The dark place . my first abuse

I remember my first nightmare.

I was not yet two years old and I was being chased round and round a palm tree by a tiger. I had a tiny bow and arrow. I'm certain this came to my mind that night because of the radio story Little Black Sambo, the story of young Indian boy who meets up with a tiger and turns him into butter. In my nightmare, I was the one being turned to butter.

I had nightmares almost every night from then on. I remember most of them. The main reoccurring theme was being chased - and the primal fear of being caught and held against my will. To this day, I cannot stand to be held while someone whispers in my ear. The feel of the warm breath, the hissing of the words without the ability to break free is terrifying.

As I grew older, my nightmares turned to sleepwalking. In my teens I would wake up in the kitchen or the living room. I had sprinted out of my room to escape something in a dream. My sister would talk in her dreams. Scream. She would scream my name.

Time took me further from my night fears until the birth of my daughter. Then the dreams shifted to being unable to protect her. And then, they came true. But my dark place is not the same as her's. Mine lives somewhere back in my past where I was the child needing protection - where I was the one held and forced and then running...

I remember almost all my nightmares. So why can't I remember you?

My daughter's therapists noted my uncanny ability to relate to what happened to her. They worked with me for years to accept what happened to her and myself, both in the now and in the past. I was told not to pursue regression therapy. It seems the mind blocks things it can't handle. I've waited 20 years for the memories to come, but there is only the dark place. No glimmer of light, or flash of content. Nothing but my suspicions.

What did you do to me? When was it? Where was it? Was it just you or did things repeat themselves? Was it what you did that lead me to be so vulnerable to others? Was there something familiar that drew me to the men who raped me? Each pretended they were with me out of caring. I yearned to be comforted, to be held. I felt responsible for the things that happened to me. I led men on, or so I would be told again and again. I was told I invited the attention. Why would I do that? Why would I set myself up to be manipulated, trapped, sexually exploited?

My suspicions point to you.

When you die, I hope a memory strikes a match in the dark place where I have hidden you. Dead, you won't be here to trick me into keeping our secret. I will tell the world and you will forever be what I say you are. Or you can tell me yourself, if you feel remorse. And you do feel remorse and fear I'll remember - it's how I know who you are without remembering. It's in all the things you haven't done.

One day I will remember.

FBF

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours"

You should not feel bad. I started it. I just wanted to know what all the fuss was about. I knew my father had expected me to be born a boy. I should have been a boy. At the age of six it seemed so simple. I would become a boy. First step was seeing what you had that I didn't.

We locked ourselves in your family's bathroom and I went first. I pulled down my shorts, sat on the toilet - and peed. You watched. Your turn - you opened your zipper, faced the toilet - and peed standing up. I was instantly jealous. You showed me you had a little flesh hose you shot pee out of. What happened to my hose? Did my parents have it removed? Would I grow one? Was this what was so wonderful about being a boy?

I taught myself to pee standing up.
I climbed every tree I could find.
I dug in the dirt.
I collected bugs and snakes and lizards.
I jumped off everything.
But I could not grow a flesh hose no matter how much I wanted one.

My parents and your's called you a "book worm." Ridiculous! I read more books than you! They called me "tom boy." Who was Tom and what did he have to do with my wanting to be a boy? I was supposed to be named Paul. That was the name my parents had decided on if I was a boy. Why wasn't I named Paula?

In the sticky Kansas summers, all our moms would push us outside telling us to, "go play." Your house was always my first stop. You were my friend and a boy, but not my boyfriend. I was much more interested in the pretty girl that lived behind your house. You could not understand why I was interested in her. I guess I wasn't sure either. As a boy, I thought you'd think she was pretty.

I was devastated when I was not invited to her birthday party. You were."Go play" put me outside that day with no one to play with and too much free time. I snuck through your yard to spy on the party. She was wearing the most beautiful white dress I had ever seen. Her hair was all pins and curls with ribbons. Her shoes were shiny with buckles. There was a cake on the table and piles of presents. I was jealous of her and you and everyone at that party for getting to eat that cake.

She saw me in my dirty play clothes hiding in the bushes. She sent a group of boys after me. As a kid I told my mother they took off their belts to hit me, but I'm sure they just chased me. And threw rocks. I thought my mom would be proud I'd gotten away from them, but she was angry. I'd embarrassed her. "Debbie, tell me why you were spying on girl and her party?" I knew girls were not supposed to like girls. And like it or not, I was a girl.

You never told my secrets.
You never acted like I was a freak.
You were my first best friend.