I Lost My Marbles: A Personal Story of Childhood Betrayal, Secrecy, Shame & Restoration.

By Caren S. Dillman

Why, when we live in a sexually obsessed culture, do we hide our sexual brokenness?
So many children are emotionally abandoned after abuse and left to navigate their way alone through life, struggling to find sexual wholeness. It takes a great deal of courage to confront an abuser. The shame, along with the lie that we are not good enough, lingers long after the abuse. I believe it is what fuels the secrets. If victims were able to tell their stories safely and freely, I believe they would be able to heal far more easily from childhood abuse.

What a great example of You have to live it if youre going to give it. Caren has helped all of us live it better.
Stephen Arterburn, Founder of New Life Ministries


I Lost My Marbles is an authentic, vulnerable look at a journey no one ever signs up to take. Written with courage and honesty, Caren Dillmans story reveals the abuse that many suffer at the hand of a trusted loved one. Her book is also a humorous and candid love story, and a narrative of faith that is developed in the midst of the storm. The powerful conclusion will take your breath away.
Gayle M. Samples, PhD
Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist | Executive Director at Emmaus Road Counseling


A powerful read, presented with honesty and hope. Caren Dillmans unflinching narrative of trauma strikes deep in the heart. We feel her pain, her shame, and her confusion. We cheer her victories. Most of all, we come away with a profound appreciation for the authors story and her willingness to bring it into the light.
Tammy Fletcher, Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist
www.fletchertherapy.com

Everybody's got a story to tell and everybody's got a wound to be healed. The first time I heard those lyrics sung by the artist Plump, I wanted to declare, Yes we all have a story to tell and we all have wounds to heal. A light needs to be shined on the truth and our stories need to be told! Imagine what could happen if we believed we were safe to share our stories without consequences of judgment or rejection? Our freedom and path towards healing would be liberating.

When I first heard that song I was in the middle of writing my own healing story and I was again facing another roadblock. The fear that kept hindering me were questions such as, how will others respond to my story, will it make a difference to anyone else? Can I risk being real enough so that my story will offer hope to others? When I faced those roadblocks I reminded myself what I had read from the Bible:

You must be very careful not to forget the things you have seen God do for you. Keep reminding yourselves, and tell your children and grandchildren as well. Deut 4:9 (CEV)

It would be years after struggling through my own recovery before I would take the risk to share what God had done for me. Like many people I felt isolated in my pain. I worked hard to hide the parts of myself that I believed would be rejected. I had repressed most of the sexual abuse from my childhood. I was unable to make the connection that the abuse had done damage which made it easy for me to believe that I was unworthy of love and acceptance.

Childhood sexual abuse results in long-term side effects. One of them includes the risk of re-victimization. It creates serious problems for the individual, their family and society. Adult women with a history of childhood sexual abuse are more likely to suffer from depression, eating disorders, poor self esteem, and suicidal thoughts as well as other problems. Although the heightened anxiety Ive lived with has been challenging, the most significant effect was my inability to be comfortable in an intimate relationship with God.

I had to learn that the shame I had lived with did not belong to me. It belonged to those who were the victimizers. And as is often too common, out of the shame and subsequent secrets I was left feeling confused and unworthy.

At times in my life, when it was obvious that I needed to work on healing from betrayal and hurts I wa

