Sandusky’s of the World and not speaking up!!

Today while driving down Main Street in my hometown, I drove past the man who molested me. It's been a while since I ran into him. He's a fun loving father, grandfather and most likely great grandfather. He is well liked in my small hometown in general. I drove by not giving him a second look when really all I wanted to do was give him the middle finger and put my window down and yell "Child Molester." I guess that effectively cancelled all the months I spent in therapy.
So it is with curiosity, that my twitter feed showed Slate mentioned a writer, Emily Yoffee, who confessed why she did not tell authorities or her parents she was molested three different times by three different men. You can read it here at www.slate.com titled My Molesters by Emily Joffee. I could identify with her because I did something similar.

 The first one was Mainstreeter when I was 14 years old, the next one at 16 was a young guy at camp who was around 17 years old and the third was by a relative when I was around eighteen. And like Ms Yoffee, instinctively I knew it was wrong each time it occurred.

Mainstreeter was a neighbor, who had a lovely wife and three children. I remember the night so vividly, there was an early evening thunderstorm in the middle of a very humid stretch in summer. The coolness of the storm slightly brought down the hot and heavy temperature of the day. Their trailer was somberly lit, probably in an attempt to keep the Fahrenheit down. All the children were all asleep. I sat in the living room where I could see the pilot light of the stove on. While his wife dolled up in the washroom, I waited for them to leave, not really paying attention to where Mainstreeter was in the tiny trailer. He wasn't around much; he worked in New York City and came home only enough to get his wife pregnant. She was expecting her fourth child and by the size of her belly she was close to the end. He came into the living room and sat down next to me. I could smell the beer on him and noted his shiny forehead. He molested me while his wife was in the next room fixing her hair. Brazen I say. He was so busy trying to put his hands in my pants and under my shirt, he didn't hear his wife enter the room. They argued outside in the rain and left on their evening outing. I didn't tell my mom because his wife held weekly craft classes I attended in my small hometown. With very little to do, I didn't want to ruin it. I later found out he molested many more young girls. And one brave pressed charges that got him conditions.

The next guy, a fellow camper with the worst teeth I ever laid eyes on, the two front teeth jutted out sideways making him looking scary. An ugly sight to say the least and his personality matched it. One night, I woke up with this guy on top of me trying to undue my pants. I fought him off and left camp later that week. Years later I confided in a close friend what happen and she said he did the same thing to her. Years later, I learned he died after drinking heavy and wandering into a lake.

The last one was a relative about 10 years older than me. It happened in my home one summer during college. I woke in the middle of the night after falling asleep on the couch to find him running his hand up and down my leg, more down than up. Startled and real angry he would even try to take advantage of me,  I kicked him in the face and ran off to my bedroom, not before telling my mom to control her relative. My mom got so few details but I got the gist instinctively she knew what I was referring to. All she said to me the next day was to always sleep in my own room from then on. We never talked about it. Only after she died, I discovered this relative sexually abused someone years earlier and that my mom was aware of the incident. It bugged me for a long time and I developed a deep resentment to my late mom. It took years to get over and I resolved my mom did the best she could too. It was her relative; she let him in her house because he had nowhere to go. It was this fact she knew of the abuse that sent me on my own personal journey into speaking up about abuse. And the first place I started was in my family. 

So I completely understand Ms. Yoffee's reasoning not to tell because you don't want to upset status quo and somehow you find a way compartmentalize the incident and their memories. I grew up in a very small town where everybody knew everybody by name.  News spread like wild fire, gossip was so bad, rumors ruined even the most innocent.  So part of the reason I didn't tell lies in there and the fact that up until then I seen no real reason tell.   So, I blocked out Mainstreeter's molestation for years, actually 16 years to be exact when one day I bumped into him at a golf tournament in my hometown. Though, I no longer lived there I had a business that required me there full-time. Then it all came back to me, the feelings of violation but with an upside of anger. I wanted to confront him, punish him and run him over with my golf cart. The anger worsened as our paths crossed more often than not. I went to therapy to get a handle on my intense feelings and yesterday brought it back, not to the original extent but its there and I think it will always be there.
Like Ms. Yoffee, I watched intently the Jerry Sandusky trial from beginning to end and cried when they read the verdict. I watched the interview with victim #1 and cried as he talked about his courage to finally tell someone. I don't label myself a victim and don't feel like a victim but I see where my youth, shyness and the fact that I came from a broken family made me an easy target. I don't condone my actions for keeping it quiet, 25 years ago is a lot different from today. Just the fact, today more resources are available for victims of abuse than when I was a teenager. Kudos to the courageous souls who do speak out.