Molested
8.7.00
My father was a drunk who fucked me when i was seven.
There were other instances, i’m sure
but i’ve learned you can not always trust the memory.
I do, however, remember other things
Like how i was so afraid of what my father was doing
that I jumped right out of my skin.
I didn’t want to be there
I didn’t want to breathe
I stared so hard at the crack through the window
that I floated right past the curtains
and into the next room.
I remember thinking it was too bad
the people there could not see me
as I wanted desperately for someone to know
that my father was penetrating me from behind
and I did not like at all what he was doing.
But they didn’t see me.
I was a only a ghost to them.
Returning to my body.
I finally un-froze in fear
the fluids I found made me sick.
I laid in the darkness…
not wanting to move
wanting it to not be true.
There was no one there to talk to
and couldn’t imagine how to.
I didn't understand.
I just lay there…
not wanting it to be
not knowing how to explain
I determined it would go away.
I decided it didn’t happen
and waited for the sun to rise.
That morning my plan went into action.
It worked perfectly.
So well, in fact, that I eventually fooled me.
I had become a virtuoso of projection -
projecting an image of me.
(I still do that sometimes.)
I watched my mother beat for years
by an other man she’d married.
I couldn’t bear to bring her more grief
so I kept it inside.
Hidden so well that ultimately it was easy
and no one would ever tell.
Especially not me.
I didn't let the family know.
Once I had forgotten my self
I couldn't see a need.
For 20 years no one saw what was inside me
and for 20 years I pushed back what was irking me.
I learned to change subjects
and create substantial distractions.
It all became automatic.
(I try not to do that anymore.)
When I broke through the block
several years back
I still didn't tell the family.
They may not even know now.
I just put the pages out for them to read
hell, I put these out for everyone to read
and see if they ever will.
That, which I had worked so hard
to forget most, resurfaced anyway
and with that memory
I totally wanted him dead.
His being in my life was no longer needed
and so I wanted him dead.
Dead as dead can be.
He died by the end of the week.
My bro.’s may have known something was up
when I refused to go to his funeral.
(Imagine their surprise had i shown up
and happily pissed on his grave!)
I felt a bolt, a surge run through me
the day the walls came down.
I felt it go out and head straight for him.
Like my flesh was being torn apart
and the heat poured out like flames.
I felt those surges for at least 2 days…
or maybe it was more.
I did nothing but let them go.
When god came into the picture
the discussion got intense.
I said, “he has no more reason to be here
I have remembered what I need to know
and now I can be done.
Take him away, off this earth.
He will do no more good here.”
There was nothing left to deny.
I really wanted him gone -
deceased for the good of the world
and every little untouched girl.
I argued my point invariably
God became the judge
and apparently, death - the verdict.
but still I had a fever for days…
I find it difficult sometimes
containing my joy,
my gladness he is gone.
I’m writing this down cuz it’s never been spoken…
my darkness. My dark side.
I think I gave myself a license back then.
Probably a license to hate
(and most likely – men).
It may have been a tool to cope.
I used to use it a lot.
(I don’t like to use it anymore.)
There’s too much stupidity already here..
I’d rather give my energies to love
than reciprocate the hate.