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496934697

Caren S. Dillman

Caren S. Dillman is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist. She has chosen this time in her career to specialize in working with clients with posttraumatic stress disorder, (PTSD). She is certified in EMDR, a therapeutic tool that she uses to assist clients who have experienced trauma on any level. She and her husband, David, live and work together in private practice in Northern California. You can reach Caren Dillman at: [e-mail] | http://Cornerstonepsychologicalcenter.com | 916-751-9347 “Everybody's got a story to tell and everybody's got a wound to be healed.” The first time I heard those lyrics sung by the artist Plump, I wanted to declare, “Yes we all have a story to tell and we all have wounds to heal. A light needs to be shined on the truth and our stories need to be told!” Imagine what could happen if we believed we were safe to share our stories without consequences of judgment or rejection? Our freedom and path towards healing would be liberating. I find it interesting that after years of working through my issues from several different approaches, that I would continue to face shame. While it no longer has a debilitating grip, its shadow hovers above me occasionally penetrating my psyche, rendering me vulnerable to its purpose. It is certainly not an unfamiliar feeling. What is my purpose for sharing my story? Why am I even tackling this? It is so easy to say, I heard God tell me to do this. Actually it isn’t that easy. I know for some this is where they will put the book down. But I did hear Him. I didn’t hear an audible voice either inside my head or outside, but I heard Him in my thoughts. Of course, I questioned Him. I ultimately challenged Him. I reminded Him that I had never desired to be a writer. What I have since learned through this process is that we all have a story to tell. Always remember what you’ve Seen God do for you, And be sure to tell Your children and grandchildren. Deuteronomy 4:9 When I reflect back to my father’s death Dec 29th 2008, I marvel at what I now see as having come full circle. I weep when I tell others of the sense of wholeness I felt as I watched him take his last breath. Not because he was dead, although there was some relief in that, but now he would no longer be in pain. He died the way he wanted to. He died at home. Besides, now I would know how I was going to feel facing the finality of our unresolved issue. I had the awareness that what was taking place was somehow sacred, intimate. Where does my story begin? I really don’t know. I do know it is my story and not a universal one that every reader will agreed with or every family member will approve of. Twenty years ago, when I first confronted my father I honestly believed that I would confront the secret, he would own it, repent and we would move towards a new level of closeness, I had longed for throughout my life. In writing my story I hope and pray that others will believe that it is possible to heal. I want to believe that for every individual who holds on to their rage, insecurities and wounds that there will be far more who are willing to choose the hard journey of healing.

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© 2014 Caren S. Dillman. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/22/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3470-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3468-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3469-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014914710

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Introduction

The Tower

Part One

1. Becoming An Object

2. Never Say No!

3. David

Part Two

4. Psych Hospital

5. Letters To Mom

6. Recovery

Part Three

7. Reconciliation

8. Mom’s Death

9. Father Dying

Afterword

Questions For Discussion

DEDICATION

To David, my beloved husband, friend, and partner of forty-two plus years.

To our daughter, Carrie Heather, and our son, Jonathan David, who were both the motivation for me to do my recovery work. And to their wonderful spouses, David Diggs and Jill Dillman, I thank God that it was with you that my children chose to spend their lives.

To Christopher, who, over twenty-eight years ago, Dave and I had the privilege of loving and parenting as our own from birth until he was almost two years old and who has once again come into our lives.

And to Ada, our first grandchild, I thank God for your parents, who have already proven their dedication to being the best parents possible for you.

FOREWORD

Almost forty-three years ago I went on a date with a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl. Later, as we married and grew together, I learned that she believed her only real value was in being a sexual object. The story of how she came to realize her gifts, her worth, and her value is a beautiful narrative of emotional healing and the power of forgiveness. I have been alongside her every step of the way, and I am still moved by what God has accomplished in her.

I have been a therapist for over thirty years and the clinical supervisor of many other therapists during that time. I have worked with many individuals who have experienced childhood sexual abuse. Caren is one of those remarkable women who not only has healed from this trauma but has used it to propel her growth. Her pain has been transformed into love for her clients and passion for her work as an outstanding therapist who counsels trauma and abuse victims.

Her growth and her journey have taught me many life lessons. Among the most important is to be authentic and true to yourself, even when facing rejection. Too many individuals hold the secret of abuse within themselves for fear of what will happen if they reveal it. The story that you will read is familiar to far too many families. Research suggests that it is happening in one out every three families you know.

In the forty-three years that we have been together, Caren and I have learned that life is too short to live with unforgiveness or regrets. I pray that you will be much enriched by reading her story.

David Dillman, MA, Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist

Professor at William Jessup University and Brandman University

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to Dave Dillman for his endless patience and encouragement throughout this entire process. With a humble heart I want to thank my dear friends Gary and Jane Goodell and Terry and Gayle Samples, who allowed me to process with them every raw emotion and neurotic insecurity while I was doing the ugly cry and loved me anyway. Thank you for walking beside Dave and me on all our life journeys.

I am so fortunate to have the best colleagues. I admire them for their dedication to their clients and their remarkable commitment to providing excellent clinical care. Thank you especially to the women for the valuable consultation you provide when I need an objective opinion. And most of all, thank you for your friendship and the gift of laughter. It is good for my soul.

I want to thank my clients, especially those you have walked through the pain and sorrow of their own abuse and challenged themselves to stay on the path of recovery. I wish I could personally thank each one of you for all that you have taught me and share with others your remarkable stories of courage and strength. I pray that one day all of you will experience the freedom to share with others how you made it to the other side of healing.

