I Left My Back Door Open (26 page)

“Why?”

“I just need to think my own thoughts right now.”

eighteen

Listening to Bill talk about his sexual fantasies had reminded me of my own sexual history. I'd gone years without thinking much about it, but nowadays my memories refused to stay dormant. It was like my unconscious had developed a mind of its own. I could've gone and bought some dessert on the pier and come home and raided the refrigerator and then thrown up. That's what the old me would've done. But something had changed inside of me.

I went home and cried into my cat's soft fur, for the little girl who was made to feel dirty and low and ashamed, but covered it up with good grades and party dresses and a sense of humor. No matter how hard I had prayed, God had never jumped down from the sky to save me. No matter how good I had been or how disobedient, no one had ever noticed the source of my pain.

When I woke from nightmares, my screams had fallen upon deaf ears. When my parents had criticized my clumsiness and the way I grasped a fork or a pencil, I wished I could've explained that awkwardness was understandable in a child forced to handle a man's penis.

I knew of one other girl sorta like me. I heard about her on the playground. Girls whispered that Portia's older brothers were freakin' with her. She was afraid to go home after school. Portia wore wrinkled, dirty clothes and had a worn-out expression on her face. Most kids didn't want anything to do with her; they said she had the cooties. I pretty much stayed away from Portia also. She was a reminder of my own pain.

Girls said that Portia even told her mother about the molestation, but her mother hadn't believed her. She'd told Portia to get away from her with that mess. And Portia obeyed. She still had a home to go to. She still had a mother who would cuss a teacher out on her behalf. And she still had two big brothers who would kick anybody's ass who messed with her, except them.

I tried to tell my mother in indirect ways. I tried to tell her by going to the bathroom in my bed. Lying in my own excrement felt cleaner than I felt when my stepfather came into my room. But Mama dismissed my accident. She explained that children sometimes regress when a new baby's in the house. I didn't know what “regress” meant, but I knew that was the end of the discussion. I remember once my mother was putting a hem in my dress, and my stepfather sat nearby, reminding me of the wolf in
Little Red Riding Hood
. I told my mother that I wanted my hem as long as she could make it. My baffled mother set the hem just above my knees, despite my desire to have it long enough to hide my whole body. Maybe then I'd be invisible, I thought, and he would leave me alone. Perhaps in the same way, women hide inside their fat. Maybe they think if they get fat enough, they can disappear.

Even after thinking about all this, I didn't binge and purge today. I knew it was not the answer. It never had been. This was a big personal win for me. It is so important for us to acknowlege our wins. Little by little, maybe I was gaining the courage to deal with the sewer inside me. I was a victim, but I was also a survivor. I didn't deserve what happened to me, despite the fact that nobody helped me, not even God. I used to think it was my fault. What else would a child think? I used to think that there was something dirty about me. When I was growing up, it was common for kids to be told, “You brought it all on yourself.” Parents had the power to punish you, and if they did anything bad to you, it was because you deserved it. Not only was I bad, but I was worthless. When my stepfather used me, I felt like a piece of dirty, slimy trash. When I left my body and watched from the ceiling, I saw that the person he was rubbing against had ceased to exist. She'd been rubbed out like a mistake was rubbed out with a dirty eraser. She was just a smudge that could never come clean again.

I went through a promiscuous phase during young adulthood. I felt that all I had to offer men was sex. However, a handful of one-night stands during the seventies didn't raise many eyebrows. In fact, my behavior was considered normal. But it had nothing to do with sex. It had to do with sleeping with someone so I wouldn't feel so alone. I was completely passive, like a child, waiting for men to undress me and do their business. I never really enjoyed the act itself much. I was just an object to be acted upon. But I felt that in order for me to be deemed worthwhile, I needed a man to want me. I was taught at an early age that sex was my greatest value. And I figured that was all I was worth.

I can understand why my marriage failed. It wasn't anyone's fault. The real truth is, I drove my husband into another woman's arms. I didn't want him to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, Instead, I asked him to tell me how low and ugly and dirty and worthless I was while we were having sex. He refused, with tears in his eyes. I drove my husband into another woman's arms, because he couldn't bear to debase me. He couldn't save me; and he chose to save himself.

No one who's abused is going to just waltz through life. In many ways, I've been lucky. I've only stolen a candy bar, even though a lot more was stolen from me. Children who are abused are going to have problems with their sexuality and with relationships and even life in general. Mental hospitals used to be filled with incest survivors. Incest has been this country's dirty little secret.

As far as my sexuality is concerned, I've come a long way. Occasionally I've gotten headaches or had flashbacks while having sex. At age forty-one, I can truly say that I've learned to have a satisfying sex life. But, it wasn't always like that. I lighted candles, took long bubble baths, got massages, and wrote affirmations. And slowly I began to heal. I was determined that the man who caused me so much pain, would not rob me of a lifetime of pleasure also.

It wasn't even that I'd hated Daddy Sherman all my life. On the surface, I came from a normal, dysfunctional family. I had hardworking parents that kept it together. My stepfather wasn't a monster; he was respected on the job, at church and in our community. He'd married a widow with two kids and saved them from living in the projects. He had a hearty laugh and encouraged me to love music. Daddy Sherman gave me my first harmonica and taught me how to play. I often wondered how a person can do monstrous things and yet not be a monster. He can even have admirable qualities. In some ways, that makes it even harder for the victim. That's why it was easier for me to blame myself and even convince myself for a time that the abuse never even occurred. It would've been harder to deny if the abuse had been ongoing. My stepfather molested me during the months before and after my mother's pregnancy with my baby sister. It all happened when I was in kindergarten. But the scars might last forever.

