to make a loud "slap" before using it for swatting my behind. That would scare the crap out of me and I think it made the spanking hurt worse than it really did. Like I was always forewarned, I really do think it hurt Dad more than it hurt me.
I mentioned that my dad is brilliant, but he's also very skilled at many trades. He was forever building elaborate gadgets, fixing whatever might be broken, and volunteering his limitless skills to help other people. Many times he would arm himself with a soldering iron and a collection of tiny circuitry parts and settle down at the kitchen table to construct circuit boards for who-knows-what. I enjoyed watching the distinctively scented solder smoke rise from his solder gun and watch all of those little parts become something, even though I had no clue what it was.
Dad is the eldest of two boys and was raised in a single parent household. His dad had left his mom for another woman and played no part in either boy's upbringing. Dad never really spoke of his childhood, which made him somewhat mysterious to me. From the few stories I have heard about his childhood, I don't think it was a happy one.
Being a cute little girl and the youngest of three children had its benefits; I wasn't just the center of attention at times, but also the center of big messes. I am told that Cal and Craig adored me and would cover me with kisses. They also managed to cover me, themselves and the bedroom where I was napping with baby powder while innocently "taking care of" their baby sister. I am sure that their little white, powdery faces staring at my mom upon her discovery made it difficult for her to scold them.
Once I was somewhat older, I would join in with my brothers to make messes, like peeling all of the labels off of the cans of food in the cupboard. Mom would have to open "mystery cans" and hope that inside was something that would go with the meal she prepared.
For the first two years of my life, our young family lived in a small brick bungalow just south of the city. It was a suburb where my mother spent her childhood. Although I was very young, I still have flashes of memories of my mother packing to move to a new house. Even at the age of two, I can remember her throwing away a stuffed skunk toy that someone had given her as a gift for me before I was even born. Jokingly, I have given her trouble about pitching that skunk. She swears the thing was falling apart but I still act like I miss it.
In 1968, we moved to a town that was still landscaped with cornfields, but urban sprawl had started to make its mark with shiny new subdivisions and spacious homes being built at a rapid pace. Twenty miles or more south of the city seemed to be a desirable distance away from industrialization and close enough to "country" to achieve the American Dream and raise a proper family.
Mom valued being a wife and a mother and her ultimate goal was to raise her kids with the proper standards and values that she was taught. In order to do this, she chose to be a stay-at-home mom during a time when it seemed many other moms went to work each day.
Mom stretched pennies instead of dollars. There were no frills to be had, just necessities. Due to Mom's savvy for saving money, our family was perceived by others as being affluent. As a kid, I didn't know differently. Hand-me-downs, garage sales, couponing and being strict about saying "NO" to all of the incessant cries of "I want ..." from us kids kept our family in a nice, comfortable home.
As I saw it, we seemed to be the picture perfect American family: a "stay at home" mom and a dad who worked a 9 to 5 job. Dad would arrive after work to an immaculate house with a kiss for his bride and then sit down to a tasty home-cooked meal on the table where every evening we ate dinner as a family.
My parents were exceptionally protective regarding my brothers and me. They were very strict about what they exposed us to as kids, making sure we only viewed "G" rated movies and even limited the cartoons that we watched on Saturday mornings. I still tease them about not allowing us kids to watch Scooby Doo cartoons because they thought they were "bad". We never spent a whole lot of time in front of the television but when we did, it was something wholesome, such as The Wonderful World of Disney or The Brady Bunch.
My parents were determined to keep their kids from any kind of malevolence. They sheltered us from profanity, events or conversations that might strip our innocence from us. They kept any bickering or fighting between the two of them private.
My vocabulary was limited only to what I heard and was taught at school. I was encouraged to avoid making friends with "questionable" children, usually pointed out to me by Mom. I thought she had some kind of super power when it came to knowing which kids were good and which ones were bad so I heeded her warnings.
In spite of the sheltered world my parents lovingly created for me, evil had a slick way of entering in ... through the family; disguised as a grandpa.
I was only taught to "beware of strangers". I was never taught to beware of people who are supposed to love me and protect me.
While in the care of my grandparents, my grandfather began sexually abusing me when I was three years old. My earliest recollection of the abuse is receiving a gift that my grandparents had recently brought back from a vacation in Florida. I was handed a small sack of bright orange gum balls that resembled a bag of oranges and I was thrilled to be given a treat.
Then, I just know "something" happened.
Through ages four and five, the abuse continued and signs of the abuse began surfacing. Severe kidney infections that made me extremely ill, painful bladder infections, limited bladder control, bedwetting, and crying from the intense burning I felt when I would urinate, were all clues of the physical damage that was being done to my small body.
Once my parents sought treatment for these chronic issues I was having, my doctor informed my parents I would be required to spend a few days in a hospital for some tests and for a procedure that possibly needed to be done.
I was placed in a room that already had someone in another bed. She introduced herself as Carrie Nichols. I thought she was cool because I had never met anyone with my first name before! Plus, her last name was Nichols ... just like the coin that I learned was worth five cents!
I was given a short hospital gown adorned with little yellow ducklings to wear on my five-year-old frame. The gown customarily tied in back and left my backside uncovered.
The nurses, who were Catholic nuns, kept me busy coloring and playing "nurse" with them when my parents weren't there with me. I waddled around in my duckie–covered gown through the hospital helping them deliver foam pitchers of water to their other patients. Not being aware of modesty at that age, I gave little thought to my little rear end peeking through the back of my gown for all to see.
My parents would come to visit, but my brothers were forbidden to go further into the hospital than the front lobby due to their young ages, so they would bring my Grandma Williams along to watch the boys. Dad would later go down to the lobby to relieve Grandma so she could come to my room and visit.