For those who read my manuscript while it was a work in progress, thank you for your gentle feedback and your willingness to give up your time to help me accomplish this: Carrie Diggs, Tammy Fletcher, Gary Goodell, Cheryl Iavicoli, Linda Norris, Gayle Samples, Terry Samples,Barbara Stankus and Patti Vant. Thank you Dave and Holly Eaton being there at the end and helping me clarify my vision.

To Dr. Dickerson and Kim Johnson for your excellent EMDR coaching.

Warm thanks to Connie, Emily and Hailey for your special contribution.

To every author whose book I read on sexual abuse throughout my recovery, thank you for being an inspiration and going before me, providing a road map, and reminding me that I wasn’t walking this path alone.

And last, I want to thank my parents, who—regardless of all the mistakes they made and the pain they caused—left me a legacy of faith and positive memories that sustain me. It is so tempting to place their failures and their sins in some hierarchical order where sexual abuse is worse than any sin. Or to say that my mother’s anger was worse than my own. I won’t do that. And for that knowledge…

I am deeply grateful for God’s amazing grace.

INTRODUCTION

When I think back to my father’s death on December 29, 2008, I marvel at my sense of seeing something come full circle. I weep when I tell others of the sense of wholeness I felt as I watched him take his last breath. I was aware that what was taking place was somehow sacred, intimate. There was some relief in the fact that he had died, but I knew that I was going to have to face our unresolved issue.

Almost twenty-five years ago, when I first confronted my father, I honestly believed that I would confront the secret; he would own it and repent; and we would move toward a new level of closeness, which I had longed for throughout my life. The difference between who I am now and who I was then is that now I know I can’t and don’t want to control the outcome.

What is my purpose for sharing my story? Why am I even tackling something so difficult? It is so easy to say, I heard God tell me to do this. Actually, it isn’t that easy. I know that I risk sounding like some overly religious zealot. I realize that this is where some will put the book down. But I did hear Him. And had I not, I am certain I would eventually have given up on this endeavor. I didn’t hear an audible voice inside my head, but I heard Him in my mind. Of course, I questioned Him. I ultimately challenged Him. I reminded Him that I had never desired to be a writer. One of the things I have learned through this process is that we all have a story to tell.

You must be very careful not to forget the things you have seen God do for you. Keep reminding yourselves, and tell your children and grandchildren as well.

Deuteronomy 4:9 (CEV)

In writing my story, I hope and pray that others will walk away with at least a nugget of hope and faith that it is possible to heal fully. Keeping secrets about abuse only feeds the shame, hindering us from becoming all that God intended us to be and desensitizing us to its damage. I want to believe that for every individual who holds on to his or her rage, insecurities, and wounds, there will be far more who are willing to choose the path of recovery.

The truth will set you free.

THE TOWER

The enemy of childhood took me in,

Taught my heart to doubt, taught my heart to sin

And took away my sweet dream that someday there’d be,

A prince who had the power

To take me to His tower and fill my heart with purity.

The enemy of springtime captured my song

And led me to his castle where it’s night all day long,

And I’ve been bound in silence waiting to be found,

By someone who had the power

To take me from this tower,

Where my voice is locked in chains.

In lonely desperation, my silent cry

Echoed through my memory of God’s lullaby

And I thought I heard Him singing while my heart wept with shame,

Then He spoke my name in power

And took me from this tower where my life was locked in chains.

When I hear small voices passing by,

I call out to them, don’t believe the lies.

Listen to your heart strings that someday there’ll be

A Prince who has the power

To take you to His tower and fill your heart with purity.

Annie Herring

PART ONE

1

BECOMING AN OBJECT

An Innocent Game

Caren, we should hide together, Robert whispered quietly in his deep voice. Okay, I answered. I instantly felt safe, knowing that in our game of hide-and-seek, I would not have to hide alone in the dark. He took my small wrist in his massive hand and led me to the left side of his tidy, midcentury track house. His home was the house where I played my last game of marbles, the house next door to mine. Robert led me to the side yard furthest from my own yard. My heart was racing as I ran to hide with him. We hurried to make sure we didn’t get caught out in the open before we had a chance to hide. We ducked into the side yard with the plush, green grass—a softer and greener grass than there was in my yard. There were plenty of full, low bushes lining the wall and a variety of plants separating Robert’s house from the next house over. It was dark, but not dark enough to hide us from each other. The moon provided enough light for me to see Robert clearly as he settled on the soft grass.

