57 Years
I was eleven when a 16-year-old man molested me. I told my mother and we took it through the court system. I wish we hadn’t. I felt so small in a large courtroom with my braids tightly wound. I entered the unreality that was adult trauma. That was 57 years ago.
When I was 16, the hormonal curiosities fell upon me, weighted like my molester’s sweaty frame entrapping me. Sex, a dirty, unwanted, urgent aversion consigned me to frivolous behavior of fever-pressed imperatives to shake free sexual negativity. I tried to erase foul, obscene, indecent thoughts from my soul. That was 51 years ago.
In my twenties, countless men delighted in my frenzy with orgies, binges, and debauchery. Quite suddenly, my mania ceased to drive me to the edge. I felt despondent and depressed, to the point of suicide attempts and isolation. That was 46 years ago.
Six years later, I enjoyed the company of my son’s father to be, who respected me as I respected him, and I became pregnant. That was 40 years ago.
Motherhood taught me self-importance, appreciation, and strength to persevere in my trials as a single mother. Sexuality no longer seizes my attention. That is now.
For the past 57 years, I relive the moment of my violation when I was eleven. Every time the news focuses on a new sexual abuse, I relive the moment. Every time the abusers get away, I relive the stark helplessness I felt when I was eleven. EVERY TIME!
I will not say that I relived this foulness 57 times; it is more like a multiple of 57, probably more than one per year. The judicial system does not appreciate this. It perceives that the crime is over. The crime is NEVER OVER!
What did my violator get for a sentence? Probation. 57 years ago.
