When I'm Dead

Stand up for something, even if it means standing alone. Because often times, the one who flies solo has the strongest wings.

-Anonymous

Author’s Note

Prior to now, I’ve been a coward. As a therapist who works with at-risk and abused children, I’ve written about child abuse from nearly every angle you can imagine. From clinical case notes and case studies, to fictional novels about child abuse and false allegations of sexual abuse and its real life systemic impact on families, I’ve touched on it all. Tonight, on Halloween, and the eve of National Novel Month, I’ve decided to take a chance and write about what scares me most; child abuse from the victim’s perspective.

It’s one thing to write a novel about a faulty system. It’s a whole different level to put myself into the mind and soul of an actual victim of that system. As a person who has dedicated her career to supporting and helping abuse victims, I witness the stigma that comes along with sexual abuse every day. It isn’t pretty. I’ve watched countless families turn their backs on victims, leaving them to face shame and isolation in their most vulnerable moments. I’ve seen families torn apart by very real allegations that mothers or fathers or siblings refuse to believe. I’ve watched the aftermath, for these victims and their families as recovery begins and most often fails. Long story short, it’s very messy. And, sadly, it’s much more common than you think.

It’s nearly impossible to give accurate numbers on how many children are victims of sexual abuse. However, it’s widely accepted that one in every three children is a victim of either physical, mental, or sexual abuse. Many in the field of social work claim that one in five children is a victim of sexual abuse or assault before they turn eighteen. The numbers are hard to know because they are so often grossly underreported. Families often hear of a child being abused and chose to deal with it within the family, instead of reporting it. Because children have no legal power, their voices go unheard. Many children make allegations of abuse and their cases are never brought to justice for a variety of reasons. Often, it has to do with a very flawed justice system. For some, it’s a lack of evidence. For others, it’s because the child waited until they became an adult to speak out. In other cases, adults around them don’t believe the child will be able to handle court testimonies or forensic interviewing. For many reasons, alleged perpetrators—especially ones with good defense attorneys—are able to plea to lesser charges and/or get away with their crimes all together. And, because these things are done in closed juvenile courts, most people never hear anything about them. Life goes on as usual, often with the child being put in out of home placement.

I cannot count the number of times I’ve had to explain to a child why their father, uncle, brother, neighbor, or babysitter wasn’t in jail for a crime they had the courage to report. The look of betrayal on a child’s face when they are being removed from their family home—safe or not—is something that will never leave me. And it is because of these experiences that I have been afraid to write about abuse from the victims’ point of view. Until now.

It’s my hope, that in sharing Violet’s story, I can help children whose voices have been ignored. Even if it’s to let them know that someone hears them and cares, this story needs telling. With this story, I vow to have the same courage that I ask from the kids I work with, each time they head in a courtroom or speak with a judge. I will get into the mind of a victim, and, in doing so, help to make another stand against the stigma and blame surrounding sexual abuse. Together, we can put an end to the silence and the shame.

Dedication

For all victims of abuse and/or assault: I hear you. I support you, actively. None of us are alone, even though it often feels that way. Never let anyone else define you or steal your purpose. We are all here for a reason and deserve to be heard. Be proud of who you are and know you are special in all the right ways. We are given a life to live in the best way we know how. Keep living, fighting, and believing. One day, together, we will put an end to stigma and teach others to stand up for those who are voiceless. Until then, stay strong. For  you, I vow to be the voice; not the echo.

For all those who take an active stand in supporting victims: Whether you know it or not, your bravery, words and actions are saving lives. You are making a difference. Never let anyone talk you out of doing the right thing, even if it means standing alone. On behalf of the victims, I thank you for your courage. It’s not unnoticed. Stand tall.

Prologue

I wonder what they’ll say about me when I’m dead. Will they reconsider everything? Or, will they be glad I’m gone? Will they think of me at all? I know I’ve been an inconvenience. I’m the kid that threw black paint—or red, like blood, maybe—at their bleached picket fences and turned them into accomplices. They didn’t ask to be involved. So maybe it makes sense that they’ll be relieved when I’m dead. I mean, the way they see it, you can pretend it didn’t happen—and should—or make it someone else’s problem all together. That somehow relieves you of guilt. You walk away free and clear. Dad did. Mom too. And the others, who knew, but let them get away with it. No charges of guilt. No conspiracy. It was all in her head, they said. Only it wasn’t. And they knew it.

It doesn’t matter now. I’ve made up my mind – that twisted little head of hers, they called it. I’ve tried. Really, I have. But a kid can only do so much. Now, I’m all grown up. Daddy’s ‘special girl.’ Are you proud of me, Mom? I’m a woman now. I packed and planned, just the way you taught me. I brought all the essentials: Motel room, check. Bottle of pills, check. Razor blades, check. Purpose, check. A loaded gun. A knife, yep. My journal. A voice ready to be heard. Got it. Revenge, coming right up. ...Don’t admit that one out loud, stupid. It’ll kill the message and be all they remember, if they care to remember at all. I even brought my toothbrush. Habit, I guess.

I used to think it’d be different when I became an adult. That people would listen to me and give me a chance to speak my mind. But here I am, and that’s just not a luxury for me – not now. I guess it’s a perfect example of be careful what you wish for. Mom used to say that to me when she was talking about little things, like me wishing that I could be a fairy princess or that money really did grow on trees so I could give it to my best friend’s mom. Be careful what you wish for, Violet. That’s what she’d say. I ignored her. I wished harder. I just knew, if I wished hard enough, that the apple tree in our backyard would start growing ten dollar bills and I could finally get those fairy wings she called nonsense.

