NOVEMBER 23, 1997

November is always a difficult month for me, for however much I try or wish to make it different. The cause stems from the abuse I suffered as a child, which began when I was three years old and lasted into my teens. While those years contained innumerable painful and marring experiences, there is one incident amidst those years that has always stood out and caused more heartache than others.

The incident happened on my 12th birthday, that being November 24th. The relative who abused me had moved to a city two hours from where my family lived, which was a relief since I didn't have to see him as often and life could be a little little less painful. It was that distance, though, that prompted this relative to ask my parents if I could make a trip to see him for my birthday. It was supposed to be a special treat for me.

I told my parents I didn't want to go but, despite how much I protested, they wouldn't listen. I was told I was being ungrateful, that I should be excited about this special birthday trip, and no matter what I did or said, it couldn't save me from the trip. What a sinking feeling, watching my parents drive away, being left alone with this person in a city where I knew no one.

If I had any idea of how to make the best of the situation, I would have, but there is no way to make the best of impending abuse. The most you can do, and it's what I did then, is make yourself as numb and full of void as possible. As this person did all he could to make the occasion 'special', I closed myself off to emotion, to myself, and to life. And I must have done a good job because I've never fully recovered from that night and the numbness.

The night consisted of a trip to an amusement park and dinner at one of the best restaurants in town, all of which was horrid. All I could do was think of how slowly time slips by when you're faced with something so awful. It was like awaiting my own execution. He wanted me to be pleased by the lengths he went to for me, but all I could feel was void.

When we got back to his apartment, he gave me his room and said he'd take the couch. As I closed the door, I hoped to find a lock, but there was none. I didn't undress, just crawled into bed, and tried as best I could to disappear. When he didn't come in within the next few hours, I began to think maybe things had changed, perhaps he wasn't going to hurt me as he always had. Within that hope, I managed to fall asleep, praying morning would come and it would soon be over.

I don't know what time it was, but it was still dark when I woke and found him, as I had countless times before, doing things I knew no words for. Experience had taught me that there was no way to escape him and that fighting just made it worse, so I layed there and stared at the shadows on the wall, wishing I could disappear deep within them.

I turned my back on a lot that night. Somehow, through the years, I had managed to hold on to hope, trust, and love, but I couldn't hold on anymore. And it was probably for the best being that clinging to hope in the face of all I went through would have strangled me more than despair itself.

And now, every November it is the same, as the ghost of that night comes back to haunt me, like an anniversary of my own death. I'd like to think I'm strong enough to break free of those chains, I'd like to think being grown up means I no longer have to feel like a vulnerable, betrayed child, but the chards of that night still remain. It lives within the trust I cannot give, the love that alludes me, and hope which I despise. It is here with me as I struggle through life, trying to make sense of events that no one should ever have to.

Someday I'd like to heal from this, would like for it all to be gone, but for now, I crawl through grey mornings in search of the remnants of a soul left scattered to brutality. Perhaps one day I'll have collected enough of the pieces to put myself back together again, to make myself whole, but until then, I simply wish for November to pass.