The House of Black and Grey

Note: Read "Small Beginnings" for a glimpse of my early childhood.

Written 14 February, 2006

The place I've come from, this place I'm in and always will be at, gnaws at my heart, my mind, my flesh. It is a darkness that cannot be understood by those who have never been in that dark corner, that house of black and grey memories. They are black and grey because we've either blocked them out, or the time between now and then has watered and blurred the images. This is a house of pain, of scars, of deep secrets hiding in the shadows. We live together in this house but we often do not know it. We bind our secrets to the wall erected in front of our hearts; we use them as our defense. They are secrets. They are hidden. No one else can see them. Not even those who hold the same secrets. We live, eat, breathe, sleep in this house. We work and go to school in the fashion of the rest of the world. That ignorant crowd. They are blessed in their ignorance of this house. The door to this house opens easily for those coming in. Those who enter can never leave. The door is barred. There are no alternate escapes.

"The truth will set you free." The truth has set me free from the guilt and shame that for so long weighed upon my shoulders. It has given me strength to live life with joy. I will not say that the Truth does not have the power to completely destroy this house, but the day for that has not yet come. Someday all will be made new. Someday this house will no longer exist. But not yet. Until that day, we are hiding wanderers. We cry in our hearts more than the tears it would require to fill the oceans. Black and grey. Others remember in color their young years. All of them. There is a very large grey blur from the ages of seven to eight, perhaps nine, that time has diluted and the heart has eluded. In that same age range, my memories are black. Only patches remain, thank God. I have blocked out most of the memories, but one will always remain: it happened. I can't remember to tell you if it happened against my will. Guilt filled memories are not reliable sources of truth. The story that I always told myself was that I started it. It was my choice. My fault. My stupidity. Me. It was all me. Or was it? In this house, does anyone really know? Am I to be forever haunted by the question: could I have prevented my molestation?

There it comes out. The name of this dark and lonely secret. This corner of pain and shadows. This house that one can enter, but never leave. This house of secrets that thousands, perhaps millions carry, yet none care to share. Thus, they go on in loneliness. Most go on in shame. We are living in this house. And every day, more children enter. It is a dark and lonely place. Having more company here won't help. Don't send them our way.

Part of me is gone. Those who live in this house have a part of them missing too. God help us. God save us. Beware.

~~~~~~~~~~

As the journal entry above reveals, a tragic event occured in my early childhood. I was met with the misfortune of molestation. I only remember glimpses of what went on, and it is neither necessary nor appropriate for me to go into detail of what I experienced. But as the entry above also reveals, it was a dark mark upon my childhood, something that was still haunting me thirteen years later. I do remember an immense feeling of guilt, however. I blamed myself for what was in fact a great wrong done against me. As a child I did not understand, nor was it explained to me what had gone on or what the implications of it were. I was left to deal with it on my own. My parents knew, of course. I had confessed the whole thing to them one night after a bath had failed to cleanse me from the dirty feeling I had within my heart. But after they confronted the person who wronged me, and made him apologize to me, the subject was like a mist blown away by the winds of time. We simply did not talk about it.

I am certain that my parents were at a loss for how to handle the situation. Who expects that their child is going to be molested, or that something equally traumatizing will happen to them? Who knows how to handle such a thing, after the unthinkable has happened? It was a tragic addition to my already tear-jerking tale. And tears became my nighttime companion as I cried myself to sleep, feeling the weight of guilt and shame over what I had done. I was not angry at God. I was afraid of Him. I was afraid that He would never forgive me. And so I would cry, and cry, and cry, and beg for Him to forgive me, until I would lose myself in my tear-stained pillow and fall asleep.

It was a burden that no child should have to bear, and yet, I bore it alone. It was such a lonely existence, for no one could comfort me. They could not comfort me because they were either ignorant of my sad state, they were a party to it, or they did not ever bring themselves to talk about it. And I did not feel the freedom or the boldness to speak of it to anyone who knew of it, let alone any who had no knowledge of what I had gone through. I was living in the world with the rest of my family and my friends, but I was part of another world of which they had no part, for they did not understand or know of it. I was living in the house of black and grey memories, and I could look out at the colorful world through the distorted glass of guilt and fear, where everyone else seemed to live such happy lives. Oh to be free from my prison! Oh to reclaim the color and life! But how?