WHERE THE HURT BEGAN

This is a hard subject that most people don’t want to talk about.  I have to bring it up because it is part of my “Why Wait?”  Some scars are so deep that your mind has blocked them out.  These scars will make you think, act, and live in a certain way.  You sincerely believe that this is just who you are, and it may be, but it is not normal.  Your behavior was created by an event that has not been healed.  Even if you do remember it, you are still powerless to act differently until you are healed.  For me it took a very long time.  If it were not for Jesus, I probably would have never remembered it, let alone let Him heal me.

Remember I said earlier that I lived in Widen, West Virginia, till I turned eight.  Now that small mining town, at the time, literally had one road in, one road out.  My earliest memories consisted of my Dad, in whom I placed my full confidence, to maneuver the windy hill that led into Widen, on your way down from the main road.  As a child, the billows of dust that surrounded us, blinding my view of the road, never worried me.  I trusted my Dad completely.  Looking back I wonder if he even saw the road.  I believe he had driven it so many times; he could have taken that road on blindfolded.

My Mom stayed at home making “housewife and mother” her occupation, even though she had a brilliant mind, and, no doubt, could have been anything she desired.  She chose to raise her children, along with taking care of a woman that lived next door, Miss Macy.  In Miss Macy’s household were her brother and two of his sons.  The oldest, I think, had to be in his late teens.  The youngest shared my age group.

Because my Mom cared for Miss Macy this sent us often to her house on an errand.  I was at home most of the day since I hadn’t started first grade.  So I ran a lot of errands for my Mom, when she wasn’t able to go over, mainly to give Miss Macy her groceries or give her a bottle of medicine.

One afternoon my Mom asked me to run something over to Miss Macy’s.  Very willing to do what my Mother asked, I skipped my way over to her house.  After dispensing the medicine into her hand she told me to go out the front door because they were working on the back one.  So I took the short walk to the living room.

I didn’t like going through the front door because the living room, which had no windows, kept that room shrouded in darkness.  But, being obedient, I made my way to the door.  As soon as I stepped into the room, my skip was interrupted by a man’s voice.  I heard my name.  I stopped.  I looked into the corner of the room but it was very dark.  I knew the voice, so I wasn’t afraid.  To lure me over to the corner, he told me he had some candy for me.  We’ll, I wanted the candy.  I stepped over to his brother’s little red wagon.  I remember seeing something but I didn’t know what it was.  He asked me to sit on the wagon with my legs on either side if I wanted the candy.  I did.

Now, at the time this event took place I did not have a clue what was happening.  I don’t even remember feeling like I did anything wrong.  He asked me to sit down, so I did.  He said he wanted to play doctor.  His brother had already introduced me to the game called, “Doctor”.  When you went to the doctor’s office you took your clothes off.  I concentrated on the lollipop he gave me.  I liked lollipops.  After a minute, I remember being in pain.  I started to cry that it hurt.  He told me to be quiet before his aunt, who was in the next room, heard me.  He let me go.  He had tried to penetrate.  He was not successful.  If Miss Macy had not been in the next room, I’m sure I would have been raped.

This happened twice.  As a child I didn’t remember from one day to the next what happened.  But, on the third time I had to go over to Miss Macy’s house it was different.  At first I didn’t remember the events that had taken place, so I still skipped over to her house for the errand, but as I left, going out again by the front door, I stopped dead in my tracks when I reached the door way.  Fear gripped my heart.  Was that older boy there?  Did he wait in the dark corners of the room?  I looked until I was sure he was not there before I continued on my way home.

Even now as I tell this my hands involuntarily ball up into a fist, and I want to cry for the little girl that I was.  I heard someone say once to talk to the child within you that went through that event.  Again, I talk to the five year old Adrian and tell her as she enters the room, “Adrian, it is okay.  You are not to blame for what he did.  He cannot hurt you anymore.  You were just child.  You don’t have to be afraid of him.”  I don’t talk about this very much.  Healing takes a long time.

Now, I’m not a psychologist, but I can tell you that that memory buried itself deep within me.  I would not recall what happened to me until after I turned twenty-three.  I’m sure any psychologist will tell you that a traumatic event will lie dormant   in your subconscious until it surfaces, if it ever does.  My subconscious mind knew of the fear that came from being molested along with the physical pain, which began to show itself in my teen years.

In the meantime, life continued on as usual.  We moved to my grandmother’s house in Stonewood, West Virginia, where I started third grade.  From third grade until I reached fifteen years I liked all nationality of boys including African American’s.  I visited my sister, in the big city of New York, when I was in fourth or fifth grade.  One of her friends had a little brother about my age.  I remember he had the prettiest brown eyes.

They planned for me to attend a church camp.  We sat on the bus together.  I had never had a boyfriend before.  I liked boys, but it never went any further.  I didn’t have any idea what it meant to have a boyfriend, unlike the kids of today.  Besides, in Stonewood, most of the boys I knew were Italian.  Their mother’s would never allow their sons to like an African American.  The other boys in my neighborhood were my cousins.  I let this boy hold my hand.  I remember feeling something.  Holding his hand just made me feel funny, like something was wrong.  The fact that all the other kids on the bus were laughing at us might have played a part, but really the feeling went much deeper.

In contrast to this, when I was in fourth grade, there was a blonde haired, blue eyed boy in my class that sat beside me.  I thought he was so cute.  One day during our music lessons, this boy reached out for my hand.  I responded by giving him mine.  We sat holding hands, swinging them between us while we stared at each other, smiling and singing.  I remember our teacher looking at us but I don’t remember if she said anything to try and separate us.

There was no fear.  I liked holding his hand.  No one in my class laughed, snickered or made crude remarks.  We enjoyed talking to each other and innocently holding hands.  There was a good feeling connected with this.

My next segment is going to unveil the mystery of the subconscious mind and how that buried memory came out in full force during my adolescent years.

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