I have a memory of being in a car with a group of people. My memory does not allow me to recall who I am with, but there is an awareness that most of the men in the car are strangers to me. However, I am almost positive M.L. is one of them. I don’t know the driver.
We were at the rink, now we are in this car. I have no memory of how this came to be, or even who exactly it is that makes “me’ a “we”. I know I’m not the only girl taking this little escapade, but I can’t recall which girl or girls are there with me.
It is not unusual to be taken from the rink and then brought back before the parental pick up time.
There is a song playing on the car radio.
As I’m writing this, the lyrics, I can see clearly now the rain is gone are playing over and over in my mind.
In my memory, someone asks the faceless, nameless driver why he is playing this song. His response is something along the lines of thinking it was funny because it is raining.
That’s it. That’s all I remember.
Every time I hear that song, I have a flash back to being in that car.
I don’t like the song or the uncomfortable feelings that rise up in my body when I hear it on the radio now, I will immediately change the station. If I can’t change the station, I block it out.
I have another memory, in this one, I am at a house. I think it may be the same night, but I can’t be sure. However, it is the same feeling of knowing there is a group of people there that I can’t recall. The only person I know for certain to be in attendance is M.L.
This memory is also just a snapshot.
I open the bathroom door and I’m startled to find M.L. waiting there for me. He is not standing there waiting to use the bathroom. It is me that he is waiting to use. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. He is standing next to a closed door that leads to a bedroom. He opens the door and pulls me inside the empty bedroom and has sex with me.
My memory stops cold with the opening of that door. I don’t remember what the room looks like. I don’t remember having sex, I don’t remember leaving the room or getting back to the rink, but I know I did.
In preparing to write my book, I made a list of all the boys/men that defined my life. The list includes both the positive and negative influences or experiences. It is loosely broken down into categories. The final category is the list of violators.
M.L. is on the list, but I didn’t list him as a violator. At 52 Years old, I am just now starting to realize that I should have.
I didn’t list him because I didn’t resist. I didn’t say no.
I didn’t want to have sex with M.L. on that night or any other night.
I didn’t resist because by the ripe age of 15, I was already conditioned to the fact that sometimes it was just easier not to fight it. Sometimes it was better to just let it happen and get it over with. I already knew there were times when you could say no and there were times when the word no meant absolutely nothing.
I already knew, without knowing what I knew, that there would be less trauma on my mind, body and spirit to just submit and allow my disassociation to take over and protect me as best as it could.
Less trauma is not the same as no trauma. The wound is still there. It is just more subtle and deeply hidden.
It is surrounded by convolution and confusion.
It has the power to wreak havoc and chaos to my life without the benefit of comprehending the source.
It is lying low in the body and waiting patiently for its turn to rise up,
to be healed
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