I’m trying not to make myself cry because the delivery guy will be here any minute, but I need to say something about the asshole that unequivocally eroded my trust after 25 years of me uninterruptedly loving him.
My mom’s oldest brother. In many ways, a second father figure, considering the main act vanished in my teens and reappeared at 17 to later die at 22. Always unrepentant, and after his cancer diagnosis, a fretful, bitter man. I remember the last time my dad was hospitalized, and he had to go through the ER first. When we went to the Oncology floor, he was still in a gurney because he was gonna be rolled into Radiology or something. So while we were waiting, he asked to hold my hand (surprising), and looked at me, and wept a little bit: L, I feel like this is the end. I feel like I may not come back this time and I’m scared. I don’t wanna die.
I think I was alone with him? If the neighbor lady that helped us with the housekeeping or my mom were there too, they were not there at that moment, but it’s also unlikely that he would’ve opened up in that way to either of them. In fact, my mom only went to see him a handful of times in his last hospitalization. If was always this neighbor, my half-brother, or I. So I remember saying no, don’t worry, and even if this is that, just relax and be at peace (ha! to be naive and honest). But then they rolled him off, and I was waiting outside of, let’s say Radiology, and tears were rolling down my face. I felt so profoundly sad. As terrible as it is for those who are dying, those who have to be there and watch do not have a lot of reprieve either. And I was going through it alone. Not just physically, but also this wasn’t something I was discussing with my mom. I remember repeating my dad’s request to her that she should be there for him, and her hiding behind the work excuse.
I remember that particular bout of tears because I felt like I exuded sadness, AND I barely had any chagrins about it. My body felt wrecked by the feeling, and only later would I learn that I was experiencing things extra hard because I was pregnant. A guy from school and a gym instructor. Both unwrapped. Unsure as to who might be the dad but I actually didn’t care until October, when the semester’s midterms came knocking. Oh, and I had blue veins in my boobs, and I didn’t recall having veiny boobs before. I’d been so depressed I hadn’t even noticed missing 3 periods. I had an abortion at 18-19 weeks into my gestational period. The cheap ass OB/GYN that did it induced a pseudo-birth (I pushed). Now that I think about it, she probably didn’t do a curettage because she sold the foetus to Med students or something. Two years later, in an ayahuasca trip, I saw my body as still “occupied”, and I saw my beautiful son smoking a mapacho (Amazonian rolled tobacco) in my belly, chillin’.
In the vision, I said: Honey, what are you doing in here! You don’t belong here, you have to go up there (to heaven). Come on, it’s time. And I did the motion of holding a small being in my hands starting at my tummy, and lifted my arms in unison into the sky. Then I asked the shamaness I was sitting in front of to say a prayer for my foetus, because I had had an abortion. Thankfully it was in Shipibo, but I could figure out she said perdón (forgiveness), and that shit irked me because I did not feel guilty. The vision made me realize I had felt guilty for the past two years, but not at that moment. Not anymore. My womb felt free again. And I remember that a lot of the guilt came from thinking I had caused physical pain to the foetus, and that was the part that made me feel really guilty. It could’ve easily been disproved had I read anything about biology (currently stimated at 23 weeks at its potential earliest: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1440624/), but I felt like I needed to be punished, so I didn’t dig in that much into science at the time. To be clear, I did not feel like I needed to be punished for having an abortion. I knew it was the absolute best decision. With or without my mom’s financial support -more likely without, at least at the beginning-, I knew that I had no desire to be a mom, and that the adoption system was not something I wanted to submit a baby into. Between not being born at all and the foster system, an abortion was the way to go, because I did not even wanted to be pregnant a second longer. As soon as I found out, I knew it wasn’t in the cards for me to even birth a person. But thank you very much and a big FUCK YOU to the male clinic worker that made me hear the foetus’ heartbeat. It’s not that I was doubting whether it was alive or not, motherfucker, I was just truly shocked at the news. Because first I went to a cheap clinic, then I re-did the test at a fancy one. Can men ever get their shit together? Their lack of impulse control truly does make them seem like animals, incapable of higher thought. At the fancy clinic, it wasn’t a fucking guy working the ultrasound thing or whatever, it was a gynaecologist. This was pre-ayahuasca I think, so I don’t recall my anxiety levels around strange men outside of sexual/romantic settings, but I do remember there was a female nurse there, so that lets me know I definitely felt cool about being there (albeit a bit anxious, of course). In any case: this mf was a bit surprised when he inserted the probe, and then he had to take it out and reinsert it again for some reason, and the second time he made a sound. Gasp? Tiny moan? I don’t remember. The nurse, of course, looked angrily AT ME, because of course I have control over how A MAN is gonna react to my pussy. Fucking ludicrous.
