The Deep, Dark Depths

  It's midnight. I keep tossing and turning. Despite my physical exhaustion, my mind is running a marathon. It's completely dark aside from the few green lights blinking on the various electronic equipment on the entertainment center and the bright glow of the computer screen in front of me. It's not exactly quiet, but not loud either. The dryer is humming in the laundry room and occasionally the sound of a button or zipper will clank against the metal drum. The fan is in the corner, whispering sweet nothings and blowing a cool draft at my face. 

  It's strange how memories will creep up out of nowhere. Repressed memories, repressed for a reason, will suddenly just float up from the deep, dark depths of your mind, bringing so many new thoughts and feelings with them. For instance, as I was trying to fall asleep, for some reason I thought of my childhood. I remember walking into the bathroom when I was I don't know how young, seeing the man that I considered my grandfather standing at the toilet. I'm not sure if he called me to come over to him or if I just did. I remember him allowing me to "hold it" while he took a piss and the innocent fascination I felt at watching it "grow" when I touched it. After that, it was an exciting privilege for me to get to go with him to the bathroom.

  This memory led me to another. I used to sleep on the couch while the man that I considered my grandfather stayed awake all night watching tv. My mom busted her ass, working graveyard hours for the benefit of the 20 cent shift differential, to support me with no help from my father. The man that I considered my grandfather would gently rub my back until I fell asleep, something I had gotten accustomed to during infancy. I remember waking up sometimes to his hand wandering across my flat chest. He would trace my tiny nipples with his fingers. We even made up a game. I was the mommy and I would breast feed him. When he would suck on one nipple, he would get milk. The other nipple produced orange juice. Eventually, I would come to realize that my baby-smooth pussy yielded chocolate milk, which was, of course, his favorite.

  I never felt threatened or forced. It was fun. It was our fun, secret game. I don't remember when it stopped, just that it did. I never discussed it with anyone. "Our little secret." In high school, I acknowledged, to myself, that something wrong had happened. I didn't recall details. I just knew I had been molested. He was the first, but certainly not the last, so I didn't let it get to me. I pushed it to the deep, dark depths of my mind. This is the same man who walked me down the aisle when I married my high school sweetheart on the Saturday of Spring Break during my freshman year of college. This is the same man whose memory I honor with pictures displayed on the same shelf as those of my mother.

  Someone once asked me if I had "ever been touched." The first person I thought of when presented with this question was the man I considered my grandfather, but at the time, he was very old and weak, nearing death. My response was "I'll tell you about it when the person that did it dies." He died in 2006, I think. Maybe '07. I have told people, when the subject came up, that he had molested me when I was very young. I have never, until tonight, remembered exactly what happened.

  I never blamed him. I even felt guilty for allowing it, for not confessing it when I realized it was wrong, for enjoying it. I've gone through a lot of therapy over the last 7 years or so. I've done a lot of soul-searching. I've come to terms with what the man I considered my grandfather did to me. I know now that I have no reason to harbor guilt and, even though it does no good to blame him since he's no longer around, it was entirely his fault. It was in his control. It was his sick, disgusting perversion. I've also learned that I was not the only little girl to play secret games with him.

  It's strange how memories that creep up out of nowhere, repressed memories that float up from the deep, dark depths of your mind late at night, can change how you feel about someone who you once loved and respected. I'll be removing those pictures from the shelf immediately.