Rainy days and Sundays always get me down...

I know the actual song title is Rainy days and Mondays, not Sundays, but Mondays didn't get me down. Sundays did. And actually, I love the rain. It's cleansing. And now, we all have the carpenters stuck in our heads. You're welcome.

In my post about my birthday, I related the first time that I was abused by Doc. That year, when I was ten, my birthday fell on a Friday, as it did this year. Friday the thirteenth. A bad omen? Nah, I don't believe in such things, but still...ten was a bad year, full of discoveries I wasn't wanting to make.

Saturday came and went, I don't remember a thing about that day. Probably grocery shopping with mom, getting homework done (no homework could be done on Sunday, Sunday is the Lord's day and working is a sin), maybe a trek over to the farmer's pond to get in some fishing.

But Sunday, Sunday I remember.

When things happen for the first time, a person tends to remember them the most vividly. There would be many, many Sundays after this, and quite a few I remember, but that first car ride after church, after the kiss on Friday...that was never forgotten.

It was by this time a habit of mine to ride in Doc's small Mercedes sedan after church. I don't remember when that started happening exactly, a month or so prior I suppose. I loved that car. It was brown, and was an 190. It had a tan leather interior and purred like a kitten when he'd start it up.

It was such luxury compared to our powder blue K car that constantly needed something fixed. I always sat in the passenger side, in the back seat, unless his mother, beloved GG wasn't there and then I was in the front seat. Doc would frequently hold my hand while he drove, reaching back between the front seats to do so. I hadn't thought anything of this when it first started. Doc's wife took her station wagon separately to church, just in case Doc's beeper went off in church and he had to go to the hospital.

GG was a lovely southern lady with a Georgia drawl and a manner that dripped of honey coated southern style. She had such poise and dignity. She also had a deeply embedded racist streak a mile wide. GG was short for Great Grandmother, as she was known by Doc's grandchildren and his kids as well, though why she was GG to his kids as well I don't remember. She simply was. She had a huge collection  of books at her apartment and when I would visit she would let me borrow one of my choosing. Thanks to her, I was introduced to Tolkien, Poe, Bronte, Austen, and many others. I adored her, despite her proclivity to call anyone who was African American the "n" word which my father forbid me to say, to his credit. I had never heard that word before her, and I absently used it once without fully realizing it's connotations, which resulted in my father giving me a very stern talking to. She was in her 80's and was a product of the Jim Crow south. She was also a little hard of hearing and her eyesight wasn't excellent, though her faculties were acute.

We had gotten into the routine of going out to lunch after church on Sundays with Doc and his wife, sometimes one or more of his adult children. He had a son who lived locally and went to our church. Often we went to Perkins, sometimes to our home, sometimes to Doc's ranch style house in PA. But we always spent a couple of hours together after church with Doc and his wife and GG. And, I always rode in Doc's car.

I dreaded Sunday now. I was still extremely confused as to what had happened on my birthday. I still couldn't quite figure out if I had done something wrong, or right, or if he had done something awful. I just knew that car ride was going to be hard to avoid.

Sunday School "marching in the infantry" and a forgetful lesson. Regular church service and sitting with my parents and sister, watching our morbidly obese Pastor preach with sweat glistening on his bloated brow and me trying to stay awake, but mostly doodling in the margins and back pages of my KJV Bible. My sister glaring at me for doodling and not taking notes and "following along" adequately. A closing hymn, altar call, "I surrender all", a few people coming forward to pray and confess their sins. Pastor Fatty heading to the back to shake hands with everyone as we left with his wife at his side, a woman clearly stuck in 1965 with her oddly bouffant hairdo coiffed just so with flowers or ribbons at the back of this mass of poofy hair. She doesn't realize that it's 1986. Even my mother is puzzled by her hairdo, but this odd hair is something that never changes on this tall, meek, matronly, frail looking woman with her slight southern accent. (I heard from a friend who still lives in the area that she still sports this hair today.) Handshakes, "Great sermon Pastor Fatty", Pastor Fatty hugs me and calls me his "jewelie". I don't what this is supposed to mean,  he's been calling me that for months, and it's weird. I smile anyhow and pretend to be flattered. My friend Julie rolls her eyes and tosses her tousled blonde curly hair out of her face as she takes my hand and we head out to the parking lot to play a bit while we wait for the adults to quit talking about boring adult stuff.

