by Kellie S.
Where to begin? I guess I will start with how I got to this site. A friend of mine posted on her blog about it. I was in tears not long into reading it. I felt terribly for her and what she went through. No person should ever be abused in any kind of manner. I kept on reading and all of a sudden, “that memory” came back to me, again. “That memory” is the one and only memory I have of a family friend who touched me in a very inappropriate way. I call it “that memory” because I didn’t even know that it happened until I was about 18 years old. I do not recall what triggered the memory. I just remember it coming to me like a scene from a movie or something where it just flashed into my head. I didn’t say anything to anyone. I didn’t know if I should because I wasn’t even sure if it was a memory or just a dream. Was it really real? Did that really happen? Then, the more I thought about it, the more I started to remember. I was sitting on his lap in a recliner in front of the t.v. My grandmother was in bed(or asleep in her recliner). The lights were out. There was only the light from the t.v. I fell asleep. And when I woke up, his hand was in my panties. I sat there trying to adjust my eyes to there being no light other than the television. Then, when I moved, he realized I was awake and quickly removed his hands. I couldn’t have been more than 7 years old. Back in those days, no one ever talked to you about good touch/bad touch. I had no idea what he had done was wrong. I just knew that it was weird feeling. And that I didn’t want to sit on his lap anymore. And that is all I remember. I never told a soul. And as far as I can recall, I didn’t even remember it happening until I was 18 or so. I told my cousin about it, many years ago. Then, just a few years before my grandmother passed away, I told her about it one night. Until now, those were the only people I ever told. I never felt like I needed to tell anyone. I did try and tell my daddy about it one time. But, I ended the conversation because I knew how mad it would make him. Not mad at me, mad at the man who did it. The man is still alive. He is in his 80’s and I still see him from time to time in the grocery store and such places. I always avoid him. I have never wanted to confront him about it. As I am sure he would deny it. I don’t even care that he would deny it. I just feel no need to confront him. I do know that after years passed I never felt comfortable about being around him, especially by myself. And never even understood why until “that memory” came back to me. I do not know if this thing that he did to me has altered me in any way. So, what do I do with my story?