Oblivious
Trigger warning: contains sexual abuse
Everyone, at some point in their life, faces an ugly truth. Secrets are revealed through self-examination.
Maturity brings a better understanding of the facts. My moment of reckoning happened when I was in my late thirties.
I was sexually molested as a child.
"Go kiss grandpa goodnight," my grandmother urged, oblivious to the fear one simple statement could invoke.
My heart raced and my palms became damp with sweat. Inside my head, I screamed "NO!" with all my might. No
one heard my silent screams and I did what was asked of me without uttering a word.
I walked to their bedroom slowly, the condemned to the execution chamber, pausing at the doorway to assume
the stance; lips clamped tight, arms folded tightly over my budding breasts. Then I entered the room where
my grandfather lie.
"Goodnight grandpa," I said, standing at the doorway, hoping to avoid contact.
"Come in and give your Grandpa a kiss," he commanded.
I took a deep breath and moved closer to the bed. The scent of sweat and moth balls perfumed the air,
nauseating me. My grandmother's dolls stared forward, a silent audience.
"Come here," he said once more, and I approached the bed with dread. My arms tightened around my breasts,
ready to fight off the unwanted grope of his wrinkled hands. I slowly bent over to kiss his stubbled cheek,
aiming as far away from his mouth as I can, the memory of his leathery tongue probing my lips apart, burning
bright in my mind.
When the deed is done, I dart away from his reach, eager to leave the room and its sick stench behind. My
sister enters as I'm leaving. It's her turn to pay her respects.
Avoiding Grandpa's goodnight kiss advances was a part of my childhood. It was something I accepted as normal
and didn't speak about with my parents or siblings. Growing up in the late 70's and early 80's, I was taught
to fear strangers in white vans offering the promises of candy. In my mind, what my grandfather was doing
wasn't abuse. It wasn't until I was an adult with children of my own, that I realized my relationship with
my grandfather wasn't normal. It was abuse.
Everyone, at some point in their life, faces an ugly truth. Secrets are revealed through self-examination.
Maturity brings a better understanding of the facts. My moment of reckoning happened when I was in my late thirties.
I was sexually molested as a child.
"Go kiss grandpa goodnight," my grandmother urged, oblivious to the fear one simple statement could invoke.
My heart raced and my palms became damp with sweat. Inside my head, I screamed "NO!" with all my might. No
one heard my silent screams and I did what was asked of me without uttering a word.
I walked to their bedroom slowly, the condemned to the execution chamber, pausing at the doorway to assume
the stance; lips clamped tight, arms folded tightly over my budding breasts. Then I entered the room where
my grandfather lie.
"Goodnight grandpa," I said, standing at the doorway, hoping to avoid contact.
"Come in and give your Grandpa a kiss," he commanded.
I took a deep breath and moved closer to the bed. The scent of sweat and moth balls perfumed the air,
nauseating me. My grandmother's dolls stared forward, a silent audience.
"Come here," he said once more, and I approached the bed with dread. My arms tightened around my breasts,
ready to fight off the unwanted grope of his wrinkled hands. I slowly bent over to kiss his stubbled cheek,
aiming as far away from his mouth as I can, the memory of his leathery tongue probing my lips apart, burning
bright in my mind.
When the deed is done, I dart away from his reach, eager to leave the room and its sick stench behind. My
sister enters as I'm leaving. It's her turn to pay her respects.
Avoiding Grandpa's goodnight kiss advances was a part of my childhood. It was something I accepted as normal
and didn't speak about with my parents or siblings. Growing up in the late 70's and early 80's, I was taught
to fear strangers in white vans offering the promises of candy. In my mind, what my grandfather was doing
wasn't abuse. It wasn't until I was an adult with children of my own, that I realized my relationship with
my grandfather wasn't normal. It was abuse.