The Secret.
We who have secrets keep them for many reasons. We keep them out of shame. We keep them out of fear. We keep them to protect those we love most in the world. What we don’t realize in our well-intentioned rationalization, is that after we have buried them in the attics of our souls and convinced ourselves to carry on, they take on a life of their own. Growing like barnacles on the underbelly of a ship until the ship is impeded in how it sails.
And we don’t know why.
I almost kept my secret. My intention was to take it to my grave. I did this to protect those whom I loved with all of my heart. I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing them. I did this because I felt somehow I was complicit in what happened to me.
When I was 12, my babysitter invited me to join a special club. One that all of the older girls in the neighborhood, whom I looked up to and admired, were already a part of. I was now the next in line in this rite of passage. He would teach me what I needed to know about sex.
I was the baby of the family. The long awaited girl with ten years between me and the next of two brothers. I was cherished and sheltered in a way that made me feel safe and not stifled. It made me feel loved, actually. My babysitter was twelve years older than me. He was also our next door neighbor, my eldest brother’s best friend and the only individual my parents trusted to leave me with on the rare occasion that they go out at night.
The first time I would be left alone with him — my brothers were never home — he gave me my instructions: “When you take your bath before bed, just leave the door unlocked.”
I took my bath because that is what I did every night. I was nervous and my heart was beating out of my chest. I held my breath as he knocked on the door and then tried to open it; only to find it locked. “Kerrie Lynn,” I heard him say, laughing. “Open the door!” I sank below the water as he tried to jiggle the handle open. “Kerrie Lynn,” more laughter, “You’ve got to open the door if you want to belong to the club.”
I was paralyzed and watched in disbelief as his arm reached through the hall closet into the little door where my father kept his brushes and Brut aftershave. He must be standing on the shelf of the linen closet, I realized. I tried to hide under the bubbles but in a few seconds time, he was grinning his wide gummy grin and sitting on the toilet lid next to the bathtub, unbuckling his pants.
Within the year, I was taught how to french kiss, what a penis looked like and where it belonged, how to make it hard, and how to give a blow job. He seemed to delight in my disgust.
My best girlfriend at the time was doing her own exploration with a willing boy our age, sneaking out of her second floor bedroom down a tree to meet him in the middle of the night. She told me everything.
I told her nothing.
I was a good girl. I got good grades. My parents loved each other and loved me. As it went on, I became more and more ashamed, and quiet. At the age of twelve, I had convinced myself that this was somehow normal. And made myself a promise that I would never, ever tell a soul. I couldn’t imagine how shattered my parents would be if they ever realized their own misguided trust. In some way I knew that they would never forgive themselves. Now that this had happened to me, I had to keep my secret forever.
I almost made it.
I told my ex-husband, who kept my secret. And I eventually told my husband of twenty years, who didn’t.
It happened one night when my mother had come to stay with us. My father had died two years before and my mother had just begun to show signs of dementia; we knew she couldn’t live alone any longer. My husband and I were laying the foundation for mom to come and live with us.
That night after I had gone to bed, my husband and my mother stayed up late watching a movie. My mother was talking about the babysitter and how much the family had loved him and how close he and my oldest brother were. My husband could no longer remain silent and told my mom the truth about what had happened to me at the age of 12.
The next morning as I walked down the hall towards the kitchen, I heard my mother on the phone, exclaiming in a loud whisper to the only other living relative who would care — my oldest brother: “Kerrie Lynn. Molested. By Mike Slowey. Yes! I know…” her words trailed off as I turned on a heel and ran to the bathroom, where I collapsed onto the cold tile floor and promptly threw up into the toilet, heaving until there was nothing left. I sobbed out loud and cursed my husband, who was already gone for the day. When the emotion had finally subsided and I was able to gather my composure and strength, I went to my mother, my head hanging in deep shame. She cupped my face in her hands gently and searched my eyes hoping perhaps it wasn’t true; then, seeing my validation, she wrapped me in her arms, tears falling onto my shoulders and said: “I’m sorry, Kerrie Lynn, I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.” In this suspended moment in time, my mom’s mind was as clear as a bell. We were merely two women with a lifetime of love between us who had wanted nothing but to protect the other.
In the ensuing days, everything changed. I felt lighter and deeply relieved of my burden. I summoned the courage to speak to my brother about it, addressing his confusion with what I hoped was tenderness and patience. My love for my mother deepened, if that is possible. I forgave my husband and in time went to him on my knees with gratitude for what he done, once I was able to fully appreciate the gift that it was.
My empathy for those who have endured abuse of any kind stretches as wide as this universe. I understand intimately why these secrets are kept for years; for decades; for life.
I almost kept mine. Almost.
The memory of those raw moments with my mom are among my most cherished. I am so glad I could tell her my truth before she died.
“It takes courage to speak the truth,” I tell my daughter all the time, “be brave.” She’s 12.
