(Part 6–Elephants, Mice, and Monkeys…)
(From the Beginning)
A few months after the experience in the car, (and it would be several more months before I was able to open up to my husband), I was reflecting on my life and relationships, realizing that I lacked any really close friendships.
I had friends, but none that I called and spent time with on a regular basis.
None who knew the deeper, darker parts of me.
Then I realized that there were chunks missing from my childhood memories…
chunks that I had completely blocked out…
because I simply checked out for a while…
operating on autopilot, I guess.
There was one chunk that was especially extended—more than a whole year.
As I progressively went backward in my mind—
where I went to school,
the home we lived in at the time,
who lived around us—
another painful memory ambushed me.
I had never considered myself a victim of any sort—
especially of sexual abuse.
In my mind, I didn’t qualify as a real victim.
It didn’t fit the “model” of sexual abuse—
the old pervert hanging around the parks
or the overly-friendly uncle.
No.
The perpetrator was another kid,
just a few years older.
As my memory opened up over the next two years, I would realize he wasn’t the last…
I then began to realize why I had always felt safer not being noticed too much…