Just days before, I had played my last game of marbles. It was summertime, and I was a naive eight year old. I spent almost all my summer days doing what most of us did back then—playing outside. Summers would occasionally creep over the one-hundred-degree mark in Southern California’s valley, but that didn’t mean we were allowed to stay inside. It was hot inside as well. The only air-conditioning we had in our small home was a swamp cooler mounted in the window of the only full bathroom. You practically had to sit in front of the cooler to feel its refreshing breeze, but if anyone dared to shut the door to use the restroom, it was inevitable that there would be someone else yelling to hurry up and get out so they could once again experience the illusion of air-conditioning.

I’ve always thought that there is something magical and alluring about marbles. With the same instinct I have to pet a puppy or coo at an infant, I’m attracted to marbles. I find them appealing. I will naturally reach out to touch and hold them. I never resist the urge to pick up a marble if I come across one. I feel the beginnings of nostalgia as my fingers roll over its smooth, cool surface. Initially I enjoy the sensation as it leads me back to a different time. Just as quickly as it arises, it fades, however, and I am left with an empty feeling. Where has the magic gone? Why can’t I recapture that gratifying feeling that marbles once possessed? Each time, as I anticipate that I will be taken back in time and experience their enchantment, I am disappointed. As I hold the marble closer to examine its color and design, I’m still not satisfied. Eventually I let it go, but not until I take one more look to see whether I can see a cat’s eye looking back at me.

Summer days as a child also meant exciting trips to the beach. Of course it had to be officially summer. It didn’t matter if it was one hundred degrees outside in late May; we waited at least until after Memorial Day. It also had to be on the weekends or when my dad had vacation time and was off work. It was his responsibility to take us. I think he enjoyed it as much as we kids did. Occasionally my mother would come with us. I can imagine that at times the decision was a hard one for her: an entire day at home to herself without seven children or a day enjoying the sun and surf.

In my father’s younger days, he had the physique of a body builder. He regularly lifted weights to keep in shape. If we were in the water with him, he would easily lift us above the crashing waves. Even when he started to slow down with age and got thicker around the middle, he would still go out to the patio and at least lift some hand weights.

No amount of enthusiasm or begging would get my dad to stray from his beach-going routine. We would leave after noon and not before. What my dad knew, which none of us did, was that the marine layer did not burn off until the afternoon, leaving the sun burning bright and the water nice and warm by the time we arrived. The routine drive there and back became part of the adventure. After driving over the mountains and out of the valley, we would head toward the beach. We would begin watching for palm trees, a sure sign that we were close. The routine was predictable; we parked on the left side of the pier, never the right side. If we were lucky, we wouldn’t have to carry all our gear too far through the parking lot until we reached the hot sand. We would run with excitement as we began our search for a large enough space to spread out all our blankets and towels. We needed to be close enough to the water to be watched, and we almost always picked a spot that lined up with the lifeguard tower as a reference point in the event that the current pulled us in a different direction. The disappointment of having to get out of the water and go home at the end of the day was soothed by the hope that we would stop for a soft-serve ice cream cone. The tension would build as we asked for ice cream, and my father would keep us in suspense until we recognized that he was pulling into the drive-through ice cream shop. Without deviation, Dad would order one nickel scoop of vanilla ice cream for all the kids and one dime scoop of chocolate dipped ice cream for himself. Of course, I would have preferred the chocolate dipped cone, but I never complained, since I didn’t want to risk ruining our fun day.

Summer also meant lots of free time without our schedules packed with any agenda. The last day I played marbles started out like many other of my summer days. I was sitting on the ground of my next-door neighbor’s house. We avoided sitting too close to the swimming pool to ensure that if we overshot our target, we would never have to retrieve a marble from the pool. We played a simple game without the complexities of the rules of some of the other games. We didn’t have to shoot a marble into the hole or declare which marble we were aiming for. We would aim at all our opponent’s marbles; if you hit one, it was yours. Not too complicated for an eight year old.