When you're a pastor's kid, you learn patience. You learn that you are most definitely not the most important person in your parents life. The church and it's people, they come first. After church, someone almost always "grabs" my mother and she ends up talking about who knows what with them. My mother is a naturally chatty, outgoing person, she thrives on the interaction. She is the consummate Pastor's wife. She was born for this, I'm convinced. I'm more like my father. My Dad is quiet, and he is often also "grabbed" by someone else who has cornered him into some deep conversation that he really would rather not get into at this time, he has an office after all, and people could come to see  him when he's there. But he talks, and he at some point gets a hold of my mother and they head out the door. My sister is being all cool and 17, chatting with her boyfriend, a nephew of Pastor Fatty's. (Although at this time I don't remember if she was dating that doofus yet or not, maybe they were just chatting?) My Dad calls out my name and I run over towards him, my ballet style flats kicking up the dust in the parking lot as I wave goodbye to Julie and a few other girls. Doc is standing at his car, which is parked by our car. He opens the backdoor and motions me to get in. I skid to a halt and I notice my mother's eyes narrowing as she glances down at my feet, probably she's thinking about how it's not ladylike to run in church shoes and how she can't afford to just keep buying me shoes because I get them scuffed up so often, but she says nothing. 

"I'm going to go with my Dad." I say to Doc.

 "What?! Why?" Doc protests, noticeably disappointed. 

"Jeney, go with Doc." My Mom intones. 

"Yes, Come on, I thought you loved riding with me and GG?" Doc's looking a bit agitated, and his mother in the passenger seat looks out at me and smiles.

"I'd just rather ride with my family."

"Oh come on, we're just going to Perkins, I'll get you that pizza burger you love!"

(My ten year old mind does not figure out that whether I go with him or not, I'm still going to end up at Perkins, with said beloved burger in my possession, regardless of my mode of transportation.) I hesitate.

"I, I..." I look at my Dad...Rescue me, please!

My Dad opens up his door and starts to get inside, "Just go with Doc, Jeney, stop being a brat."

My sister looks at me in confusion and gets in the K car. I'm obviously such a weird little sister. She's so cool, I'm so awkward.

I acquiesce and get into the car. My Dad never calls me a brat, he may tell me I'm acting like one or to not act like one but he doesn't outright call me that. That really stung. Bratty kids are the worst. I'm very aware of this. Doc shuts my door a little louder than usual.

We pull out of the parking lot behind my parents car, GG chatting away with Doc in the front seat. I'm staring at the odd netted pouch behind her seat. I'm thinking about how impractical a pouch that thing is, how does one put their barbies in there without them falling out on a long trip?

"Can I hold your hand Jeney?" I'm pulled out of my deep thoughts regarding toy logistics in netted car pouches by Doc setting his hand on my skirted knee. His tone is...off. Ominous. I will later recognize his tone as aroused. I don't think he liked my trying to get out of riding with him.
"Yes" I take his hand, I didn't like it on my knee. Holding it was better than having it there.

He makes my skin crawl. I don't really want to hold his hand. His hands are rough, the hands of a surgeon who washes them constantly. I let go of his hand and try to push it back towards him. He drops it back onto my knee and continues talking to GG. She asks me something about the sermon. I give the pat answer of "because Jesus" something and it satisfies her. Doc's hand is no longer on my covered knee, he's pulled up my skirt and is lightly caressing my bare thigh. The sensation itself is not unpleasant, but the touch is not wanted, this is highly confusing. Do I like this? Do I not like this? My next thought is that I should have worn tights, despite the hot weather. I determine to always wear tights or nylons to church from now on. No more bare legs or short socks.

Doc slides his seat back a bit at the light. What is he doing that for? I don't like this. My heart is racing, I feel like I am in some kind of danger but I don't know what kind. He's a doctor though, and he's my doctor, and my Dad's best friend. I can trust him, after all everyone respects and trusts him. He continues chatting with GG, turns up WGOJ on the radio with his driving hand, then pulls out when the light turns.

His hand slides up my leg, and GG is humming along with the hymn on the radio. They aren't talking anymore.

Doc looks at me out of the corner of his eye. I don't move. I'm frozen again. Why does that keep happening? His hand is rubbing the front of my panties. Ok, this I know is NOT alright. Right? He smiles. GG hums. Wetness between my legs. What the? He grins. He whistles along to the music. His fingers have pulled aside the elastic at the side of my panties and his fingers, rough and relentless, they probe, they rub, they penetrate. They hurt. I suffer. I'm silent. 

