I started to cry as my therapist tied my wild, chaotic thoughts together and pointed out that I was “packaging my thoughts” in order to “protect [him]” and that it really is OK for me to basically unload. There was no need for me to “parent myself.” He went on… it also makes sense that I tend to ruminate (my word, not his) because as a child I had to figure out a lot of things on my own. I didn’t have certain types of support, and I didn’t always have help.
I “didn’t always have help.”
I immediately thought about an incident I experienced as a child, and how I had described it to my husband. I was 5 years old, riding my bike near my family home, when a man (who I mistook as a woman) approached me. He had a dress and makeup on, and used a high-pitched voice when he told me he liked the flower I had placed on my handlebars. I thanked him, and he said he knew where I could find other flowers to add to my collection. Then he invited me to follow him to the side of an apartment building just 10 or so meters away. I naively followed.
He proceeded to pull my pants down and opened his mouth as he brought his face toward my genitals. I realized in that moment he was a man. I also knew I was uncomfortable. So I pushed his head away from me. And he pushed his head against my hands, mouth wide open. I pushed harder. He finally gave up and took off. I pulled my pants up and ran home, leaving my bike by the building.
When I told my husband this story, he asked me, “Did you get help?” My response was, “No. Who was going to help me?” I never told my parents. The heartbreaking part of this is that I did not feel I could turn to anyone, not even my parents. I didn’t feel shame, I simply didn’t want to burden anyone. As an adult, my soul breaks for the little girl who felt THAT alone.
To this day my mom is unaware of this incident, and honestly will probably never know.
Spilled Tea 