I know this has been a long time in coming. Actually, it hasn't been for me because I never planned on adding the letter. I was looking back through this story and decided it wasn't really finished after all. This may be hard to read at places but I wanted it to be honest and emotional for Eric and for whoever reads it. I do take some liberties in not detailing every aspect of Eric's family life; it's his letter and he knows what he means and is writing it to his parents, who would also be familiar with names, places, points of time, and events.
It's not perfect and it isn't meant to be, so please keep that in mind.
"Okay. That's a start I guess," Eric thought as he looked at the first part of what was sure to be a long letter. As he sat in silence, he realized that this letter would never be sent, never see the light of day, only the light of a match the moment he finished. It could have spelling errors, grammatical errors, be barely legible, or ramble on in a stream of consciousness that only he would understand and it wouldn't matter. Remembering Nell's words, he concluded with a smile that this letter was for him, and no one else. And with that in mind, he began.
I know this letter is long overdue and I hope what I have to say surprises you. I don't want to imagine that you knew I was molested for two years by a man Dad called a friend. I don't want to think you said nothing. Did nothing. On the other hand, a part of me hopes you knew, after the fact, and just hoped I would be able to forget it. The idea of parents being so oblivious makes me shudder to think of what else you may have missed in the older brothers' lives. What they might have gone through alone.
Here Eric was stuck. He didn't want to write his abuser's name. This letter was about Eric, not him. It would never be sent anyway. Eric decided that using "XX" would suffice. Maybe even be easier.
When I was eight, you remember Dad's friend XX was living on the other side of town from us. He and Dad went way back, he said. Were bonded like brothers is what he told me. He saw our family from an outsider's point of view and saw what everybody but you two could see: I was treated differently from my brothers. Maybe it was because I was the youngest. Maybe it was because I did things like school projects and computer stuff on my own. I didn't ask for help because I didn't need it and maybe I pushed you away without knowing it. Maybe you just assumed I could take care of myself. Maybe you were distracted by the older boys being the hellions I never had the nerve to be.
XX saw this and over time, before I even noticed it, he paid more attention to me than other people. He wanted to be around me and I liked the attention. This was before any of the abuse started. He was working his way into my life, making me like and trust him. He gave me secrets to keep to see how well I would keep what he called "our special secret" locked down. I didn't know he was doing any of this, or why he was doing it until I saw a counselor in college.
So I trusted him because I was eight years old and he was Dad's friend. That was what I had always wanted to be: Dad's friend. XX later used this. He was a master manipulator. He even got the two of you to leave him with me when it didn't make sense for him to be around.
XX made me feel like I was the center of attention, which was a strange feeling for me and I admit I liked it. Being the youngest is hard and I never had the social confidence, sports interests, or relationship with you guys that I craved. Still crave when I realize that twenty years has done nothing to pull me into the fold of the family.
So when XX started to touch me, I wanted to believe him when he told me it was normal. Why would he lie to me if he loved me so much? It felt wrong but he told me it was right. I trusted him. I shouldn't have but I was a kid. I was a kid. I was a kid. See? I still have to remind myself.
It was gradual. Brief touches and grabs when we were alone. He did them so naturally it still amazes me. But he didn't stay at that level. He would do longer touches, then rubs. I still remember the day he had me grab him. The day he had me use my mouth. The day he used his. He swore it was normal. All grown-ups do it, he said. I would ask him why it was our special secret and he would laugh and say nobody ever talked about it.
He never said nobody talked about it because it was wrong for him to be doing it. That it wasn't right. That it wasn't a 'rite of passage' or 'part of becoming a man'.
He did more to me and made me do more to him. Made me. Made me. Made me. I was just a kid. Dammit this is hard. He got to me often. Called me his favorite. He played on my child's mind and saw what I wanted to have with you two and with my brothers and took advantage of the fact I didn't belong.
Eventually, when I was nine or so I started doing so bad in school I almost failed. I couldn't stay awake in class and refused to do my homework. I wanted so badly for somebody to ask me what was wrong. I thought that if an adult asked me and I told it would be okay. When grown-ups ask, you answer. I wouldn't be spilling my guts about the special secret if I was asked about it, right? The thing was, nobody asked me why I slept under my bed, why I stopped smiling when I saw XX. Why I would suddenly be vomiting on an evening when XX was scheduled to babysit me, thus making one of you stay home with me instead.
I though nobody asked because nobody noticed. Ours was a busy home. XX figured it out and told me nobody asked because they either already knew or didn't give a damn. And so it went on and I went on being ashamed, embarrassed, depressed, and anxious. Things I still am from time to time. I have bad dreams. That doesn't even come close…I have *nightmares*. I wake up shaking. I have woken up screaming. Crying.
At times I feel people in my adult life know what happened to me and I use it to explain how they treat or react to me. I didn't get asked out for drinks with the team? They must know how I used to have to let XX grind on me. No, he made me I didn't let him. I didn't let him. I didn't. Coworker refers to me as weird? Must have figured out that I slept under my bed and up against the wall because an adult man would find it hard to reach me there. I do this the most with you guys. By far. Then I have to breathe. I have to run my numbers through my head. Put my 'calm down' playlist on. Remind myself of all that I know now, that I know better. God knows I spent enough hours in the counseling center to tell me that.
And so it went on until I was ten and XX moved away. He died soon after and you two were so sad. I only went to the funeral to make sure the bastard was actually dead. I remember hoping he died before he could get to another boy. I know he had others before me. He would tell me about them. Use it as proof that it was okay, what he was doing to me. After all, it the others hadn't told anyone why should I feel the need to?
Even though I wanted to tell, I couldn't. What would I say? How could I even begin to say such awful things about Dad's best friend, a man you all liked? What would you do to me? What would he do to me? He told me so many lies and made so many threats and excuses that I was lost within myself. I was for a long time.
