Jackie Sue's homepage:adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse

Let's talk about child molestation.

You've heard the statistics. 1 out of every 3 females you see as well as 1 out of 5 males you see will have been a victim of sexual abuse at some time in their life. That might sound like a huge mistake in statistics. My experience tells me the figures are most likely low. Many people never report this abuse.

Why am I putting a page about sexual abuse up for the whole world to see? Because it happened to me. Many times. And my violator was someone who should have given his very life to protect me rather than violate me. My abuser was my father's father--my paternal grandfather. Before you read on, let me point out that it was NOT the man I called Grandaddy...it wasn't the man they named Charlie's Bunion for. THAT man WOULD HAVE KILLED had he known the things that were done to me. THAT good man cared for me, cherished me and did as much as possible to protect me. He had no idea of the things that were done to me. He didn't even like my other grandfather. They were as opposite as night and day.

I am going to tell a bit about what happened to me for one reason and one reason only. There are many people out there who are in a great deal of pain because the same horrific things that happened to me happened to them. Maybe they haven't worked through it as much as I have. Maybe they are married to someone who is trying to reconcile the horrible memories of their past. Maybe they have fooled themselves into thinking that being abused didn't have a permanent and tremendous impact on them. Maybe they feel all alone. Maybe their pain is so great they don't think they'll EVER feel better than they do now. Or, perhaps there is someone out there who ignorantly thinks it was just a mere dalliance; that their actions against an innocent child did them no harm or left them no real damage. If any of those MAYBES fit you, this page is for you. Some of this might seem a bit graphic. Trust me. This is a very, very watered down version of some of the events I recall.

My abuse began when I was four years old. I wasn't even in kindergarten yet. When my grandfather was coming to our house for a visit, I remember my older brother being very insistent that I remember the man. I had no recollection of him whatsoever. My mother even tried to spark my memory of him but to no avail. It hadn't been that very long since he'd been there yet I couldn't place the man. I STILL have memories of a shopping trip a casual FRIEND took me on when I was only 2, but I had blocked out the memory of someone that I know I had been around quite a bit. I have no doubts of this. I have home movies of him carrying me on his massive shoulders just a few months before my first recollections of abuse take place. I can't help but wonder what I've suppressed to protect myself.

First let me tell you a bit about the man. He was married at least 3 times that I am aware of. His word was law. Everyone obeyed him without question. He was a very domineering abuser, large in height as well as weight. He always had little dogs that would bite you if you came near them. I wanted to pet those dogs in the worst way, until I found out the price I would have to pay for doing that. To pet them, I would have to get near him. I figured I could live without cute pets.

The first thing I recall was his forcing me to accompany him while his wife bathed him. Yes. You read that right. She was told to bathe him and he sent her after me. She brought me into the bathroom and made me stay with her while she did as he instructed her to do. It was merely a power ploy for him. He made her do something she didn't want to do, and made me do something I didn't want to do, but I went along with it because I would have gotten my butt busted for disobeying an adult. He knew that. He used that. I had never even seen my father go to the bathroom so you can imagine what a shock I had in store for me. I recall being very upset by that event.

The next scene I recalled was being awakened when my father turned on the lights and caught my grandfather standing over my bed while I slept. He said he'd heard my baby brother crying. No one else had heard that, however, including me, and I was sleeping in the same room. Because it was 1959 and these things hadn't made their way into America's living rooms yet, my father gave him the benefit of the doubt. Whether my father thought that something was up or not, I cannot tell you. But his ability to sleep very lightly saved me from the treat his father had in store for me that night. I am eternally thankful. Unfortunately it wasn't enough.

Adult survivors of child molestation tend to remember things in snatches. Images might come to your mind that make no sense to you, yet you have a very distinct feeling that they are important. One thing that I now think is very telling is that I am an extremely light sleeper. If the house so much as creaks from the foundation settling, I am wide awake, adrenaline pumping for an hour or more. I never have been able to tolerate a window not being covered when it was dark outside. I have an irrational fear of someone looking in at me. And clowns frightened me. I never could understand how I could love them and be terrified at them at the same time. I was 36 when I figured it out.

The house we lived in had 3 stories. My bedroom was on the top floor. I loved that room. It had pink pegboard walls, and my mother had hung all kinds of treasures on my walls. It was the cutest room I ever had growing up. I didn't get to sleep in it peacefully for very long. For some reason I was moved to my baby brother's room downstains because my parents were concerned about me. It seems that my mother found blood all over my sheets and panties one morning and when she questioned me as to why I didn't call her for help, I told her I had indeed called for help...over and over and over until I couldn't talk. They didn't investigate further. They simply moved me to a lower floor.

I can remember the conversation at the kitchen table just as plain as if it were happening yesterday morning. My cousin came over because my mother was concerned about me. She didn't take me to the doctor, however. She didn't know what to do. She just knew I had bled in my panties and on my sheets. I can remember the concern on their faces and in their voices. My father was unaware of this at the time, however. He had left for work before I got up. That is when I was moved closer to his bedroom. If I needed help, he wanted to be close enough to be there in a second's notice. I remember asking why I was no longer allowed to sleep in my pretty pink room. My mother looked at me questioningly and told me it was because I was afraid to go up there. I don't recall being afraid of the room, but I can understand it now that I remember the rest of the story. I probably was afraid of the monster that came to visit in the middle of the night.

It was many many years later when I pieced the entire picture together in my head, and you'll never believe what triggered the memory. It was a picture of a tattoo. A clown tattoo. Suddenly when I looked at that photo, I saw the entire scene pass before my eyes. I was laying in my bed and a hand was covering my mouth and my nose. I struggled and looked away from that big clown man that was holding me down. The little light on the left side of my bed illuminated his face in a grotesque manner. His already big features were even more exaggerated with the lighting, and I suddenly saw the face of the scary clown. It was, of course, my grandfather.