Dude, I was so pregnant. I was given the option to wait for an hour or so or come back tomorrow for the results, so I decided to wait. I fell fucking asleep in the waiting room. Regardless of pre/post ayahuasca timeline, I never fall asleep in public locations (unless deemed safe), and this time around, even though it was a female receptionist and the room was empty other than the two of us, my anxiety was through the mfing roof over my now clear preggers status. I do remember my baby craving a lot of fresh fruit, and stuff like that. It would’ve been short I think, because I’m pretty sure it was the gym instructor’s, but it would’ve been gorgeous. His dad had this smooth, chocolate skin and amazing bone structure (cheeks for daysss), and I’m nothing to scoff at too (my humblebrag into saying I clean up nice). But he was/is a dick and I did not wish to become a parent, so it wasn’t the time.
I don’t know why I got into this particular story, but going back to the reason for this post: after being like a second father figure, upon my aunt’s death (I must’ve been 25 I believe), he started making lewd comments, and becoming touchy, and an overall creep. When I brought it up, he would dismiss me and say I was making things into what they’re not. My mom said I was probably misunderstanding where he’s coming from. That woman will spin the world like she’s Michael Jordan if it gets her out of facing a threat to her reality and her way of life.
When I first got here, I was going through so much hardship. And the behavior that had seemed odd for so long finally started to make sense: two of my mom’s brothers are abusers. Molesters. The worst type of pieces of shit there is (her youngest brother might even -most likely- is a paedophile). I’m “glad” her youngest only decided to molest me at literally 29 years old. Just to prove to himself that he could, I guess? Grazing my mons pubis with his drunk hand at the dinner table, with his oldest brother, sister, and wife there. He was counting on my freezing. He bet correctly. The things that men learn as to how far they can push a woman/girl who has not found the words or strength to defend herself (and I only did when I had a whole continent between me and them, so I F.E.E.L. for other victims), those disgust me. And they’d rather go to their graves pretending they never were what they always were, they never said the things they said, they never did the things they did. And her youngest, I had only recently regained trust in him, since only now had I gained the courage to bring up the fact that he had slapped me twice when I was 12 for defending the housekeeper’s younger sister (he was threatening that she’d have to pay for the punctured ball his daughter had pierced herself).
There’s a very sick, oily relationship between abusers and abused in cases of incest. That cousin that tattled to her dad that I was complaining to my mom’s oldest brother that it was wrong to have the other child pay for that ball (and she was only 8 or 9 at the time!), that’s the same cousin that later ran away from home for like a year, or a year and a half, when she was 18 or 19. I do remember her mom crying and me feeling that something was off about that display of sadness. And then, other times that I’ve seen them interact. And then, him being gross (why, if not, would I remember being a child and him rubbing my earlobe -in the living room, other people present but drunk-, and being surprised that I didn’t like it, his words being That is odd, most kids find it relaxing.).
I know I have an elephant’s memory, but it’s also aided by emotionally poignant events. That one stuck with me because I felt an intent that went beyond what was being declared (being playful); I felt surprise that I would openly tell him: I don’t like that (instead of the submissiveness that is expected from little girls); and I felt that he would’ve wanted to say more, much more, but that he couldn’t when he expressed that “other kids like that”.
GROSS UPON GROSS UPON GROSS.
My mom’s oldest, however, was never anything like this. And when you grow up with someone you deem close, it’s gonna take years of therapy and becoming fully adherent to truth-seeking (though of course no one is perfect) to seeing your “loved ones'” flaws -I’m putting it in quotation marks because obviously, I love none of these “people” anymore.
