The Immediate Aftermath of Incest

So much of the knowledge we now have about incest has only come to light in the last 25 years.  My parents didn't have the advantage of this knowledge when they raised me.  There are lists of symptoms and behavioral patterns that are often exhibited in sexually abused children.  Some are more general in nature and can point to any number of problems.  Others, though, are more specific and are considered to be very strong indicators of incest.  These advances in research came too late to save me from my grandfather's abuse, but they have helped me recognize the truth as my memories returned. 



When I was about 12 years old, the toll of my grandfather's abuse began to manifest itself more openly.  When I found myself alone, I began opening the lower door of the buffet in our dining room and drinking big gulps of the whiskey stored there.  It didn't matter how bad it tasted or what the possible repercussions were, I wanted escape.  The dizziness, the drunkenness or simply passing out on the bed, it all worked.  It wasn't long at all before I was in the medicine cabinet taking any prescription pills I could find for pain or sleep.  I was good at hiding this behavior and it helped that my parents had no conception that their straight "A" daughter would even think of such a thing.  By the time I was 13, I had become resistant to my parents control.  That was the year that I told my parents about my grandfather's fondling of my breasts and the abuse stopped.  There were no more "overnights" for me or my brothers.



My childhood is like a 1,000 piece picture puzzle that I have felt compelled to put together even though the images sicken and terrify me.





All the rest of that night and the next morning, as I took the short walk home, I thought of nothing else than what my grandfather had done.  As far as I knew then, the incest of the night before was the first time anything like that had ever happened and I was shocked and confused.  It was August of my 13th year and at that time, many years back, most girls of my age were as naive and innocent about sexual activity as I.  I knew what had happened was wrong. I felt sick and afraid and his own words, that I would hate him someday for it, echoed through me.



When I arrived home my mother was busy with household chores.  It was summer vacation so there was no where I had to be.  I remember sitting on the swing in our back yard trying to decide what I should do.  I loved my grandfather and I didn't want to cause trouble for him, but I was afraid if I didn't tell my mom it would happen again.  I wasn't sure if I did something bad and that if I told what happened, everyone might be mad at me as well as grandpa.  I also wondered if I was making too much of what he did and that maybe I wanted to get attention by telling.  When I began walking toward the kitchen, I hadn't come to a clear resolution within myself of what was right to do, but I knew I had to tell mom.



I have no memory of the words I used or of what mom said to me, but she was very upset.  I could feel the gravity of what my grandfather had done by the way her body tensed up as I spoke and the alarm I saw in her eyes.  She would speak to my father when he arrived home from work.



The afternoon hours seemed like an eternity to me.  I became increasingly frightened as I pored over and over the events since the night before and thought about what might happen next.  There was a certain formality in our family decorum and it was considered unacceptable conduct to raise your voice.  If my parents ever argued in such a manner, it must have taken place when they were completely alone.  I had never been in a situation where anger had evolved into screaming.  Never having experienced such behavior made the possibility all the more dreadful.  I wished I could dissolve into the floor I so feared what might be ahead.



My worst fears came true.  After my father and mother talked, my father determined that he and I should walk to my grandparents and confront them with what I had said.  I was terrified at having to face them, but I knew my dad was doing what he felt was best.  My dad was a quiet, reserved man and I knew that talking to his parents about this was going to be very difficult for him.



(To Be Continued)