Hey, it’s me once more; this is going to happen gradually, but it will happen eventually.
That proverb that goes, “I’ll take your secret to the grave,” is something we have all likely heard at some point in our lives. I have spoken more often than I’d like to admit. I have learnt to maintain a great deal of confidentiality, but secrets??? They will demolish you. Secrets lead to a profound darkness. You will experience anxiety, burden, oppression, suffocation, and distortion of reality. Additionally, your relationships may become warped as a result of these. Mine did! It was the words “It’s our secret” that subjected me to all of that.
As you know, I live in Africa, which is a life-changing experience in itself. To put it simply, I am your typical lady.
I love to read, write, and fish in the world’s most beautiful lakes and rivers. There have been times when I have made love beneath the scorching sun, the twinkling stars, and in the storming rains. I have also witnessed some of the most breathtaking sunrises and sunsets.
The experience of seeing the flowers bloom in the springtime is one of the most soul-satisfying activities. When the first rains fall on a dry land, the smell is intoxicating. The salty, sometimes tangy odour of the breeze blowing off the ocean is amazing. Alternatively, simply spending the rest of the day in bed because you have the ability to do so can be a fulfilling experience.
I love my life….a lot !!!! I strive to view every event in my life, as well as those of others, with a positive perspective. That’s how I roll!!! I am grateful that I can get out of bed in the morning and have a bed to sleep in at night, no matter what happens.
I came from a very dark place, but, praise God, I am no longer there. I have moved on from them. Helping other people achieve the same goal is my deepest desire. My greatest wish is to help others do the same. Help them find peace with themselves through writing about my life as a female child growing up in Rhodesia/Zimbabwe. I may not be unique, but I am a survivor, thanks to God’s grace.
William Shakespeare said, “The meaning of your life is to find your gift, the purpose of life is to give it away.”
Here we are!!! At the very least, I pray that the creation of this blog may prevent at least one individual from feeling that any form of abuse is their fault!!!!!
I am having a difficult time writing this blog. It means exposing wounds. I have been covering up wounds for more than fifty years, and I know it will rip open scars. Allow me to revisit many things I have pushed to the back of my mind. But now is the time to face these demons head-on and permanently set them aside. Putting an end to these monsters once and for all requires that we confront them at this point.
“Where do I start?” I asked a friend.
“Just start at the beginning,” he said. So here we are….
In my retelling of my experiences, I have introduced some changes to the names. Not to protect the sick men and women—yes, your abusers are not only men who did this to me—but to protect their families, who probably don’t know about their fathers, mothers, aunts, uncles, husbands, spouses, grandmothers, grandfathers, brothers, or sisters who were once abusive.
Their oblivious offspring and spouses remain unaware of their family tree and their connection to these monsters. They are the innocent and completely blameless. I am not going to cause them needless suffering when I barely let what occurred to me influence my life. Causing the families unnecessary grief is not my goal. I wish that they discovered God and evolved into wonderful individuals. I have forgiven them, and let me tell you, it was not an overnight process and required significant effort. I didn’t forgive them for setting them free; I did it to set me free! I didn’t want to forgive them or anyone else, but in Matthew 6:14, God shows me why I should forgive them, and you know what? He was right!
To the best of my memory, my early childhood was marked by alcohol, drugs, sexual assault, and physical conflict between my parents. The more you delve into my life, the more probable it is that you will question its veracity. It is impossible for one person to live through that!” You will be astonished, nevertheless, at what the human body and mind can endure.
To me, my life was quite typical of any young girl. A brother and two sisters were my siblings from the marriage between my mother and father. Of the four children, I was the oldest of the bunch. I had seven siblings, one of whom was a sister who was exactly four months older than me. The woman who was my father’s ex-wife and whom we cherished and who saved us a few times when we were children had also named my sister Deborah. It is impossible for me to adequately express how much I loved them and how much my young heart broke for them.
Have I ever loved my father? I am unable to provide a response to that question! Seeing what he did to my mother, his ex-wife and my brothers and sisters, I can’t call what I felt love. I liked him, and at times I detested him, but what about love? That is not a word I would use. I don’t use that word lightly. With the exception of two little windows, I have constructed a wall that is so tall no one can touch me. Except for God, my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, I do not believe that I am capable of loving anyone else at this time.
Scientists have shown that the majority of adults are able to recall events that occurred between the ages of three and four years old, with some even retaining memories from as early as two and a half years old. When I was younger, I remember several things that happened to me, such as raincoats without arms, legs, or heads, walking along our passageway, and someone peering at my brother and me from our bedroom window. If we hadn’t been on the fourth floor of an apartment building or had a balcony, this situation wouldn’t have been so odd. I questioned my parents about these recollections multiple times in different towns while I was in my teens, which provided me with further evidence that my memories were true.
