From Generation to Generation

It was a shock, as you can imagine, to realize that I had been sexually molested by my brother. It was a shock and a relief as well. In my therapy, I had focused a lot on my strained relationship with my mother. There was something about it which was haunting me. The relief came in the knowledge that I had not screwed up my whole life based solely on the fact that – mummy did not love me -. Although irrefutable a fact, it still felt too pathetic, too weak a reason. I refused to consider it as the only explanation, there had to be more. Something had always felt out of reach, and now I knew what that was.

The enormity of it did not immediately dawn on me. When it did though; it felt like a ton of bricks. Only recently have I gotten out of the preliminary period of shock and disbelief, to feel rage and a need for certain level of retaliation. Hopefully, in some distant future, this could perhaps transform itself into some sort of life experience and maybe fade away somewhere in the background. In any event, I have to learn to live with this knowledge and not let it define me as a person.

During the last year, I have spent a great deal of my time wondering about the ways this affected my life and the choices I made. It was a very tiring period in that I had to question every reaction, thoughts, likes and dislikes I ever experienced. Some say that not every aspects of my life could have been affected by this, that I had a choice, but the truth is there is hardly any aspect of my life which has not been impinged on in some ways. I was only four years old at the time. I was barely starting to discover the world. These tragic moments defined my views of love, safety, security, respect, trust, intimacy and ultimately the place I was allowed to occupy in the world.

Unfortunately, there were even more fundamental questions to be asked if not answered. My brother was only three years older than me. How does a seven years old boy know about these things unless they were performed on him first? And then, who would be his abuser? Where did it all start? Then again, he could – simply – have been some sort of a psychopath but at seven? And my mother, why didn’t she do anything to prevent it? She knew what was going on all along. She abandoned both her children to their fate. Why? Was she reminded of her own painful times? Did she not care? Was she helpless or more concerned with the judgment of others on her maternal skills? I understand these were other times; it was not an easy subject to raise but still. What about my dad? Did he not know? Did he not care? Was he the original instigator?

This new knowledge has also forced me to rethink my rapports with all of them and most particularly to my mother. None of them would ever admit to any wrong doing. If the subject was ever brought up, I would be accused of craving attention, of dirtying my brother’s golden aura; of being responsible for it all, and perhaps even be accused of being the instigator myself. Therefore, whatever validation I may be looking for, it will have to come form other sources.

I am interested in finding out the origin of things. But ultimately, my claim remains with my brother and my mother. They are the ones who hurt me. They are responsible, whatever their stories is. They had a responsibility towards me. They failed. They chose the easiest path at the time. A path which has become increasingly costly to them both. My brother could never again pretend to an affiliation with me; he has been banished from existence. My mother is now an aging and lonely woman, abandoned by her dear son and slowly deserted by her only daughter.

When I was a teenager, my mother once came to me and asked why I was so aggressive, why I hated my brother so much. She wanted to know if perhaps he had abused me sexually. Until recently, I could not remember a thing so this line of questioning was surprising. How could she ask me such a thing? In retrospect, she was probably trying to figure out if I remembered. She must have been so relieved when she realized that I didn’t. These are the kind of glimpses that have resurfaced throughout the year. If anything, it helps me realize that I am not crazy, that all the signs were already in place, waiting for me to be strong enough to handle them.