My Haunting Memory

“I remember being four years old. It was bedtime and he couldn’t find pajama bottoms. He found a shirt though, Batman. But no pants. Not even underwear.”

26-year-old Kelsey laid on the lounger in Dr. Fox’s office, staring straight above at the plain white ceiling. The memories played quickly through her mind like a movie, as if it happened yesterday. Truth is, she relived that day every night when she laid her head on her pillow and turned down the lights.

“My mom went to bingo. He was babysitting. He didn’t babysit me very often, but when he did, he always invited his friends over. Most of the time, it was a girl who joined him. But that night. It was different. Nobody came over. Just him and me,” Kelsey blinked tears from her eyes. “And my Batman shirt.”

“I remember pretending to be asleep when he came in. His lovers used to check on me, I thought he was doing the same. When he took the blankets off, I froze. I just laid there, still as can be. I thought he would leave. I thought he came in to grab something and would leave soon. But then he touched me,” her voice cracked behind her words. “First, his finger grazed, testing to see if I’d wake up. Then his tongue scratched gently, still testing.”

“He never...” Her voice trailed off, unable to comprehend the words she was trying to form. “He never used his penis. It was all fingers and tongue. But that was enough.” Her green eyes were piercing the ceiling with heated hatred. “I don’t know how long it went on for. I just laid there, crying, while he fingered me, the little 4-year-old blonde girl, half-naked in her favourite Batman shirt.”

Her voice cracked while she described herself to Dr. Fox, “I don’t remember it ending. Every time I close my eyes, it keeps going.”

“I don’t remember my mom coming home. I don’t remember telling her, although she promises I did. I don’t remember her calling my grandma and telling her. I don’t remember her crying. Or holding me. I don’t remember anything from the days, weeks, maybe months following. I don’t remember much about that year. I just remember being molested by my cousin. I remember feeling dirty. And I felt dirty for years.”

Kelsey quickly glanced at the therapist, noticing the woman was wiping her own tears from her cheeks. Pretending not to notice, Kelsey continued, “I remember my grandma not allowing me to be alone with anyone but a woman for years after. I remember the dirty glances I got from other family members; I thought they knew what happened and thought it was my fault. It never crossed my mind that most of my family thought I was lying.”This is the story about me. And how my cousin raped me when I was four years old. I've told this story to many therapists over the years, and all have the reaction; "You're doing fine. You're okay now. He can't hurt you anymore."

Except he can. And he does. I live in a small town, he lives here too. I work in a store that almost everyone in my town shops at; the only one who doesn't is perhaps the owner of biggest car dealership in a 40-kilometer radius. He shops where I work. He haunts my every move. I can't go to work without the fear of seeing him. Because of my own cousin, I developed Borderline Personality Disorder {BPD}. I spent my early childhood thinking there was something wrong with me, only to have my mother marry a man who cared so much about me, that he paid for hours and hours worth of therapy to help me grow. I was 15 years old when I was diagnosed, and it wasn't until I was 20 that they would treat me; you can't treat BPD of someone who is still developing. Because of the delayed treatment, I spent the better part of my teen years explaining to people that I see problems in black and white. Sometimes grey. I've lost a lot people in my life, but those who have stayed, have been wonderful and understanding.