I did not know that going to the hospital would be so fun and that I would get presents! My grandma brought Sunshine Fun Family dolls, which were all the rage in the early 1970s, along with some other gifts to keep me occupied while I was there.
The nun-nurses would routinely come to my room, make me drink some vile liquid, position me atop a cold, metal bed pan and then hand me bubble wrap to pop while we waited for me to urinate. In retrospect, I am sure it wasn't very pleasant for my adult roommate to listen to the POP! POP! POP! of a five-year-old enjoying her first experience with bubble wrap.
The test results were inconclusive regarding the cause of my symptoms, and the treatment that was deemed necessary was to have my urethra "stretched", as Mom tells me. This was to be done while I was under general anesthesia so I was not allowed to eat or drink anything prior to the procedure, which seemed like forever as a five-year-old.
My nice roommate had brought me back a small package of red licorice from the vending machine. (In my five-year-old mind, I imagined she paid for with nickels because of her last name.) I never really liked that particular candy, and I had only eaten a very small bite of it when I mentioned to my mom over the phone that I had done so. She promptly reminded me that I wasn't to be eating anything, so I abided and stuck nothing more in my mouth.
I was taken to a room where the procedure was to be done and the nurse assisted me from my comfy hospital bed to a cold, stainless steel table. Once on top of the table, I was asked to scoot down to help reposition me for the procedure and when I did, my bare butt made a funny squeaking noise that made me and the doctors giggle.
Once the procedure was finished and I awoke from the anesthesia, I suffered from severe nausea and vomiting as a side effect. Suddenly, hospitals were no longer fun.
Although I exhibited the proper signs that pointed towards the strong possibility I was being sexually abused, the subject of sexual abuse or incest was taboo. At the time, even the hospital staff did not consider sexual abuse as a causative factor for the conditions that afflicted me, despite the evidence.
CHAPTER 3Ignorance is NOT Bliss
"Fish Stories"
It is a stormy summer day, and a greenish-grey sky threatens more thunderstorms.
With weather like this, it is not a good day to use the lake or play outside, so my grandfather and I settle in for a day under cover, away from the rain.
Directly underneath the noisy window air conditioning unit, my grandfather sits at a square, gray card table in the screened-in porch. He is sorting through his tackle box, readying some fishing lures, rods and reels for his next trip to catch "the big one".
I am sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him as he tells me stories. As I listen intently to him, he explains to me the finer points of a particular extramarital affair he has had with a nurse. Somehow, it did not seem strange to me that my grandfather was telling me that he had been spending time with another woman.
He explains to me how he uses "rubbers" when he has sexual relations with this woman so he does not contract a disease. In my immature mind, I picture a black rubber hose, like the ones I have seen my dad install near the engines of cars.
I try to imagine a black rubber hose covering his private part and wonder how that would prevent him from getting a disease. Nonetheless, I continue to listen attentively.
He finishes his story-telling and he calls me to him. I stand up and walk a few feet to him.
Yep. It is happening again and I just let him. I stand there confused as always as I distance my mind from the current events. What he is doing to me makes me feel weird and dirty, I know it will eventually be over, so I focus on that.
My anxiety is heightened and I worry that we will be seen as he exploits me on the porch where anyone who might stop by could see us. Added to the overwhelming anxiety is the dread that my grandmother will discover us, since she is just inside the house.
He completes his method of tutoring me by pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket, soiling it as he finishes.
We then casually go about our day.
My mother's parents lived about sixty miles south of the city in a lake community. They had purchased their retirement home there in the late 1960's and moved after living the first part of their married life in the city. It was a small, two bedroom house with a large screened-in patio that sat on a hill overlooking the lake. It seemed to be the perfect place to take the grandkids to spend time fishing, swimming, and visiting.
For as long as I had known my grandmother, she was afflicted with several health conditions, and she relied on a wheelchair for mobility. She had severely arthritic knees that made walking extremely painful and difficult. Her day usually consisted of sitting in her recliner and watching television. Sometimes she would nap while in her chair or go into her bedroom to watch TV and sleep. She loved watching soap operas (she referred to them as "her stories"), and we knew to be quiet when they were on. My grandfather, on the other hand, was mobile and was able to take care of my grandma. When he wasn't taking care of her, he kept himself busy by fishing and hunting. There was always fresh fish, rabbit and squirrel meat to fill our bellies with when we visited.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Who Will Save Me froM Grandpa?"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Carrie Williams-Lee.
Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Chapter One Something a Child Should Never Have to Do,
Chapter Two A Sheltered Childhood?,
Chapter Three Ignorance is NOT Bliss,
Chapter Four Stolen Firsts,
Chapter Five Seeing Red,
Chapter Six Our Little Secret,
Chapter Seven Faith,
Chapter Eight The Ugly Duckling and the Black Sheep,
Chapter Nine Standing in Shadows,
Chapter Ten The Promise,
Chapter Eleven A Dark New Day,
Chapter Twelve Rest in PiecesChapter Thirteen Into the Pit,
Chapter Fourteen Easy Prey,
Chapter Fifteen Positively Negative,
Chapter Sixteen Help or Hindrance?,
Chapter Seventeen The Broken Glass Is Half Full,
Chapter Eighteen Learning to Be Worthy,
Chapter Nineteen Gifts,
Chapter Twenty Shades of Darkness,
Chapter Twenty-One Darkness ...,
Chapter Twenty-Two ... Into Light,
Chapter Twenty-Three Negativity Breeds Negativity,
Chapter Twenty-Four Revelations,
Chapter Twenty-Five Exposure,
Chapter Twenty-Six Peace, Love and Awesomeness,