My Aunt leans over and quietly comments that she thinks I should write a book about how I survived growing up in the same house as my brothers. I look over at the brother who's present; it's his birthday, and he sits at what would be the head of the table except that the table is a round table, and I can only imagine that it is the head since he is the birthday boy. I am not exactly sure what Aunt B means. I assume she is referencing the obvious differences between the three siblings.How could siblings turn out so different from each other?
I laugh and kind of brush off the comment, but Aunt B is fixated on me.
She references a family Christmas when her daughter who is some years older than me - between my brothers in age - came home from a night out with a neck-full of hickeys. My cousin had been out with my brothers and one of their friends. I'm still not exactly sure what my aunt is getting at, but from the tone I gather she's getting at something sordid.
Does she know?
I wouldn't care if she did. It was well over 15 years ago when I called a family (of the nuclear type) meeting and let the cat out of the bag: where I "confronted" my brother (not much of a confrontation because he admitted his "guilt" without protest).
I am an avowed victim of sexual abuse. I talk about it openly if appropriate, if asked. I joke about it. Part of my recovery consisted of blabbing away about it whenever I had the chance. I'm certain I scared a lot of people. It seems like such a 'big deal' to others. I'm over it. So, I don't care if my Aunt knows.
But, does she know?
Maybe my mom talked to her about it. Maybe my mom talked to her brother, my uncle, who in turn talked to my aunt. No matter how, it seems my aunt does know. Despite it hardly being the place to begin chatting freely about the skeleton that's not so much in the closet anymore, my aunt and I continue in private tones.
She shoots my brother a none too friendly look. "I mean you turned out so well. I really, really admire you. You are such a strong person."
I'm speechless. My aunt is almost 70.
How can someone almost 70 admire me?
When I recover from the weird compliment, I realise that I am currently in the position to ask a question about something I've wondered ever since I began remembering.
Someone called social services. I was 10 or 11 or 12. The social services woman knocked on the door, showed me her badge and asked if my mother was at home. The social services woman sat down with my mother and me and let us know that an anonymous person had called in a tip: that my brother was sexually abusing me. When I was 10 or 11 or 12, I denied it vehemently. My guts were wrenching.
They'll take him away.
Worse, they'll take me away.
How do they know?
"That's not true. I don't even know what you mean. Gross."
The social services lady believed me. My mother believed me.
I've often wondered who the anonymous person was who was trying to look out for me. I've sometimes thought it might have been my aunt.
It wasn't.
11 comments:
so who was it? well i admire you, and i'm not almost 70...
I admire you too, but not because of that. I admired you before you blogged about that part of your past because you're a great writer and a genuinely lovely person (you have a teensy streak of bitch, which makes me admire you even more).
I think it'd be all too easy to let a traumatic event in your past define who you are and live your life as a victim. From what we see on here you haven't done that, which is a credit to you.
Or even, "I called a family meeting (of the nuclear type)".
Good for you.
You're very forgiving. And incredibly evolved considering what you've been through. There's no way in hell your aunt reads this blog, right?
I can't imagine being 10 or 11 and being faced with that situation. The things that must have flashed through your head with the social services woman standing there...no one should have to deal with that at that age.
I suppose there's some other parts of completing the circle here.
Your aunt affirming your strength after what must have been traumatising at the time, then requiring a level of tough maturity when the social worker arrived and still difficult to play out in your much later family meeting.
It seems your own strengths handled 'it' rather than 'it' shaping you.
Mondraussie ~ If only I knew! I'm afraid it will always be a mystery. (Thanks for the compliment. x).
Beth ~ And thank you too for the compliment. *Blushes tremendously*
PG ~ Excellent. You made me laugh out loud and consider inserting your comment as part and parcel of the post's text. Seriously.
UB ~ I don't consider myself to be a forgiving person. Maybe I am after all. My aunt doesn't read this. No one in my family does because in a previous incarnation I learnt I can't write as freely with the close, personal audience. Even so, there is nothing I have written here so far that I wouldn't want my aunt (or mother or uncle) to read. I wouldn't want my father to read the blog because I rail on him from time to time. I wouldn't want my brother to read it because it would just introduce an elephant into the room. He wouldn't deny any of it; he wouldn't deny my right to write about it; it would simply make him feel uncomfortable. We already have an awkward enough of a relationship (over and above any residual abuse issues).
Jo ~ There was definitely a lot of inner turmoil as I faced the social services lady. I can smile at it now, but was definitely freaking out internally at the time.
Rashbre ~ Life is always throwing us shapes (circles, triangles, hexameters!!!). I think you're right. I'm lucky. I like my DNA.
I feel like you write with elephants anyway, and I love that about your blog. It makes you seem like a real person, not just, you know. A webpage.
Age is no barrier to admiration, I've met 10 year olds that carry their brief lives with all the horror of an 8 year old who fought in the Second World War.
Peace.
Rassles ~ But I am a web page!
Daniel ~ I know what you mean. And for that, I love you.
I love you too, will miss you on these shores but virtually you are as close as you ever were.
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