Memories, and not the pretty kind

I’ve hated basements since I was a teenager. As a little girl, our house had an amazing huge basement, nearly a quarter of which was for my sole use. I had shelves upon shelves of board games, puzzles, and other sources of entertainment. During the winter I had the picnic bench and the lawn furniture to sit on. In the summer I just had the carpet but I rarely spent time indoors in the summer.

Something happened to me in that basement, I guess I blocked it out for years. All I knew for sure was as I told people “I don’t do basements”. This severely impacted my career choice as a real estate agent until we came to Texas where they don’t generally have basements.

Recently I was reflecting on boyfriends I had – my daughter came home from school with a questionnaire about first crushes and such.

My first real crush was on a boy named Scott G. He was a few years older than me and lived in the next town. I met him on the CB radio my parents bought me. He had a bit of a bad boy image, leather coat and all, and I was quite taken. I was also 13, and he was old enough to drive.

Of course I never told my parents about him, he was my secret crush. We talked on the CB and on rare occasions met discreetly blocks from my house.

One night I was home alone, my parents had a dinner. My dad liked to drink so it would be a late night.

Scott and I hung out in my basement. One because I’d naturally be down there listening to my records and two if my parents showed up early there was a door to the outside so he could make his getaway.

I did not really understand what happened to me that night, I had never been given any info on this from my mother. Somehow I knew it wasn’t what I wanted but he wanted it, his intensity was frightening to me. I guess I cried at first, I remember him asking me if I wanted to stay a baby.

So despite saying no, and despite not wanting it, we had sex. This is something I’ve only remembered in the past few weeks. Of course my 48 year old self can look back and clearly see I was raped.

I have been raped since then, by my first husband. Except in 1981 it was his right to do, not rape, legally.

I’ve always heard of those people with “supressed memories” and thought what bogus crap, how would you not remember something like that? Now, I know.

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Posted on May 24, 2011, in Rants and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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