Rape, Incest And Sexual Abuse Can Be A Big Part Of This Multi-Generational Disease
After my mother committed suicide, which came two years after my father’s death, I found a sixteen-page autobiographical story that she had written on legal size yellow paper with black ink. It was in a trunk at the end of my parents’ bed.
In this chronicle my mother describes some of the horrifying story of the life she suffered and endured as a child and teenager. She was living with her Christian mother and her alcoholic father.
When her older brother married and moved to a small town not too far from where her parents were living, she began to visit.
This brother owned a tavern, and at the age of thirteen she moved in with him and worked at the tavern during the summer. Mom was very disliked by her brother’s wife and so she was treated “worse than the hired help.” However, when Mom’s brother would get drunk and beat his wife, Mom was the one who cleaned the blood from her scrapes. Her reward was alcohol given to her by her brother’s grateful wife.
Working in this tavern for free that summer at the age of thirteen, my mother, Esther, had her first blackout from drinking.
Mom’s brother had a male friend that was about forty years old and he spent a lot of time talking to my mother when she was working at the tavern. She saw his attention as someone who was concerned and fatherly. Any positive attention felt welcomed and made my mother feel like she mattered. This man took his time becoming her friend over the summer and over his drinks at the tavern.
Mom had somehow developed a little confidence due to her time at the bar. She had learned that by holding her head up and acting like she didn’t mind that her “old man” was a drunk and that her family were extremely poor share-croppers, gave her an edge. People started to notice her and she began to develop some friends for the first time.
On her way to see a girlfriend one summer day her male friend from the bar saw her walking and offered her a ride. She was happy to see him and when he offered to take her to her friend’s house she gratefully accepted.
While she was in the car he inquired if she wanted to go for a short drive and she consented. He quickly went down a dirt road and pulled a bottle of alcohol and two cups from under the front seat.
He poured them both a drink and my mother only drank a small amount worrying that her brother might find out and get mad. When she had finished her drink she asked him to take her to her friend’s as it was already getting dark.
This man agreed to take my mother but only after they drove further down the dirt road. He told her that he just wanted to enjoy one more quick drink.
This is the sorrowful and heartbreaking event that took place down that lonely dirt road that southern evening, as the sun was just starting to slowly find it’s resting place beyond the horizon.
The remainder of this account is transcribed below in my mother’s own words.
“There are many odors, noises, and just feelings that take me back to my young life. I will always associate the cry of a whippoorwill, chirping crickets, and old spice shaving lotion with this night.
This forty-year old, close to 200 lb. man raped me, dog fashion, holding me face down in the front seat of that car while I cried, begged and pleaded in every way I knew to make him stop. And all he had to say was didn’t it feel just a little bit good.
I cried most of the way home and kept yelling at him that he’d made a whore out of me. I believed that too. I could not tell my parents. I could not tell my brother. There was no one to tell. Luckily my mother was in bed and I got my bloody clothes off and hid them, went on the back porch pretending to get a drink of water and wet a towel and snuck it in my room.”
When I think of the pain, suffering, loneliness, fear and sadness that my mother, Esther, suffered, it makes my heart break. No one deserves to grow up the way she did. My mother certainly did nothing to cause or claim any of the responsibility for this horrific physical violation in which she had to endure in silence at the tender age of thirteen.
I miss her so much some days and wish that I could hold her and tell her how sorry I am for the appalling, unwarranted, disgusting and violent act which she was forced to suffer that beautiful summer day.
I wish she were here so that I could tell her how much I appreciate her telling me about God and his son Christ and how he died for my sins. I wish I could hold her and tell her how much I love her even if she made mistakes. She was my mother and I know she did the best she could.
Ecclesiastes 7:20 – Indeed, there is no one on earth who is righteous, no one who does what is right and never sins.