The summer heat was not too bad on this particular day, but it was warm enough for me to feel comfortable in my hand-me-down cotton dress with my hair pulled back in a high ponytail. I hadn’t yet learned how to do my own ponytail in the smooth, tidy fashion that my mom or oldest sister would do. I can’t remember who I was playing with on my last marble day. Because playing marbles was usually a boy’s game and not a common game for girls, I was probably playing with a boy. Whoever I was playing with is now just a blurred memory.

I was never good at the game, but not as bad as I was at most other childhood activities. It didn’t matter if it was a game of pick-up sticks, jacks, or hopscotch. I never provided much of a challenge for any competitor. It didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself. I did. But I was aware of the fact that I wasn’t exceptionally good.

I thought marbles were pretty. Flicking one with my thumb off my fisted hand and hearing the sharp, cracking sound as it hit its target was deeply satisfying. My first thought would always be, Which marble did I just win? We played for Keepsies when I was eight. Instinctively, I would scan the faces of my playmates, looking for any hint that I was good enough to be competing with them. It would just be a matter of time before I would lose all the marbles I had won earlier in the game. I would consistently go home empty-handed, leaving my opponents with all my colorful little treasures.

When I was a child, I believed it was safe to play outside. The only hint that anyone had any concern about this was the occasional reminder not to talk with strangers. Was it really safe? We thought we knew our neighbors better back then, and maybe we did. But what we didn’t know were their secrets.

During that summer when I was eight, I didn’t know whether our next-door neighbors, Robert and Frank, were adults or teens. I knew they weren’t children and that they were somehow different. Today they would be identified, at the very least, as developmentally delayed. Of course this would explain only some of their behavior. I would never learn their story. At the time, I didn’t have the ability to discern that physically and mentally their ages were not congruent. They were both as tall as the adults I knew. Robert was handsome: trim with full, dark, wavy hair. Frank, his younger brother, was thinner, hyper, and just plain odd. Frank was a strange character with rounded shoulders and a tendency to breathe heavily when he ended his sentences with an annoying snort. Later, I would discover that Robert was at least eleven years older than I was.

Robert and Frank’s father, Dale, was an alcoholic. At eight I didn’t understand what that meant. I just knew to stay clear of him. There weren’t too many reasons to approach their front door, but when I did, I was glad I was never invited in. All I could see in the house, from my vantage point, was darkness. Their curtains would be shut, the lights dimmed. Trudy, Dale’s wife, was quiet—almost invisible. Plain and odd like her younger son. My mom interacted more with Dale than with Trudy. In some strange way I think my mom liked Dale. Not in an attracted-to-him sort of way, but I think they both had strong personalities, and they seemed to enjoy their frequent bantering. It was a treat whenever my mom asked for permission to allow us kids to go over and use their pool. But there were just as many days when my mom let us know that she wasn’t going to ask them. Those days— when it was sweltering hot, and all we could do was peek through the holes in the concrete blocks separating our yards and watch our neighbors enjoying their refreshing pool—were agony. It didn’t help that the neighbors on the other side also had a pool. For whatever reason, their pool wasn’t an option.

On one particular warm summer evening, just a brief period after the last time I played marbles, we—there was never just an I in my childhood—were outside. My three sisters and three brothers were referred to as the boys and the girls. Jeffrey and Randy the two youngest boys in the family became close friends throughout their childhood. Although only thirteen months apart they were nothing alike. Jeffrey was a quiet and serious introvert, while Randy was a wild extrovert. The gap of over a decade in their ages between my oldest brother Danny and the younger boys hindered the closeness my three sisters and I enjoyed. There was a clear delineation of our roles and our parents’ expectations of us. Girls did most of the work in the house, and I assumed that the three boys did outside work, although I have no memory of them doing so. Individuating and becoming my own person would take years for me. Breaking away from my amoeba mentality was a challenge. At this young age, clustering primarily with my sisters worked. I don’t remember who determined that we would play hide-and-seek. It never mattered. I know it wasn’t me. I wasn’t an initiator; I was a follower.

I can’t recall a single time that I ever initiated anything. It wasn’t a problem. It never meant that there wasn’t something to do. Being smack in the middle of seven children meant that I never had to initiate. Someone got the game going. I believed we had the entire block to hide. I’m not sure that was true. I can’t recall actually crossing the street myself or straying more than a house or two away. I enjoyed believing I had the freedom to roam where ever I chose.

Come here, Robert gently commanded as he motioned to his lap. His smile was reassuring. I crawled up onto his lap. I don’t remember feeling any hesitation.

