By Imani Wisdom
His whiskey scent nearly burned my eyes as I felt his cold hands against a place that was sacred to me. I was 10-years-old and scared. The strength inside of me had waned into shattered pieces because I feared this nearly 6’0 tall brute. I didn’t know what he was doing was an act of love or if I had done something wrong and that was his way of punishing me or being overdeveloped at that age had perversely attracted him. All I know was I sitting on my mother’s couch while I listened to his disgusting moans.
While he was in his selfish mood, I was thinking of ways of distracting him without hurting my Uncle’s feelings (Yes, I was actually worried of his feeling then). Every time he slipped his hand one way, I scooted away from him. When he moved his hands to my breast, I scooted further away. He boldly took my hand placed it on his jeans to feel the embossed silhouette of his nasty dick! I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. I wanted to shout for my mother who happened to been in her bedroom asleep because Multiple Sclerosis has got the best of her, but fear had taken my voice. I felt like one of my characters from my first unpublished novel, Ruthie, when she said that being pinned between the wall and her abusive husband was her open door to Hell. That’s how I felt at ten. I was trapped between the corner of the couch and my uncle’s brawny strength. Not only I felt that I have walked in the fires of Hell, but I felt as though I was swimming knee deep in it.
Then suddenly, a glimmer of courage had sparked in me. I finally found my God-given voice and told him to stop.
“Shhhhhhhh” he replied.
“Please!” I begged him.
Despite my pleas, he kept going. He didn’t care how much I whimpered, moved, or refused to look him in the eye; he wanted to satisfy his perverted pleasure. To hell what a 10-year-old innocent child feels. It was all about him and only him!
Well, this blog is dedicated to survivors of physical and sexual abuse. Thirty years ago back on that warm summer day, he made it about him. Now it’s our turn. If you’re walking and breathing and still able to shed your beautiful smile, you already started your journey of redemption. It’s about you, the Kings and Queens of your own destiny.
It took me a quarter of a century to realize my promiscuity, anger, rebellion, and co-dependent behavior, all stemmed from that moment. I had other encounters; especially getting gang-raped which that sealed my hatred of men for years. Nevertheless, I took that inward pain into words. I had no choice. It was either, wallow in my pity or share my experience with others. And writing this blog(s) is easier and healthier than hating every man in the world. Speaking of the fellas…..
Men—and especially African American men—were brought up to believe that men touching boys in a lustful way are considered gay. On the contrary, perverts don’t discriminate. Pedophiles do it for power and to make their victims powerless and inferior. No one should’ve had to keep that pain inside of them. By moving on, you already defeated that lingering demon. Perhaps the next step is to share your past and help other young men overcome their demons. As long as they see your courage, they’ll believe its hope for them after all.
How did I overcome from my shattered past? My writing, prayed, therapy, wrote some more, prayed some more, shared my experience with other because what I went through wasn’t unique, and of course—writing until I discovered it was my passion. Maybe I should thank my uncle for that?.....Nah!!!!
To the ones who were hurt by someone but never told anyone—it’s your decision whether you want to share your past. I’m writing this blog for hope. The word itself is powerful! No one can stomp on your hope; it’s a part of you. It’s something God gave us at last minute along with adrenaline, both are necessities for survival. Yet, hope keeps going after tumultuous storms; it’s our rainbow from a shadowy past, and the sun beyond ominous clouds. It’s always there.
Therefore, my advice to you: write out your feelings. Think of it as your own personal note to yourself. Don’t worry about grammar or spelling. What matters is you’re making the first attempt to free yourself from his/ or her bondage. Remember—is about you, not them.
And that’s my Imani’s How to Moment—persevering through any storm even if it’s monsoon of physical and sexual abuse. Their acts shouldn’t define you or me. I allowed his act to define as a woman and used what he did to me as an excuse to screw any guy I met. I had to wake up. I was treading close of catching a series of sexual transmitted diseases, including HIV. I’m worth more than just a feel-good moment.
As for my uncle, he’s no longer in this world. But wherever he’s at, I hope he knows that he didn’t win—I’m still standing!