Things have changed. Boy, have they ever. For starters, Mom was right. I can tell you, for sure, that money doesn’t grow on trees. It took me two weeks to save up for this simple little plan of mine. A normal person would whip out a credit card and pay the lady behind the scratched glass the $68 room charge. I guess, for most people, it’s $58, if they don’t do any damage. I won’t be turning in my room key. They can keep my $10 deposit. I’m sure the cleaning bill will be a lot more than they bargained for. It might be good, really, to have someone in here to clean these carpets. I can’t tell if they are olive green or if it’s just puke stains. Does it really matter?

I’m not sure I ever really thought about the place I’d go to die. I guess I was like most people. I thought I’d die in my sleep, of old age, and maybe in the arms of a person I loved. I’d be at home, safe. ...I don’t have that option now. There is no one left to love. Or, more accurately, there’s no one to love me. There’s a voice in my head. I call her Charlotte. She loves me, I guess. She tells me I’m being silly. That it wasn’t my fault and that I have nothing to feel bad about. She begs me to reconsider. But it won’t happen. Mom always said, Violet, you’re a stubborn one. Just like your father.

My father is the last person I want to be anything like. Ever. I used to want to be like her. For years, there was no one in the world quite like my mother. She was the first to bake brownies—double chocolate—for my school bake sales. She even let me name my little brother, Charles—Charlie for short. The first time I held him, all I could think was what a prince. I miss Prince Charlie. He’s the one I’ll miss the most. I’m not sure if he even remembers me. He’s eight, almost nine, now. Almost at that age, where it first started happening to me. I wonder if he’ll ever know what happened to his big sister. I wonder if they will talk about me when I’m gone. Does he even know I exist?

I’ve heard, through cousins and aunts, that no one speaks of me. There was a family reunion last year. I wanted to be there desperately. I couldn’t be. I missed Grandpa’s funeral, four Christmases, five Thanksgivings. And those are just the total misses. I’m not talking about the holidays we rigged up so I wouldn’t have to be in the same room as my father, calling strange caseworkers there to supervise old friends of the family. I bet Mom told herself she was looking out for me, humoring me, acting in my best interest, even, by inviting me. It’s a lot easier to lie to yourself than face the truth. I understand that. I really do. But the truth was that her life—complete with its picket fence—was more important than mine. She didn’t want to be like Janis.

I doubt everyone else understands, though. I’m quite sure Grandma and her new husband think I’ve been placed in an insane asylum or maybe in a monastery – good girl gone bad sort of thing. She probably thinks I had a baby out of wedlock. But so young? I wonder what the story was those first few years, before Mom could claim I was busy with friends or working to save for a new car. I think about Grandma other relatives a lot and worry what they might think of me; of what my parents have told them. I know Mom tells people I’m crazy. That I make things up and get confused because of medications I don’t take. Mom, always planning ahead. Violet’s crazy, will be the go-to alibi.

My cousin, Brenda? She asked my mother how I was doing at the reunion, just to test her. She says Mom walked away. She talked about her two kids – John and Charlie. She never mentioned me. I wish Brenda hadn’t told me that. When I’m dead, she can say, See? I told you she was crazy. But she will know the truth. And so won’t the others, who thought it was better to look the other way. Ignorance is bliss.

I wonder, sometimes, if she’d throw me back if she could. Would she hit rewind and be sure I was never born? Or maybe give me away? Release me. The way Grandpa threw back perch that were just too small. We’ll catch him again next year, Violet, he’d say, sucking on his cigarette and patting me on the head. The next year, my brother John and I would beg to go back; hoping to catch the dozen or so old releases and take them home for dinner this time. But we never went to the same lake twice. Grandpa got bored easily. "No, there’s a better spot," he’d say, driving us all over New England for the latest fishing hole that guys at the VFW were bragging about. I miss Grandpa too. I’m sorry I never got to say goodbye. Goodbye is only for kids who don’t tear down white picket fences, I guess. And that’s not me.

If there’s really a heaven, I’ll see him soon enough. I’ll make him take me back to all those lakes. I’ll catch every one of those fish, with my dog, Doodles, by my side. I don’t think I could eat them now, though. Sue, my best friend at the group home, was vegan. It’s not that I have such black and white feelings about eating animals. I mean, I did just make tacos for a living and can’t say I didn’t take the free food on the way out the door. It’s just that Sue would put ketchup on any meat I tried to eat. She’d call it blood. It grossed me out. Tacos, any meat at all, never tasted the same after Sue got into my head. Sue was always trying to do things like that to get a rise out of me. It worked, without fail. God, I miss her too.

It wasn’t so bad there, at the Franklin Children’s Home. I had a house mother who became a surrogate mom. We called her Ms. Weathersby. I went back there, to visit her, just last week. She told me to be sure to come back and visit again. I didn’t have the heart to say goodbye. I said, Sounds like a plan. I turned my back to her and walked right out the door; looking back would have been too hard. And, there was always the chance she might have known, and stopped me.

I’m eighteen now. I’ve been on my own for about six months. I have a tiny apartment that I share with two roommates who keep to themselves mostly. I don’t know them well. We met in court, not the type of people I ever thought I’d be living with, but they seem nice enough. The last thing I’d want is