Tuesday, May 10, 2016


I know the question will come up - especially since I started my new YouTube channel, AFateSoTwisted Talks. I have, for the most part always been an open person, but a proper one. I knew what I shouldn't talk about in certain circles and I knew what was acceptable and what was not acceptable. Having said that, I will admit propriety didn't always stop me from opening my mouth. It also didn't stop people from whispering behind my back, calling me a liar or even calling me crazy. I'll admit to crazy all day long, but I take strong issue with being called a liar. 

My adoptive mother only once, that I am aware of, denied that her father (my actual paternal grandfather) molested me when I was eleven. What she actually did do was minimize the entire thing by telling anyone and everyone who knew of it..."All he did was touch her" or "He just put his hands where they didn't belong..."  

Let me tell it right here and right now. I want to detail how my grandfather "just touched me" and "only put his hands where they didn't belong". Over the years I only shared the finer details with Julian. I probably could not bring myself to speak this out loud in a YouTube video, but I have recently gone into some detail with a couple of people I am close to. 

The Last Day Of My Childhood

Mama had bought me a pretty green polyester skirt that went to my knees; it had pleats all around and made a big circle when I spun around in it. The skirt came with a white top that had short, puffy sleeves and an elastic neckline. The middle had green that matched the skirt and was embroidered with colorful, abstract designs. It looked like something from Scotland, maybe. I wore it every chance I got and I think I even have a school picture of me wearing the outfit.

That morning, I got up and put on my new skirt and top, long white socks and brown loafers. I don't know why, but I felt so pretty in that outfit. I skipped into the kitchen and helped my grandpa load some boxes onto the back of his pickup. I hopped in the cab and Grandpa drove down the dirt road, headed for the underground house. Grandma stayed behind to load more boxes in the old house. As he drove, grandpa put his hand on my knee. I never really thought much of this, but I do remember he pushed my skirt off of my knee so that his hand touched my bare skin as he squeeze my knee. 

We unloaded the truck and grandpa asked me to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I went into the new kitchen in the underground house and began preparing the sandwich. As I did this, grandpa came and stood next to me. He squeezed my buttocks and I felt a chill run through me. I knew something was happening that shouldn't be happening, but I froze. He rubbed his body against mine. I felt like I wanted to throw up. 

He changed his position so that his back was towards my front and he began touching/rubbing me between my legs. He touched my breasts and then moved his hand and began pulling up my skirt. I was holding the knife with peanut butter on it - I was utterly and completely frozen. I was terrified to move. This was grandpa. He had never even spanked me or yelled at me before. He pulled my skirt all the way up with his hand and began touching me between my legs. 

"Grandpa, please stop." I whispered. 

He continued for another few minutes and then he just walked away, towards the front door. He yelled for me to come on - said something about keeping grandma waiting. My heart sank. I wondered what I had done to make him do this to me. Had he done it to anyone else? Was it because I was garbage? Was it okay? Was he just being playful? Did I misread his touch? I wanted to die. Standing right there in that kitchen, I wanted to die. 

That night, I burned the skirt and top in a fire grandpa had started outside the old house. I was supposed to stay for a full week, I think. It might have been around Thanksgiving or a school holiday. I still can't remember. I called my adoptive mother that night and begged her to come get me, but she refused. She said it was too late and that she would come for me the next day. I barely slept that night and once even rolled over to find my grandpa standing in the bedroom doorway, watching me sleep. "I'm gonna tell grandma." I said to him and he turned and left. 

I adored my grandmother, but I doubt - knowing what I know now - that she would have rescued me. 

So, you see, all he did was touch me, right? 

This is me around age 11. 

1 comment:

  1. This story brings me to tears as I also went through your childhood nightmare. I had an uncle who did the exact same thing to me. It wasn't until he died that I told my mother what he had done. (That's the skeleton in my closet) Tammy