Maybe I’m a whore. But your husband touched me first.

I was 9. I was spending more time at my grandmothers, my mom was in school. I remember my grandaddy not being around. He passed away with cancer a few years prior. My brother was always with my dad. I was always staying somewhere by myself trying to be kept busy or preoccupied. One particular day, I can’t remember if it was during a summer day or the weekend, I was looking for something to do; something to get into. I asked my granny if I could go to the red barn. I vaguely remember my grandaddy in and out of it. It was a two story, old, red barn probably used for storage for things that would get lost or forgotten over the years. To a nine year old though, there were adventures and treasures that were already discovered, but always held interest.

I remember going up there with my mom and aunt, they were looking through things and calling out who they used to belong to, how they played with things, who made a old timey, now raggedy blanket that held more sentimental value than body heat. I’m not sure why, but every time I got to the highest step I remember my aunt telling my mom that their grandmother, my great grandmother, made this specific blanket, to many colors to really describe. I remember her holding it up as she stood and watching the old fold fall out and dust dispersing throughout the old room. My mom looking over to the corner in the left, in front of the window where my aunt stood and my mom is holding up an old toy from the back wall stooping in front of an old bookcase, I can only assume my grandaddy had made to use the space most efficiently.

I don’t remember ever going back to the old toy room, after that; especially by myself, but that's my first memory of that room, in that barn.

It’s funny how 25 years could pass and you still cling to a memory. A memory that’ll mold you, twist you, alter your thought process, or instill fears that most will never understand. Most will never understand why you hoard the traumatic events that made you who you are, then question why you are the way you are.

Then you’ll question yourself. Why does it still bother you? It’s been so long ago, it doesn’t even matter. Why is it important to talk about now? Why is it important to heal from it now? Nothing can, or will be done. Nothing was done then, why do you think something can be done now? It can’t, it won’t, you’re wasting your time, and maybe so.

I asked my granny to go to the barn, to pass the time, play with toys that were probably too brittle to the touch. I’m sure it was agreed to because of the many times I expressed how bored I was. Granny was standing at the kitchen sink, like she normally was, that looked out directly to the barn. I walked out the back door, feeling my granny’s eyes on my back. I remember walking, not running. It’s nothing to run to, I’ve seen it, I know what’s there, it’s just to pass time, maybe accidentally drop an old china bowl and sneak down before you get caught and reprimanded.

I walk across the yard, past the old rusted truck and fig tree to my right. I walk up the 3 or 4 concrete steps, and step into the barn and stop. To my right, my aunts husband, my uncle is standing at the woodworking bench. I never knew what he was making, I never asked either. Even though I was already granted permission, I politely asked if it was okay if I went upstairs to play with the toys. I remember him emptying his hand onto the wood bench with a playful smile as he walked over to me. In my mind, its as if in one swift motion he was standing to my left with his hand slid across my back and placed on my right shoulder. “Want me to go upstairs with you? We can play house.” he says, as he slides his knee up my body nearly to my undeveloped chest. I didn’t know this inappropriate at the time, but something didn’t feel right. I remember my body tensing up and stepping away, backwards? To the right, away from him? “Hmmm?” he makes sure I heard him. “No, thank you.” I stammer and stumble around my decline, but I remember responding softly, timidly, cowardly, with immediate regret of coming into this barn. He responds “Well if you change your mind, let me know, and I’ll come up.”, he steps away and towards the workbench. I lower my head like a puppy who had just been punishing for relieving itself in the floor.

The steps are about 8 feet directly in front of me. I don’t even want to go now, but my small brain can’t comprehend or process what just happened. That’s my uncle. He’s always so nice. He’s always smiling and wanting a hug. I pivot to my left and slowly look up the steps with my hand placed on the hand railing to my right. I was always a little scared of the steps. They seemed to go up 90 degrees when you’re that young, that and the adults telling you the steps and floor is old and could cave in at any moment. Step retract, the floor didn’t cave. I slowly ascend the steps as if I was going to catch Santa placing the toys out himself. The motion of catching Santa and a elf, not the emotion. I was listening. For footsteps. For the floor to creek. For a voice to startle me. For doom? How the fuck did I know to slowly pace myself and listen for something behind me? I’m still not sure, BUT I KNEW.

Up 90 degrees 8 steps, turn left, up 90 degrees 8 or 9 steps. I felt like I was on the roof. Little did I know, something left me, something I’d never get back. I’m not even sure I know what it is, even to this day. I finally reach the top of the steps. I look around to my left, only a dusty wooden wall to my right. An old rocking chair catches my attention, holding Christmas lights, just from the season before, storage, I don’t know why I always looked at that rocking chair like I always wanted to sit in it, throw my head back, and rock and soothe myself. I took a step towards the “treasures”, two steps, stop. Listen. One second. Two seconds. One step. Two step. Stop. Listen. I turned around back towards the steps. I stopped and listened. I scanned the large room holding God knows what, with the afternoon sunshine coming in the dusty old windows. I can’t tell you what my nine year old brain said, but I reacted to “Fuck this”. I headed back towards the steps to leave this now creepy ass barn that I want no parts in.

Fuck the toys. Fuck the blanket. Fuck the rocking chair.

I descend the steps the little faster than I took to go up, and in case you’re not following, I wanted to get out of there. I won’t running, but I won’t trying to sneak up on Santa either. I’m not even going to say I remember exactly what was said to me as I was walking towards and looking out the door like a bright light at the end of the tunnel, all I knew, all I remember is I needed to get out, and I didn’t want to stop. I walked into the barn, I ran back to my granny’s house.

So sure, maybe more men have touched me than I should have allowed, “men in nine counties” like you said, but your husband was was the first.

That was only the first encounter. The first time my brain altered and put men in a box in my head that sabotaged any future I had envisioned for myself. The first time my self worth took a hit that it would never repair from. The first time I’d question myself before I even knew myself. As time passed, the more I came to visit, the more it happened. They stacked onto each other like Legos. As I got older, the assault became more aggressive, for your sake, your husband took a hint. His verbal comments, groping, and grabbing is where it stopped. He invented someone who wouldn’t fight for herself, because it didn’t feel worth it. He created someone who would take a step to the side to allow what she was inevitable, if not from this one, from the next. He threw together someone who would make any and everyone a threat when it came to her own kids. He created a monster that would devour her everyday, every year, until she figures out how to stand up and face the fear, that she’ll bury but never forget about, for decades.

This may sound like I’m going to let the other stories, my stories, HIS stories, disappear and be forgotten withing the healing. I’ve learned I don’t heal that way. I have to talk about it. I have to scream about it. I have to let my nine year old self have her moment. To tell her side, because you, he says it never happened. But to have such vivid memory, placing everything exactly where it is, knowing where you stood then, and where you stand now, and knowing you’re position isn’t much different. I will let it be known. And maybe you’ll never read it, maybe this will slide under the door or the red barn to never be acknowledged. It can be swept away or under the threshold, but he knows. I know.