He whispered as he said, If you let me tickle you, I will give you your own special bag of marbles. He showed me a small, green, mesh bag bursting with a variety of colorful marbles.

His smile was more of a slight half grin. I must have agreed because he reached between my legs and, over my cotton shorts, began to lightly tickle me. I felt butterflies in my stomach but not fear. I think my mixed, uncomfortable feelings of both guilt and pleasure briefly paralyzed me. Robert took my hand and placed it strategically on his pants. I pulled my hand away without saying anything. I couldn’t recall ever having had those feelings before. Not only the physical sensation of my stomach doing somersaults, but the conflict of somehow knowing that this was wrong yet too confused to understand what made it so.

It quickly became clear, when I suddenly saw my sister Nancy, that something wasn’t right. She must have been it in our game of hide-and-seek. With her usual burst of infinite young energy, Nancy came bounding around the corner of the house, looking in between the two homes, where she discovered Robert and me.

I noticed her wide-eyed look as she yelled, I’m telling!

Her skinny legs, which would one day become undeniably shapely, that day were just twigs hanging out of her baggy shorts. Her wild, dark, brunette curls were in complete contrast to my lighter shade of straight, baby-fine hair. Her freckled nose beneath those locks looked innocent enough. But what did she see that triggered the gasp and the threat to tattle? At only nine years old, just fifteen months older than me, Nancy somehow had some awareness of what was wrong or right. Had she been warned about our neighbors? What did she see? And how did she know that what she saw was wrong?

Before I came out of hiding, Robert was true to his word and placed in my hands an entire bag of marbles. I was thrilled as I looked through the little green mesh bag and saw the variety of beautiful, multicolored marbles. My excitement didn’t last long. I was devastated and confused when sometime later, possibly the next day, my mother made me give the marbles back.

My mother, although not a classic beauty, was extremely attractive. Her five-foot-seven-inch frame was trim and well groomed. Her thick, henna-colored hair, when not fashionably styled, was in rollers, hidden by a scarf, waiting to be styled. Her appearance and sense of style filled me with pride. I thought she was beautiful. She and I stood on the top of the concrete steps at the side of our house, at what we referred to as our back door. The steps faced the side entry of Robert’s house. I can imagine that I may have received a lecture from my mother, following the directive for me to return the marbles. I don’t remember the exact words, but the message was clear.

Onlookers from both families, along with several neighborhood children, were milling around, witnessing my shame. Were my mother’s instructions for their benefit as well? She stood to the left of me, bent down at my eye level, but she looked into my eyes only briefly. I wondered whether the pretense of lecturing me was also a covert warning to the neighbors that she meant business. I don’t believe my mother and I ever talked about what happened again until I initiated that conversation many years later. By the time we did have a discussion, I was way into my adult years with my own children, and it was motivated by my need to implore her, once again, for answers.

The day that I was forced to return the marbles, I felt terribly betrayed. Why, if I hadn’t done anything wrong, did I have to return them? So Robert was allowed to touch me—to do something which angered my mother—at no known cost to him? Nothing was fair about that. The sting of injustice lingered into my adult years. I had earned those marbles! Of course I never spoke those thoughts or feelings out loud, instead stuffing my outrage and confusion. This single event did not get stored in my memory as sexual abuse. Although it clearly was. Throughout the years if something triggered the memory, I still did not refer to it as abuse. I only saw it as an injustice.

I have no recollection of fear, pain, or confusion in relation to what my neighbor had done to me, physically and emotionally. I’m not sure why Robert felt calm and almost confident that I wouldn’t tell. I don’t remember any threats or warnings from him. For me, the trauma was solely in losing the marbles. I had been good. I had let him do to me what he wanted, and yet my mother made me return the marbles.

I now suspect that a pattern of submissive compliance was already ingrained in my nature. I wore the invisible mark of a victim. Hidden from some, it was apparently obvious to others. Those searching for their prey could clearly see the mark on me.

Now I lay…

At that time in my life it was not terribly uncommon for me to feel lonely in our small, crowded home, in the midst of my large family. Sometime in my childhood our 900-square-foot home expanded to just over 1300 square feet when a third bedroom was added. Either way it was still small, and I was still lonely at times. And it was almost always in the middle of the night.

I would awake in darkness. The house would be quiet and settled down while everyone slept. Although surrounded by my three sleeping sisters, I felt so alone. I could