We Will Not Go Quietly - Centre Against Sexual Assault

How many paedophiles does it take to change a light bulb? Who cares,
one is too many, let’s sit in the dark. Listen, I’m not writing this, I can’t. Writing
means thinking and thinking means remembering. I’m watching TV (Two and
Half Men, I’m trying to get the point) while my pen takes over. It’s the only
way.
I have children, three boys, they are 8,10,12. My boys have problems.
Sometimes they have to get of my iPhone and put their toys away,
sometimes they have to do their homework when they’d rather play outside.
Yesterday my youngest was roughed up at school for his tooth fairy money.
My kids have kid problems.
When I was eight I had already managed ive years of sexual abuse by my
grandfather. By the time I was ten we’d moved interstate and the abuse
became a school holiday thing.
Knowing the world can be a shit place should not be a kid problem. Survival
is nice. Realizing you’re not complicit in your abuse is good. I know why I never
said anything and I know I didn’t do anything wrong. He was the wrong one.
Therapy does get you somewhere just not on the irst day.
Understanding you’re not the only one is good and depressing. Comparison
is evitable; my abuse wasn’t as bad as what she sustained. And everybody has
a naughty uncle. Child sexual abuse is a rite of passage like swimming lessons
and L plates. Get on with it. I can’t not remember.
Years ago, I changed my niece’s nappies and saw how little I was when the
abuse began. I got scared I was abusing her just taking her nappy of. That’s
not right and it’s not fair.
I take my boys to the park, the beach, the shops and I can’t help it,
I remember. Underground car-parks are a great place to abuse your
70
71
grandchildren and most shopping centres have one. I cannot piggy back my
sons. Flashbacks are as real as nausea. I limit myself to ireman’s carry.
Two weeks ago I was cuddling my middle son on his bed. He’s a cuddly guy,
always has been, we call him the Cuddle King of Chicago (it’s a Ferris Bueller
reference, if you haven’t, do). He’s kissy, he tells me he loves me, he wanted
to marry me until he met one of my friends. My son climbed on top of me and
pressed his lips onto mine and I was back to the hard kisses of my grandfather.
I sat up, pushed the memory to the place it waits til next time, and asked my
son where he was up to in the chocolate factory, had he met Willy Wonka
yet? Don’t think it, don’t think it, don’t think it.
When people kiss me hello on the lips, sometimes I miss it. Last year I
realized why. My face stifens. I brace myself because of my grandfather.
Thirty years after the abuse, I was crying in my bathroom because I’d
measured another impact of his abuse. I told my sister. She said, soften your
lips. I’m trying.
My therapist says I’m well adjusted. I am. I was the good kid now I’m the good
adult. Life does go on. My husband is terriic and my little boys are wonderful.
I have a career, I’m doing it now, tap, tap, tap. I have great relationships with
brilliant people. I’m lucky. I feel lucky. I’m interested, I’m inspired, I want to
know things. But I’d love to not remember.
Well, look at that. My pen is inished, I didn’t have to think about my
grandfather and Two and a Half Men has nothing going for it. Just like I
thought.
×