Nothing

I don't remember the first time he touched me.  I know the first memory I have of it, it seemed like nothing.  

Normal.

It was a Sunday and I woke up sick.  Barfing ... sick.

My mom settled me in on the couch in the basement, My Little Ponies playing on the TV.  She left with my brother to go to church.

And left me with him.

I watched the cartoon colors dance across the screen.  The sacrine, sweet storyline didn't mean much to me.  My stomach hurt and the occassional sips of of flat coca-cola took all the energy I had. 

"Let's just pause this and let Daddy watch his show.  It will only take a minute."

I rolled to face the back of the couch and disappeared to my quiet place where I could pretend not to experience anything, dulled every sense.  The moans and throbbing music were there.  The light flickered across the wall and the thick weave of the couch pressed against my cheek.  It was all stiil there, but not all of me was.  I don't think I was even five and I had started to master disappearing to keep myself safe.

It was over and the music changed and the colors glided across the screen as happy, small voices interacted.  I rolled back over and none of it had ever happened.

When people ask, "why didn't you ever say anything?"  What am I supposed to say?  It was life, it was survival.  How was I to know what was normal until "normal" became something I knew I could never be?  I endured to keep my family safe.  I kept the secret under threat, threats I KNEW were more of a promise ...

No one would ever believe you ...

Your mom would send you away like she did your brothers, but your dad doesn't want you.  No one will.

If you don't do this, I will have to go to your sister ... or leave your mom.  None of you will have anything and it will all be your fault.

This can be our little secret.  No one ever needs to know.

... and that is the root of poison that grew between my mother and myself.  She never acknowledged the small child trying desperately to keep her family together.  She was faced with the truth when I was 16, a young woman who had been holding everything together.  Instead of being her child, I was her protector, every year that past pushed me more into that role.  She had never kept me safe.  Through all her own pain and trails, she had failed that most basic part of being my mother.

It must have been a devestating thing to face after being through everything she had endured.  She still had not kept me safe.  But she had to have known ....

Things I don't remember, like "playing horsie" on his back when they were in bed together.

Things I do remember like her walking in once ...

                      ... and walking right back out.  Only to come back screaming after he had left.  

What was going on?  Had he touched me?  So close I could feel her rage and felt it all on me.  So my answer was, "No.  Nothing."  

Like nothing had happened at all.