I must have passed out, because I don't remember anything after the initial pain. I am certain it was a digital penetration. His hands alone were as large as many men in an aroused state. They were far too large for a 4 year old. Most likely, this is what caused the bloody sheets and panties. I am certain of it.

The thing that my grandfather was able to do in front of everyone was kiss me. He didn't give normal grandfatherly kisses, however. He would stick his tongue into my mouth just to let me know he could violate me in front of others. It was a power trip for him. He always gave very wet, slobbery kisses. I hated having to kiss him. He took a turn at kissing me in this inappropriate manner every chance he got, and he made certain that there were plenty of opportunities. It still haunts me. The last man I dated kissed in a manner that brought this right back to the present. Kissing him was very much similar to kissing my grandfather, and it was a very disturbing flashback to have to relive. I thought I was beyond having to deal with the abuse in the present, but I guess I was wrong. It wasn't the man's fault. He didn't have a clue. I wasn't "warmed up" or anything before he went right to the tongue kisses. No sweet and slow necking to allow for a building of passion, as I'd hoped for. I wanted a lovely kiss to erase the memory of those forced kisses that I'd spent a lifetime hating. I didn't get it though, through no fault of my date's. I couldn't deal with it, and I tried to explain it to the man I was seeing, but I don't think he understood my problem, because he persisted in kissing in that same fashion. I not only wasn't aroused by his kisses, I was repulsed by them, for the obvious (to me) reason. It bothered the man I was seeing, but it bothered me even more. The relationship didn't work out. I was happy NOT to have to be subjected to that particular kiss anymore. If only he would have listened to me, but that is water under the bridge. It's a done deal. He didn't understand.

I recall one incident when my abuser tried to get me to spend a week with him. He had moved to Asheville, North Carolina and we went for a visit. I was about 8 years old at the time. I refused to stay. After much cajoling, my grandfather insisted that I be made to stay. He told my father that I needed to learn to stay away from them for a bit. He didn't want my older brother. He only wanted ME to stay. I became more insistent that I be allowed to go home to Tennessee. He bribed my older brother into attempting to talk me into staying over there with him. He offered my brother twenty dollars if he could talk me into staying. Twenty dollars was a lot of money for a child to have in 1963. My brother unsuccessfully offered me part of his money in an attempt to bribe me to stay. Finally my grandfather relented and offered to keep my older brother for the week as well. It still didn't work, and when my father looked like he was about to give in, I became hysterical. Literally. My father didn't know that his father had just molested me, liked it, and was planning something more intense for me. I shudder to think of what would have happened to me if I had been forced to stay. I know that he'd planned on having penile penetration that trip. He told me so. He grabbed my hands and used them on himself. I might not have survived that trip. Thank GOD my father didn't make me stay. It took my having to make myself so upset I was vomiting to convince him NOT to make me stay there, however. Yet, even with these events having taken place, no one suspected that the GREAT ONE, my grandfather, had ever done anything inappropriate toward me or any child. It never entered anyone's mind that I didn't have a big fear of staying with my OTHER grandparents. I even begged my father to send me to live with them rather than force me to stay with THAT grandfather.

My abuse continued from the age of 4 years old until I was about 10 and I took my courage in hand and told my father. Oh, don't think I spilled all the beans. I was embarrassed. I hated the things that had been done to me. I only told my father enough to make him take action. And I will have to admit that I didn't think my father would believe ME against the word of the almighty Daddy George.(that's what we called him....Daddy George.) I was CERTAIN that I was going to get the beating of my life for blasphemying Daddy George's name. I was prepared to take it, for something terrible had happened the last time he'd come. He had kissed some of the other kids the way he kissed me. That meant only one thing to me. THEY WERE NEXT! I couldn't let that happen, even if I was beaten senseless by my father.

When my father approached me about being excited that Daddy George was going to come for a visit, I swallowed the huge lump in my throat, braced myself, and prepared to have my head politely knocked off my shoulders. What followed would prove to be the moment that I consider to be my father's finest. As an adult, I can appreciate the restraint he showed. As an adult, I can appreciate that he was very good at getting information out of me in a manner that didn't frighten me or make me feel uncomfortable. As a parent, I can appreciate the anguish he must have felt for failing to protect me from someone he shouldn't have had to protect me from in the first place. I know how I would feel if someone did those things to my daughter. I would most likely commit a crime. I doubt I could have shown the restraint HE was able to show. He was cool about it. He got information out of me that I had no intention of giving, yet still, I fought to protect my father and I still hadn't forgotten that beating I thought I was going to get. I don't think it ever crossed my father's mind that I was expecting a beating for what I was trying to tell him. I gave no more information than was necessary to let the cat out of the bag. I wanted them to know that Daddy George was awful but I feared that if I told them how awful he really was, no one would believe me, especially not against HIM, so all I really told my Dad was that Daddy George put his hands in my panties and that I didn't like it. It proved to be enough to do the job. Daddy George was scheduled to arrive that night to stay at our house. The proverbial poop hit the fan that evening.

My father had believed me against HIS father...the patriarch of the family. It was a major victory for the oppressed. (that would be me!) My father sent all us kids upstairs when they arrived, and he confronted my grandfather. Since all dad was told was about the panties thing, that is all he dared ask my abuser about. Daddy George tried to lie out of it, but had no choice. He admitted that he had indeed done the things I told my father about. Dad threw him out, and he was never allowed to be near me for the rest of my father's life. Unfortunately, my father died a year later. My protector was gone.

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