After my abuse came out and my Uncle was arrested (see day 23), he was released in less than 24 hours. But that wasn’t the end of it.
He was never prosecuted, but I was. Let me tell you what happened.
In those days (1980), the victim had to prove a crime was really committed.
His story was that I approached him (not true) and that I was promiscuous. (Also not true).
I’ll never forget my first of many interviews with the State’s Attorney.
The questioning went something like this. “So, I understand you and said party had an affair”. I had no idea what the abuse should be called. So I said, “Yes sir”. The next question was something to the effect of me making advances towsard him. Also, I had used provacative language to entice him.
I sobbed and sobbed. I had no answers. I was frozen. Stuck. Terrified. After a bit of that, they decided to postpone the questioning to another day so that I could be coherent and believable.
The second time I went, I was extremely medicated by my doctor. At least I didn’t cry. But again, they ask for the questioning to be postponed.
The third time I went it was pretty much a repeat of the last. I was then asked to leave the room while the State’s Attorney told my parents he didn’t think we had a case. My parents chose to drop all charges against him.
I was relieved. I thought maybe my family would love me again. But the damage had already been done.
I can’t explain what it feels like to try and explain what you don’t understand. I never knew it was child abuse. All I knew at that point was that everyone, including my parents, was telling me how I had wrecked the family and made everyone so unhappy.
I was ashamed. I knew they were right. I was an awful 12 year old. I probably did seduce him. I did keep it a secret. I probably did “enjoy” it. (In the words of my Mother).
The shame apparently has never been resolved. This year of PTSD has caused me to feel every painful moment of being a “bad girl”.
Those labels are in my everyday life. Those labels are on my job. Those labels are in my dreams.
As I start to recover from this awful shame, I find myself still trying to prove my innocence. I was on trial. Not him. He lived happily ever after.
I’m trying to forgive that little girl and give her a re-trial. I’m trying to allow God to defend me against that monster. I’m trying to be released from captivity.
I don’t know how to forget those days, but I’m desperately trying to write a happy ending to my story.
Know this Mr. Pedophile – she was NOT GUILTY.
Until next time – I am being MJ ever day.