A life without regret: The story

September 28th, 2009

CarleneMirror

I’ve been fairly open in this blog about my experiences with abuse and its aftermath. To me, it’s a very matter-of-fact topic; it happened to me, I lived through it, I survived it, and it’s easy for me to think and talk about it because I view it as a factual event from my past.

The end of my abuse, the actual event that caused it all to come to a close, is where my one and only life regret resides, and I’ve come to terms with it as it revolves around the level we will go to protect ourselves and our loved ones.

My ex-stepfather’s name is Aaron. I will refrain for the moment from giving his last name, as my mom is currently embroiled in a court battle with him over my little sister’s college tuition, and I don’t want to jeopardize her education.

I will also point out that this story is quite graphic (and anyone who feels uncomfortable should stop reading immediately), and I am quite aware my mother owns this man’s life insurance policy. I want to make it clear that this is a retelling of an emotional story, and not anything more. Neither I nor anyone else in my family is foolish enough to go near this man again without notifying the police, lawyers, or authorities; we know the rules in this game.

And now, the story.

The day my ex-stepfather confessed to sexually abusing me for a decade, he did it at couples counseling and in front of a therapist, completely blindsiding my mother. She was in total emotional and physical shock, as extreme as the shock of a gunshot victim, and she walked out on the session to drive around aimlessly for several hours.

The problem was, and this is an issue that caused her years of torment from everyone down to and including the State of New York, while she was still reeling from her world being pulled from beneath her feet, Aaron went straight home.

To me.

I was newly thirteen at the time, and had just gotten my braces off. I sat at our kitchen counter island and listened to Aaron sob and tell me what he had done, and his theorization that maybe my mother would take it in stride. He lay with his head on his folded arms, crying, with a hand reached out to clamp onto my hand, holding me prisoner.

As he cried into the counter, I watched my entire carefully constructed world crumble around me. To keep people from questioning me I had become a pathological liar, a very clever one in fact. Now, realizing that this was quickly becoming a very, very desperate situation, I put that clever liar’s mind to use.

I looked around the kitchen and quickly yet calmly checked off items I might be able to use to stop Aaron should he try to take me and make me leave with him. I calculated the effectiveness of grabbing a kitchen knife to stab him in the neck, or slipping ipecac syrup into his food to incapacitate him, but he eventually calmed down and seemed to have convinced himself that my mother would be understanding of the situation “once she came to her senses.”

Hours passed, and when my mother finally arrived home with my then 3-year-old little sister, she did not speak a single word. She looked terrifyingly haunted; I sat as far out of the way as possible and watched with frightened eyes as she numbly cooked an entire meal, then set the table for dinner.

It was surreal; we sat at the table like a normal family, only the main course was an atomic bomb that might explode at any point. I ate in silence, barely breathing, and waited for the storm to break. When it finally did, it exploded.

There was a knock-down, drag-out fight between my mom and Aaron. I stayed out of the range of fists while my mom beat Aaron with a black phone receiver, phone cord dangling. She could barely see out of a black eye, and screamed in a voice I had never heard nor have heard since, “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU FUCKER, GET OUT NOW!”

By then I had retreated to my room to lie facedown on my bed, pretending to cry but in actuality waiting, armed with a kitchen knife under my pillow to help my mom if and when she needed me. I didn’t want to but was ready to do anything needed to defend my family.

As he ran started to run from the house, Aaron popped his head into my room and laid his hands on my feet, which were next to the door. He squeezed them firmly and said, “I love you.”

I turned around, wiped away a fake tear, and looked him dead in his eyes. “I love you, too,” I said, with hate in my heart and a knife in my hand.

Those four words are the only regret of my entire life.

There is no decision I could ever make that would match the strength it took me to speak that lie. I don’t regret the action; I regret what the action required of my soul.

One day, hopefully in a court of law full of witnesses, I will tell Aaron that from the moment he walked into my home, I recognized him for the monster he is. I will tell him that every time I spoke the words “I love you,” what I was saying was “I hate you for stealing my childhood.” And I will tell him that, despite everything, he never, ever, broke my spirit so badly I couldn’t fix it again.

And when that day comes, I will finally begin my official life without regrets.