I think every abused kid has something they have never told to their therapists. Maybe it's a safeguard against being ashamed in front of a person you have grown to trust so deeply and rely on so greatly. Mine happened when I was ten, a couple months before XX moved away for his new job. He had been rough with me. He hurt me more than he ever had before. So I imagined Spiderman at my side and told XX I was going to tell Dad what he was doing. He just looked at me and I stood there crying, jeans at my feet. I heard the grin in his voice as he said, "Wanna bet? See, I don't think you will say anything. You know you like it. If you didn't you would have told already. That's what they'll say: that you liked it"
I didn't know that he had arranged to take me fishing that weekend. Just the two of us. In his truck on the way to the river, he told me we were meeting a special friend of his. We pulled off the road behind another car and he had me get out. His 'friend' looked at me, smiled, and handed XX an envelope. It was money. Before I had a chance to move, XX picked me up and tossed me in the backseat as the other man held to door open.
I don't know what happened to me. The last thing I remember happening was the man giving me something to drink in the car. He made sure I drank all of it. I woke up two days later in a tent with the other man. I was sore all over and had nothing on. Next thing I knew I was back at the same spot where XX had left me. The other man deposited me in XX's truck, but not before thanking XX. Thanked him for sharing.
So XX was right. I never told either of you. Never told a teacher. Never told a friend. Never told anyone. How could I? After that? I came home and a few days later drank an entire bottle of kid's grape cough syrup. I knew a single dose made me sleepy so I thought a whole bottle would make me sleep forever. I don't think I looked at it as trying to kill myself; I just wanted to sleep so I wouldn't think about what XX had done to me. I threw it all up. All over the bathroom. Mom was really mad and I remember telling her I had a cold and didn't feel like reading the label. What the hell else was I supposed to say?
After XX moved away and I was sure he was dead, I did better. I was still on the outskirts of our family's life and I think I still am. I just have never got the hang of being around all of you. I don't know what it is. But I get that way. A lot of times I think I'm better alone. Less twitchy. Not as nervous about the façade.
I did go to counseling in college. We had a lecture in sociology about abuse. I never thought of it as abuse before: he never hit me, after all. But he *did* abuse me, sexually and mentally. I still wonder which one was worse, which one screwed me up the most. I was a kid it wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. He made me I didn't let him. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault.
It took me weeks to go to the counseling center, weeks more to stop looking around at who might see me and actually walk in the building. I was assigned to Dr. Stein and he saved my life. Literally saved my life. I couldn't even tell him about XX at first. He waited for me, though. Let me get it all unpacked at my own speed, explained what really happened to me. Told me over and over again how abusers work, how they prey on people. He let me freak out, let me cry, let me be angry, let me be confused. But he never let me feel ashamed, never let me feel embarrassed; never let me forget I was worth his time.
It was not without snags, though. Healing never is. I had rough patches. He is why I never came home for summers in college: I needed him and needed to not be around you guys. It took a long time to stop thinking I had a scarlet letter on me in your house. I had been in therapy for about eight months when I hit a wall. I was exhausted mentally. Between classes, going to therapy nearly every day, and trying to keep being in therapy from my new friends- people who I was actually relaxed around- I was overwhelmed. We didn't seem to be making any headway in therapy. It was like I just could not talk anymore. I decided I would just forget it all so I stopped seeing Dr. Stein. Declared myself better. Turns out, when you start talking though something it is really hard to stop (notice how long this letter is and I'm not even keeping it). I tried so hard, though, and when I failed to keep it together, failed to make myself forget, I made a bad decision.
I swallowed a bottle of the sleeping pills Dr. Stein had prescribed me. They were mild ones, enough to get me to calm down so I could sleep but not so strong I wouldn't be able to wake up if I had a nightmare. But even mild pills are potent if you take enough. My roommate found me and called 911. The hospital, Dr. Stein, and the university were not allowed to tell you what happened as I was over 18. I was released from the hospital on the condition I resume therapy, have regular drug tests, and not receive any prescription drugs.
Given the circumstances, I had to come clean with my roommate about what was happening. Turns out he knew. Saw me going to the counseling center a few times and assumed I would talk to him if I needed. When I told him why I had been going to therapy, I was so nervous I almost passed out. He just listened and thanked me for telling him. He was so cool about it, we are still friends and I can still talk to him if I need to.
Not everybody has been so understanding. People who I thought were friends disappeared, girlfriends have walked away. So I don't like telling people. Obviously. Maybe I will tell you one day. Like for real, not like this.
I don't blame you for what happened to me. I don't blame myself anymore either (most days, at least; I still have bad days). I do blame you a little for not making me feel as though I am a part of the family in the same way everyone else is. Maybe it's me? I don't know how to fix that. I don't know if it can be fixed. I do know that I'm not the son you hoped I would be- I'm not like the older boys and I know that it disappoints you, especially Dad. I don't think we have ever understood each other.
Sometimes I think he knows about XX and adjusted his feelings toward me. Like maybe Dad avoids talking to me because he is ashamed of me or doesn't want to talk to me since I let it happen. Dammit! I was a kid I did not have control over what was happening to me. He made me. He made me. He made me. Maybe he knows and is ashamed of himself? Either way, there is not much talking. There are times that I avoid you all, though. It's not always good for me to be around you, especially when I'm wondering about all of this and who knows what, etc. I don't know if I ever want to find out.
I guess when I can figure that out for myself I will have a letter I can actually send to you. Until then, just know that I'm okay. I have a great life- a life I have worked so, so hard to get and to keep. I have people who know the full me and love me. Maybe one day you will too.
Eric
