The Fence

I see his face looking over the fence that separates our back yards, the elderly man that lives next door. Balding head, glasses, smiling. I'm not certain how old I am, maybe seven. Maybe ten. He's calling my name and motioning for me to come over. I feel curious, and a little bit excited. What does he want? Does he have something for me? A new toy or some other kind of surprise? I don't question whether or not I should go. I've seen he and my mother carry on many a conversation over this fence. He's a friend and I have no reason to hesitate.

I walk, maybe even skip, down the brick walkway next to my garage that leads to the front yards, feeling more excited as I go. I cut through the grass on the side of his house, onto the sidewalk and see him waiting for me in his driveway. He's smiling and motioning with his hand to come to him. I don't see his wife anywhere, but this isn't unusual. I never really see her outside, it's always him. I do wonder sometimes where she is and why I never see her.

He leads me into his garage and I'm looking around, trying not to make it too obvious that I'm looking for the surprise. Could it be a bike? I continue to scan but I'm not seeing anything. I'm still feeling curious but also now a little uncomfortable. We walk to the back of the garage where there is shelving on the wall. He reaches up and grabs a cloth from a box on the shelf that says "Handi-Wipes". My excitement is turning to anxiousness. He unzips his tan pants and pulls out his penis. He places the Handi-Wipe in my hand, wraps it around his penis and holds my hand tightly with his hand. He begins to pleasure himself. I feel confused and trapped. I don't try to get away, he's holding my hand with a firm grip and I'm scared. I don't understand what's happening, but all of my senses are telling me it's bad. I wonder where his wife is. I wonder if my mom is looking for me. He tips his head back, his eyes closed, I think. He makes a strange noise and has a very weird look on his face. I feel confused, and disgusted. Whatever just happened was gross. He's gross and I want to go home.

He takes the cloth from me and puts it in the garbage. He zips his pants and whispers that I need to go home. He says I can't tell anyone our secret. He says if I tell my mom it will upset her and make her mad at me. It will be my fault and I'll get into trouble. I go home, having no idea that I will never be the same little girl that walked across this grass a few minutes ago. I can no longer trust the adults in my world and I no longer feel safe. I know I won't tell. I know I have to keep this secret from my mom or she'll be upset and possibly blame me. I have to keep the secret from my dad because he will get mad and maybe hurt the old man and it will be my fault. I don't understand what just happened but I feel ashamed when I think about it.

Conversations continue to take place between he and my mom over the fence. It's apparent that she doesn't know, and I feel relieved. I'm doing a good job of protecting myself, of protecting her. Everything is going to be okay, if I just don't tell.

He continues to call for me over the fence, and I continue to go. I don't feel like I have a choice. He's an adult and kids do what adults tell them to do. He's a friend of my mom and dads and I need to respect that. I don't know how many times it happens and I don't remember how it stops. Maybe he stops calling for me. Maybe I avoid him now when I see his face over the fence. Maybe he's moved on to a new victim.

I keep that secret until many years later. I am a grown woman with two kids of my own. I'm sitting at the breakfast bar at my brother's house. There's a party going on, I'm drinking wine and I'm surrounded by a few of my siblings. My mom is there as well. Somehow it comes out - the old man next door, your friend, good old Mr. G, was a sexual predator, and he abused me.  I see my mother's face, it's turning pale. She looks confused and in shock - "Wait...WHAT?!" I say it again and my mother yells, "That dirty old bastard. If he wasn't dead, I'd kill him! I hope he's rotting in hell.", then she begins to cry. I immediately regret that I said it out loud. She is upset, and it's my fault. The betrayal she must feel. The disbelief and the ANGER. I feel happy he's dead so I don't need to fear what will come next.

I now live in the house I grew up in and that fence remains in our back yard. I've never really understood until now why, when I sit outside, I always prefer to sit in the front yard. Somehow it's always felt safer to me to be where there are cars, and sidewalks, and people.

For many years these memories were not in the forefront. I didn't think about it and if I did, I pushed it aside or downplayed it. It was a long time ago, it wasn't really abuse because he never touched me, it only happened a hand full of times. Blah, blah, blah. It's not until recently, when I started doing some therapeutic work around these events that I began to understand the power they hold. Our view of the world and our general sense of safety is formed when we're young. Traumatic events stay with us in some form until they are dealt with. I'm happy that this beast has shown itself and I'm finally taking control. I feel confident that the day will come, sooner rather than later, that Mr. G, the sick old man that lived next door, will no longer have any influence over how I live my life, and his face will no longer appear when I look at the fence in my backyard.

XO,
Carrie - #metoo