On the other hand, the phrase “Come and sit on my lap” is one memory that immediately comes to mind like a neon sign that flashes. That remark continues to reverberate in my head, and I can recall it from when I was four or five years old. Those six words were the impetus for everything that has transpired since then.
On this particular evening my parents had attended a social event which was held at the Railway Club. As I mentioned previously, Wankie was a little mining town in the area where we lived. During the 1960s, it was a safe and secure little town to live in. It was okay for you to leave your daughter, who was five years old at the time, to watch over her brother, who was three years old, and her baby sister, who is one year old.
That was me; it’s true. I was the babysitter! What could potentially go wrong? It is not as if a child of five years old would know what to do in the event that one of her siblings were to cut themselves, fall and hit their skull or choke to death, is it? In the event that someone broke in, it was presumed that she was skilled in judo or kung fu and could defend herself against the would-be robbers!!!!!
Over the course of this particular evening, “Uncle Joe” (not his real name), who resided in the single quarters across the street, came to check on us and make sure we were all OK. He knew that my mother and father had left the house, leaving us on our own.
He rapped on the door that was made of gauze and that I had locked. As I slowly made my way out from under the bed, I checked to see who was standing at the door. When I was little, I would wrap my brother and sister in a blanket and then hide them under the bed to keep us safe until my parents came home. In any event, my line of reasoning!
Uncle Joe said, “I’ve just come to see if you’re okay,” as he drank his beer from the bottle. I hugged his waist. Having known him for as long as I could remember, I had faith in him, and I trusted him… He sat in one of the armchairs that was in the lounge.
“We are fine, Uncle Joe,” I answered him. With a pat on the top of his leg, he invited me to sit on his lap. I had no reason to doubt him or refuse to sit on his lap. Uncle Joe was someone I liked. He was always kind to us and bought us sweets on a regular basis. This was a man who lived as close to our home as possible. He hid us when my parents were arguing with each other, knowing it would end up with my father shouting obscenities at my mother, my mother screaming and blood! There was always blood on these occasions. Either my mothers, someone who tried to defend my mother or both! To the best of my knowledge, my father and my mother both trusted him, and as a result, I trusted him as well!
I stood up from the chair opposite him and sat down on his lap. While he was whispering into my hair, he said, “You are my princess.” I briefly felt a sense of security. He began rubbing my leg with his hand; I suddenly became aware that his hand had moved to a location that he ought not to have gone to in the first place. Suddenly the trust I felt started to creep out the door; the higher his hand went.
I was unable to breathe; fear had taken hold of my lungs and was squeezing them. I didn’t quite understand what was taking place, but I was aware that something was not quite right. When I attempted to climb off his lap, his arm became more tightly wrapped around me.
“Stay there, my princess,” he muttered. I’ll let you know when it’s time to move.
To really describe how I felt at that very moment, the phrase “terrified” is far too mild. The four words that come to mind when I think of how I felt at that precise moment are ‘bewildered, confused, humiliated, and unclean. The trust I had in a man I liked and knew as a guardian vanished in a split second.
I was alone and didn’t feel safe anymore. His breathing became shallower, and he closed his eyes. After his legs had straightened out in front of him a bit, he became still.
The urge to run and hide in a place where no one would ever discover me was overwhelming, but I was still frozen, too scared to move. Whispering, “This is our secret,” he removed his hand and hugged me. The bogeyman will visit and kill your brother and sister if you tell anyone our secret. He will chop out their tongues, then he will cut out yours. I nodded. I felt as though I wanted to throw up and was numb.
What did he want me to say? Was I supposed to say anything?
“I will keep you safe, princess but you have to keep our secret.” I simply fixed my gaze ahead. He pushed for an answer, “Okay?” I nodded silently, “Okay.” I managed to whisper.
I felt like a rabbit peering into headlights. Suddenly, the headlights switched off, allowing me to move. Leaping off his lap, I hurried back to the solace of my room—to the protection of two small bodies. I started to cry. Thinking about what would happen to my brother and tiny sister frightened me. Keeping them safe fell on me; that was my job, and keeping “our secret” was the only way I could do it.
That night, the firmly ingrained roots of dread, shame, guilt, self-blame, humiliation, helplessness and anxiety were planted. Every time I experienced intrusive or repetitive thoughts or had dreams or flashbacks, those creepers grew bigger, thicker, and denser. I thought I had done something to deserve the sexual abuse or was responsible for it somehow and spent years trying to figure out what it was. When I looked back, I could not have been more mistaken! Nonetheless, it was our secret.