It's easier to deny when on the surface your clothes are clean, everyone says grace at the dinner table, you attend church regularly, you pile into the car and go visit relatives on summer vacations and your parents bug you to do your homework. It's pretty easy to convince yourself that yours is a normal family. I buried the molestation, pretty much until I was a young adult. I always had a reasonably amicable relationship with my stepfather, by all appearances. He died without ever witnessing my rage bubble to the surface. Ironically, my mother and I had more occasional volatility, although we still had a pretty good mother-daughter relationship.

But, despite the picture we showed the world, I always had a haunting sense that something bad had happened to me. The anxiety surfaced when I did a paper on child abuse in college and I had this weird feeling that I was writing about myself.

And then, little by little, I began to remember. I read books about sexual abuse and I was able to identify. It had happened to me. And it was still affecting my life.

I was ready to let go of my crutch. I knew that I wasn't going to be an occasional bulimic anymore. I would face my fears if I had to. I was willing to experience the hunger. I refused to swallow any more shame.

nineteen

“I've heard that it's not wise for parents to introduce their child to a date too quickly, but I can't wait to meet Brianna,” I said, wrapped up in Skylar's arms with my feet hanging off my sofa, later that evening.

He'd brought over a stack of CDs and called himself hipping me to straight-ahead jazz. Of course, fusion was more romantic.

“Your daughter sounds so cute on the phone,” I continued. I tugged playfully at Skylar's soft naps.

Langston stared disapprovingly at a safe distance from his favorite windowsill. He actually tolerated Skylar and his spacey music better than I'd anticipated. I'd expected him to go somewhere and hide.

“I've thought about introducing you to Brianna,” Skylar answered. “I just don't know how she'll react.”

“I understand, it might be too soon. We've only really been seeing each other three months.”

“Who's counting?” Skylar asked, gently stroking my face.

“I hope you mean that in a good way.”

He pulled me closer to him. “I mean that in the best way.”

We kissed and hugged. Being in his arms reminded me of the warmth of the sun and the earthiness of a riverbank.

I sighed happily.

“Do you feel like a teenager?” Skylar asked.

“Better.”

“Yeah, it's not being wasted.” Skylar smiled. “I could utter all kinds of stuff, but I'm afraid it would all sound so clichéd.”

“Try me.”

“I'm not good at lines. The truth is, I just feel privileged to be able to spend time with you.”

“That's very sweet of you to say,” I breathed. “Are you sure you don't have a rap?”

“It's just the way I feel. I haven't told you much about my past. I don't want you to throw me a pity party or anything.”

“I want to be your friend as well as your lover.”

“Thanks. You know I was a foster child, and to be honest, I don't really have anybody.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, giving Skylar a hug.

“I have a few close friends in California and my daughter, but I don't really have an extended family to fall back on.”

“I understand what you mean.”

“There are a lot worse stories than mine, believe me. I was actually pretty lucky. I'm still in touch with my foster parents. I even get together with them sometimes at holidays.”

“That's good. So you do have your foster parents. At least you have some extended family.”

“Yeah, but it's different being a foster child,” Skylar said, massaging my shoulders. “You don't ever really feel secure.”

“I can imagine.” Although you don't have to be a foster child to never
really
feel secure, I reminded myself. But I still thought I knew what Skylar meant. Being a foster child had to be a somewhat unique experience.

“My foster parents were great people,” Skylar continued. “I mean, they still are. I don't fault them in any way. They're this interracial Santa Cruz couple who took in a bunch of kids of different races. Some were disabled. They really couldn't afford to adopt all of us. It was like Grand Central Station. I learned from my white foster mom and my black foster dad that love comes in all colors, shapes and sizes. Some people live their whole lives and never understand that, or even know what love is.

“Mom and Dad are still there for me, if I need them. And they're crazy about Brianna,” Skylar continued.

“So it's not like I want you to feel sorry for me or anything.”

“I didn't think you did. I just thought you were sharing.”

“Yeah, I am.” Skylar settled deeper into my embrace. “Even though I have a family connection,” he continued, “it's not the same as having a traditional family. I was just one of many. It's like there have been so many somebody elses in my room, I can't keep track. They might've painted my room pink by now.” He smiled wryly.

“I admire people like your foster parents,” I said. “It takes a special calling to do what they're doing.”

“Yeah, I know they made the difference for me. I was so angry and what do they call it … shut down, when they took me. I was almost ten years old and had been in a bunch of different homes. I was given up as a toddler; my mother just couldn't take care of me. I don't even remember her. I just remember being told that my mother couldn't take care of me, ever since I can remember.” Skylar swallowed.

I lovingly massaged his head as he leaned against me.

“I came close to being adopted a few times, but it always fell through. Talk about feeling unwanted.” Skylar sighed.

“What were the other foster homes like?”

“There was a range, everything from a foster mother from hell to foster parents who were basically just doing a job. They kept me clean and fed, but you could tell that it was just a job. It wasn't until I got with the Washingtons that I felt loved.”

“What was the foster mother from hell like?” I wanted to give Skylar an opportunity to open up to me if he chose.

“Well, for example, one morning about six o'clock, she woke me up whipping me with an extension cord. I'd been in a dead sleep, so it was kinda traumatic. I kept asking, ‘What did I do, what did I do?' She said, ‘I'm whuppin' you for what you might do today.' She was evil—she was into insurance whuppins.”

“Some people have no business dealing with kids,” I said angrily. “It's like they've totally forgotten how it feels to be a child.”

“They were probably treated the same way or worse,” Skylar replied matter-of-factly.

“That's still no excuse. Get the help you need and do better.”

“I agree; that's why I've read books and tried to get information so that I can be a good parent to my daughter.”

“Come here, baby,” I said, hugging Skylar and stroking his face.

I held him against my breast. “Lemme make it up to you,” I mumured as I rocked Skylar inside my arms.