We Were Eight

I’m going to start off by apologizing if I seem flippant or light-hearted about my story. By no means do I underestimate how serious of an issue sexual abuse is. My therapist once told me that my sarcasm or joking nature is a coping mechanism when it comes to serious issues that I don't know how to fully express. aShe said a lot of things so it's hard to keep them all straight anymore. But she also said changing subjects frequently and sporadically was another avoidance technique of mine; again, I apologize for that too if I get off topic, which I'm already doing. It's hard to keep all my thoughts cohesive and fluid when I'm scribbling them down as they pass through like clouds in the sky.

I like to think that most people have a close friend that they share their fondest memories with— whether they were college roommates, or went to high school or grammar school together—someone who has been there through the "thick and thin" so to speak. For me, that was A, or so I’m going to call her. Our friendship is going on 24 years this year and when I say we've been through it all, I mean ALL. From bouncing on the trampolines to every messy breakup, our first moves, going to different high schools, cross-country moves, raising kids, and so much more, we've shared every smile and tear together. From her famous "you're too pretty for him speeches" or, my personal favorite, her "who's ass am I kicking" smirk, I had a particular niche for picking winners if you know what I mean. She's always been there to talk me down when I needed it or pick me up when I can't seem to find my purpose.

Our friendship has roots deeper than most trees could boast. But those roots are ensnared with some pretty deep affairs that no child should ever have to go through. Ever. I was pretty young when the abuse started, so I can't really pinpoint exactly when it started, but it goes back as far as I can remember. At first, I thought it was normal, something everyone went through. It didn't help that it was a family member, my grandpa to be exact. That's right, the patriarch of the family. Someone who is supposed to protect you. Someone you should be able to trust. How wrong I was. I don't think he targeted A right away until he gained her trust. We had been friends for a couple of years or so and he became like a grandfather to her as well. A and I told each other everything, we did everything together, we were inseparable. We were eight. Eight-year-olds should be outside playing with bugs in the dirt and fresh air. They should be worrying about cooties and scraped knees, not penises or being touched or anything else of that nature. We were being groomed by a fully grown man. He would do "stuff" to us or make us do “stuff” to him or to each other even. I say “stuff” because I still can't bring myself to say the words aloud or write them down, as if it makes it any less real if I don't say it.

We were eight. How were we supposed to know it was wrong? We trusted him and loved him and he stole our innocence. We were eight....