I gave him money once to get the better kind of antibiotic for the dog, and he bought the cheapest and pocketed the rest. He wanted to humiliate my dad once, but excused his behavior as “saying what needed to be said”. I would’ve been ok with performative anger if later he would’ve admitted to me that he did wanted to embarrass him, and nothing more, because we were close, and an admission of honesty would’ve gone a long way, but he never did. When my dad died, he dared make a toast for him (while carefully never saying anything nice about him). Also, when I called him and told him, he never said sorry for your loss.
Things that I dismissed before became unsurmountable when my aunt died. I even had bad dreams about him molesting me. I blame myself for the times I napped in his couch and must’ve been cold or something, mumbled in my sleep and he must’ve thought I was coming on to him.
Gross upon gross upon gross upon GROSS.
I remember the last straw being drawn when I stayed over (there are 2 spare bedrooms in that house, so it was always his kids or me, or his youngest brother’s kids) one day, and he had not gone somewhere because, and I quote: No, I wanted us to wake up together, have breakfast…you know, start our day together.
It was 11am. He’s an early riser. It was his appointment, not mine. Oh, and also:
WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK WAS HE TALKING ABOUT??!!
A woman can always tell (and sadly, some of us learn as girls) when a man is coming from an erotic standpoint. Sexual, romantic, call it whatever the fuck you want. I call it vulturing. That’s abuse.
After respecting me and not being a creep, the week my fucking aunt died (also, being humiliated by him who resented caring for her, even though it was her house), after 25 years of being a second father figure…he fucking turned on me. What, he needed to molest someone and my aunt was no longer available? Is that it? I remember dreaming there were 3 people standing in that backyard. A young woman, a boy, and a third child. My brain understood as if my aunt had had three abortions, and they had been buried it in the backyard.
I should clarify: when I say aunt, I mean my great-aunt. My grandpa’s sister. His aunt. He never married. It took me so long to realize my family is filled with creeps. Thus, I no longer consider them family.
And I hate men who can’t keep their distance. And I hate men whom you can consider family for so fucking long, and then you realize you’re nothing in their eyes. A stepping stone to their misguided, sickly lives. My grandpa had a creep moment. My dad had a creep moment. His brother had a molesting moment. My mom’s two brothers have had molesting moments. Her only brother that didn’t had sort of a creep moment, but I think it was more a power play type of thing, not for sexual reasons. And what would make him different than his lot? I’m pretty sure he’s on the down low.
You can only come from so much filth with a certain possibility for healing, right? I know I blame myself about my mom’s oldest even though a baby/child/teen could never see a grown man for what he is. But why didn’t young woman L see him? I know why. I loved him. I would’ve told myself anything to not have the truth be the truth. I was drowning back then too, but I didn’t wanna gasp for air, or else I would’ve known I was drowning, instead of just feeling it.
So now, what is my relationship with people? To be honest, most people can be trusted in areas. In certain pockets. Last person I gave my full trust to was my ex, and that shit was sorely misplaced. I still care for people, but I don’t feel safe putting all/most of my trust in someone. And the sooner I can see the ways in which their dishonesty expresses itself, the sooner I know how much/little faith I can put in them.
But this isn’t something that I want/like. Yes, I have a tendency to laser in on the white lies I’m told, on how exact people are with their words, and when they’re found wanting, I know I must close up. Yes, no one is always 100% honest, but there is a societal shift to fearing vulnerability and honesty. Especially in men. I regret it with friends but I specially bemoan it in this (for now inactive) search of a partner. Only with a great communicator who is into me for a long-term thing will I be able to know/see how I measure up when things are more or less good, more or less okay. So far, what I’ve been calling an insecure attachment style has also been just good o’le C-PTSD. And shit only ever gets better if you’re willing to try.
So, like I always say, but now back to specifics: if you know an addict that has gone to rehab and done THE work (meaning, is now obsessed with truth, as he thinks it’s the only way to live properly), who is into chubby brown feminists and is aged 27-39, please direct him to this blog xD
I can do pockets of trust but I know for a fact I’m never getting tangled unless there’s full communion with someone again. I wanna (if I must) get my heart broken after a good try at love, not a lazy one.