Of Creepy Uncles

TRIGGER WARNING: This entry describes child sexual abuse. 

   Documenting this is very difficult for me. But I need to take away my uncle’s power over me somehow, so this will be the most detail I’ve ever gone into. Before 15 months old, my uncle had an all-access pass to my being. He gave me blanket rides and was constantly playing games with me. But I can’t remember way back then, so here we go.

   My earliest memory occurred when I was 2, visiting my birth mother's family with my adoptive parents. My birth mom was, as usual, not present. My grandpa refused to be in the same building as me out of spite for his daughter not giving me to him. My grandma and great-grandma were awkwardly and uncomfortable chatting with my adoptive mom as my adoptive dad struggled to sit still. 

   I had vomited on myself during the car ride there. Fortunately, my great-grandma had a new dress for me. It was a cute, old fashion style toddler dress. Once everyone awkwardly settled, I shuffled around my first home, strangely aware that I knew the way but couldn’t understand why I knew the way. I stood in the kitchen petting my first dog. He was an elderly black lab limping about and desperate for attention and love. So I gave it to him. I briefly considered trying his dog food. I don’t think I did, though. 

   My uncle, a teenager at the time who would later shoot and kill the previously mentioned family dog (supposedly out of mercy), had a room across from where I stood. He gestured for me to come over. So I did. Why not? He helped me crawl onto the seat beside him on the piano bench. My grandma taught piano lessons, but my uncle was not one of her students. Her piano was probably there because the room had been converted into his bedroom when great-grandma moved in. 

   He asked me if I remembered “our” game. I didn’t want to be rude, so I didn’t reply. I did not remember. Considering my age, I think he was making it all up. He imitated the “the claw” scene from the just-released film “Liar Liar.” He used an intensely deep monster voice to announce it. I’ll never forget the sounds he played on the instrument. A relatively simple scale that went over each key in order as his hand approached me more and more. The pause between each key filled me with anxiety and anticipation before playing the next.

   When the hand finally finished its journey and approached me, I felt discomfort and fear. I can’t tell you where the hand landed because I can’t remember, but my uncle would quickly tickle me there and then repeat the game over and over. Despite being tickled, nobody heard any laughter. And I don’t recall laughing. I remember being very uncomfortable. He never spoke to me during the game except to announce each note of the piano with a “dun” in an attempted harmony with the note.

   I remember wanting to get help, but I also felt like this is my uncle. So he’s a grown-up, and I’m a child. If I left, that would be disrespectful. Ergo, I get in trouble. So I stayed and prayed for someone to rescue me. Eventually, my mom and grandma came in. My grandma picked me up and passed me to my mom. My uncle turned to the piano as if I was never there. He didn't even say goodbye. My grandma had offered to get me alone, but my mom insisted. She was ready to get away from the awkwardness of the visit.

   Whenever I try to remember where the hands went, I feel panic, terror, and anxiety, like a wall telling me to stop right there or else. Whenever I think of his hands tickling my body, I want to scream and cut off my skin. Or curl into a ball till I disappear. Even just typing THAT word makes me want to die. I can’t say it. I can’t hear it. I can’t see it. It’s unbearable suffering. 

   I remember this event would later affect my relationship with my adoptive father. He was obsessed with my feet in a way that made me deeply uncomfortable. And he loved tickling them. At first, it didn’t bother me. But when I was five, suddenly, I felt an instinct telling me to run away. Telling me I was unsafe. 

   I would eventually get away, gasping for air and running for my room or the bathroom as I called him a bastard, an asshole, and a son of a bitch while reminding him I wanted to kill him and I hated him. I would then lock my door and barricade it with my body. Then I sank to the floor, cried, and destroyed. And I didn’t know why. I’ve always remembered what my uncle did. But it existed in my subconscious. I would dream the memory, but I couldn’t recall it when I woke up. I just had this vague idea of it deep in there. 

   I had felt so violated. I started to suspect my dad was a pedophile. And I held that thought for the rest of my life. And I believed it. Whenever anyone said what came to be known as “the t-word,” I screamed and ran away as panic, fear, and rage filled me. My mother would struggle with this censorship of her language, causing me to have to come clean about what I felt. And I did it piece by piece over time because just discussing those feelings was torture. My father I wanted to kill. I despised him. I didn’t care what he thought.

   Years later, when I was 12-13, I visited my bio mom. She let me see my uncle, who had moved to Peru, in a video chat. He was miserable, holding a martini. My bio mother had warned me that he was a drunk and would probably have liquor on hand. Ironically she failed to disclose that she, too, was a drunk. But I figured it out eventually. My uncle seemed to be scowling resentfully at my bio mom. Yet she continues to act happy and excited, seemingly oblivious to her brother’s discontent. 

   He said no more than two words. But I was excited to reconnect with him anyways. I always wanted to meet him again. He always showered me with attention as a baby and toddler. So naturally, I missed that because I didn’t fully understand why he had done it in the first place. But then my bio mom gave me a rule, “You are never to talk to him unless I’m there, got it?” When I asked, “Why?” she said, “Because I said so!” We live in separate states, and she’s a flake. So that would mean I might not have seen him again for years.

   Eventually, my bio maternal great aunt would recommend I talk to my uncle about ancestry because she says we both love it and he could help me. He would only give me, “Grandpa’s bio parent’s last name was Johnson.” Records for which exist nowhere. He insisted, however, that we kept talking to each other. Oh, did I mention he lives in Peru? Yea, so these talks were through email and Facebook. 

   He began scrolling through my Facebook photos, private messaging me only. He kept saying I was pretty, my hair was long, my lips were pretty, and I looked good in makeup. This made me feel good about myself. I told myself he was not creepy. He’s just being supportive. Eventually, the compliments grew to be about my breasts and my body. We chatted all through the night. Then he asked me to “Send him some naked pics.” I froze. His comments became more lewd as he pressured me. I turned off my computer and went to bed. But I didn’t sleep. 

   The following morning I was afraid to say a word because I felt so stupid. But when I woke up, my uncle had attempted to discredit anything I might say by telling everyone I know on Facebook that I’m a whore and trailer trash. It was morning, and my mom had to work, but I was crying, so she wouldn’t leave till I talked. She was shocked when I showed her what happened. But she wasn’t angry. She told me she was proud I didn’t do what he asked and that I had told her. 

   My mom would later call my birth mom telling her I was upset and hoping she would comfort me. She passed me the phone. My bio mom wanted us to be alone, so I went to the bathroom and shut the door. She screamed at me, “I told you not to talk to him! You deliberately disobeyed me! You brought this on yourself!” I curled up on the bathroom floor as I cried my eyes out. But wait, she didn’t seem surprised by my uncle's actions. She even seemed to know it would happen. She wasn’t mad at her brother for seducing her child. She was mad at me, her child, for “letting it happen.” 

   Years later, at 25 years old, I’d be scrolling through Miley Cyrus’ Instagram, yet again disappointed in her. And there it was—Miley’s infamous stolen food porn art. The image of the peach being stroked off and imitating orgasm brought my memory from 2 years old to the forefront of my mind. I held myself as I felt violated, scared, and confused. I ran to tell my mom what I remembered, and we had a very long night.

   My past, however, does not define me as strange as that is to accept. I wish everyone the opportunity to change their lives and free themselves.

-Anemone