The car stops. I didn't even realize that we had gotten to Perkins. He takes his hand away in one quick motion and grabs a napkin from some pocket in the car where he stashes such things. He wipes his hand, and picks up another napkin. I don't move. I feel panicked. He gets out and walks around the car. GG says thank you to him as he opens her door. I see my Dad, sister, and Mom getting out of their car, my mother already laughing with Mrs. Doc who she's chatting with from several spaces away. My sister looks bored. He's opened the door and is standing there. I glare at him. I'm flooded with anger and then suddenly with terrible guilt. I shouldn't have let him do that, and I shouldn't feel anger. Anger is sinful. Or is it? Yes, yes anger is sinful. 

"Come on Jeney, we haven't got all day." Doc says, and reaches down to take my hand and hands me a napkin. My face is wet. I must have cried at some point. I dab at my face and toss the napkin onto his clean floor. He makes a face. I dare him to reprimand me with my eyes stabbing at his. He sighs, not worth his time to say anything about the napkin.

I get out of the car and he pulls me in close to him for a hug, kisses my head, and whispers, "Next time, don't fight getting in the car with me. Oh, and you're bleeding, better go to the bathroom when we get inside and take care of that. Do it right away or you'll have stains and we don't want anyone to know about our forbidden love now do we?" He pulls away from me, shuts the door, and says audibly, "You're such a treasure, you know that? I'm so glad Jesus brought you to me."

We head into Perkins and I go to the bathroom. He's right, I'm bleeding. Last time I bled down there I had fallen off of my bike onto the pedal and had gotten cut. That hurt then, this hurt now.

I still don't know what to do. I still don't know if I should tell anyone. What on earth do I say? I had told him he could hold my hand. Holding hands was the gateway. Women were the gatekeepers. Men were the commitment keepers. Had I opened the gate? It would seem that I had. I had made him break his commitment to his wife. I was an awful girl. But, he thought I was a treasure. Why? Why did he do this? What had I done to make him think I wanted this? I didn't even know what "this" was. What had just happened?

The rest of the day I don't remember. I know we ate lunch and then went home. 

Unfortunately that Sunday was the first of many Sundays. He molested or assaulted me on a weekly basis for the next three years unless I was away at my grandparents or he at the hospital. He was relentless, but he was careful not to get caught. He was manipulative, and when we were alone he'd be sure to tell me how much he loved me and that no one would believe me if I told. I believed him. I would cry sometimes and he would tell me to be quiet. I would tell him no and he would do whatever he liked anyhow. I stopped saying no. I stopped crying. He always told me to be quiet. He wasn't truly interested in me at all, in my thoughts, in my desires or lack of them. It was all about him. There were times when we were alone and he would assault me in one manner or another and then we'd pray together. Sometimes he would pray for God to deliver him of the temptation of me and I'd pray that as well, I'm sure I meant it far more than he did. Sometimes he would pray a prayer of thanksgiving, so grateful that God had brought me to him. Always he referred to what happened between us in terms of relationship. He thought he was having an affair with me. He thought of me as his mistress. I thought of me in much the same way, due to his groomings of me. I felt so awful about myself, I was quite the temptress apparently and I didn't even know how that was happening. I tried so often to get out of seeing him, getting invited to sleepovers on Friday nights or having friends over, forging a civil and then close relationship with my sister and trying to get her to help me not to have to do things with them. Sometimes that worked, sometimes it didn't. My sister was becoming an adult and although she made as much time for me as she could, she was forging her own path, as she should do at that age.

As an adult, I can see very clearly now how he groomed me, how he mislead me. I see how he was a master at manipulation. I also see some glaring warning signs that my parents missed. Granted, in our small, trusting community, they weren't looking for such signs.

Here were some red flags: My wanting to go with Doc in his car initially and then suddenly not wanting to, that was a red flag. My abusers extreme attentiveness to me and insistence on having access to me. My loving going to his house for a game of spades or a dip in the pool and then protesting going over was a red flag. My sudden grasp of certain sexual things where I had absolutely no frame of reference for those things before was a red flag.

As a parent, I'd encourage you to be as honest as possible with your children about sex. I'd encourage you to start the dialogue about their bodies and sex before they hit puberty, not afterwards. I was ill equipped due to my sheltered existence to deal with the hand I was dealt. Regardless of what your job is, particularly if you are in the ministry, do NOT put other people's needs before your family. Doing so alienates your child from your affections which causes distrust and a lack of self worth.

My parents thought they were protecting my innocence by not talking about such things. In fact, the opposite is what happened.