Antelope Canyon, AZ, Author King of Hearts, (CC BY-SA 4.0 International)
WARNING: Graphic Images
“Flee sexual immorality.” (1 Cor. 6: 18).
I found a way at last at age thirteen to end the molestation. The solution was so obvious that for a long while I would not forgive myself for having failed to see it [1]. I could never again be alone with my father. No setting was safe.
There was one final level of violation reached before this shift. My father began to cajole my “permission.” His face would grow red, his eyes glaze over. His voice would turn husky. The words remain seared in my memory. “Please, honey. Please, let me. You’re so sweet. I can’t help myself. See how hard you make me.”
I would repeatedly push his hands away, deluded that I might actually be able to deter him. Finally, my will was broken. I stopped resisting, even feebly; gave up all hope, and lay there like a rag doll.
It was the request for “permission” that was insidious. Children do not think logically. Now, I inferred that I had given consent — against my will. The shame was excruciating.
I find a section on bees from my father’s notebook particularly striking, in this connection:
“So, when we were kids we used to hang out around the well…It was always wet around [there], and bees loved it. Barefoot kids, too.
So, the naughty kids, when a bee was sitting in the water or [near it] used to grab the bee by the wings, and hold it. Naturally, the bee pulled his or her weapon. Kids held [the bee] on their heels, and let them get stung.
I guess they must have gotten high from the effect. Naturally, they tried to pull the bee off, but the bee was dead. Minutes later on the heel was the bee’s needle, turning around like a drill in the foot of the kid [who] quickly pulled the needle out of his heel.
And that was the fun. The bee was dead, and the kid has his little high fun. Probably, like they claimed, they eventually got immune to it.”
A predator may grow immune to his victims’ pleas. A child never develops immunity to the violation to which he or she is subjected. Each assault leaves a fresh wound.
About this time I began dreaming that a lion had escaped and was roaming our yard. I had no defense against this lion, and no one to ask for aid. I would awaken from these dreams in a cold sweat.
Cold Comfort
Since we were Catholic, I had made the sacraments. Confession, communion. Attending parochial grammar and high schools as I did meant receiving a religious education. Unfortunately, the theology conveyed was often riddled with error and harsh in tone.
Though the incest seemed something apart, answers to my deepest questions became increasingly difficult to obtain. Religion provided cold comfort.
In my teens, my faith expressed itself in involvement with idealistic causes. These were, however, turbulent years.
Fury
After my grandmother died, my younger sister and I became “latchkey” children. Not only did we miss Grandma immensely, not only did the house become silent and cavernous in her absence, there was no longer a buffer to our father’s anger. His fury held sway.
I know now that anger can be a useful tool for separation. All I knew then was that my father and I argued bitterly. Whatever the topic — why there were dishes in the sink or whether public assistance was justified — I never seemed to win these arguments. I came away from them feeling mauled and bloody.
Grandma’s garden withered from neglect and was paved over. Grandpa moved out. The cherry tree was cut down.
Self-Absorbed
I taught myself about sex from the encyclopedia, the Bible, and James Bond novels. That combination filled the gaps the regrettably mature experience imposed by my father had left; placed the assaults by him in some context.
During these years, I became self-absorbed, preferring to spend time by myself. It is my greatest sin. I would lock myself in my room, after we came home from school. My sister, no more than ten at the time, would knock timidly on the door.
“Please, come out, Anna,” she would plead.
“Not now. I’m really tired.”
“We can play a game. Please.”
“Maybe later. Just let me lie down for now.”
“Please, Anna.”
“Maybe in a little while.”
I would experiment with my mother’s lipstick or try on her negligees, while my sister wandered the empty house with nothing but the television for company.
I began reading books on psychology and human behavior, in an effort to better understand myself and make sense of my life.
The interest I developed in anthropology and archaeology during my teens was actually an attempt to decipher human nature and men, in particular. It was a great comfort to think that the species could not have survived, but for millions upon millions of dedicated fathers over the millennia; that somewhere there had to be good and decent men.
Control Slipping
Meanwhile, my father felt his control over us slipping away.
As a birthday surprise for our mother, my sister and a friend of hers planted rose bushes around the yard. When our parents arrived home after work to find the rose bushes in place, my father went into a rage. One by one, he tore them up in the dark. I will never forget the shock and distress on my sister’s face.
At times, I felt offered up — my father some demonic god; my mother at the altar, holding the knife. In an effort to lift my spirits, she would tell me how “pretty” he thought I was.
Whether confused, fearful, desperate to please, or deliberately unaware — she served during these years, in effect, as his co-conspirator. I am certain this was not intentional on her part. Continue reading
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