The Shed

That shed. That damn, hot shed. That damn hot, stinking tin shed. That damn SUFFOCATING shed. That shed, where we put fresh line on the fishing reels. (It’s taken me a while to enjoy fishing again.) That shed, where we fixed bicycles and built stuff. (At least I never lost my love of bicycles; then again, you and I never went bicycling together.) That shed, where you plied us with beer and cigarettes, then made us give you “payment”. That shed, where you said you were gonna “get the gay out of us” and “teach us the proper way to please a man” (I remember you yelling at your wife, when she told you to leave us alone, that it was her fault for not putting out. She blamed her blood pressure meds.) That damn, SUFFOCATING shed.

You fucking bastard. You made me hate old men; especially short, fat, bald men. You made me wonder if all old men were like you. After meeting a few of your friends at the bait shop (where you took my friend–your granddaughter, to the back), I was convinced. You made me hate the sound of men laughing like hyenas. My friend–your granddaughter, would come out of the back room, quiet and sad. Your friends would look at me as if sizing up their next meal. Before the last time I saw you, I remember you telling them, “Not yet, she’s not ready”. You depraved asshole. You made me glad I never had a chance to meet my own grandfathers. I was actually glad they died before I could meet them. You piece of crap. That damn, SUFFOCATING shed.

One would wonder, why in the hell did I keep going to your house? Because my friend–your granddaughter was my best friend. She was the sister I never had. I hoped at first that if I was there, you wouldn’t hurt her. When you began turning your attention to me, she begged me not to tell, and promised that it wouldn’t happen again. Because I loved her like a sister, I believed her. That damn, SUFFOCATING shed.

I remember the last time we met, in that shed. You felt it was time for me to give into you entirely. You hadn’t gone all the way with me yet, but you damn well went far enough. My friend–your granddaughter, with tears in her eyes, told me to relax…it wouldn’t take long. I started to resist, as usual. You hit me. I snapped. Whereas I had been afraid of you, and afraid of the punishment you’d dole out on my friend–your granddaughter, I was no longer afraid. I bit you…hard. Do you remember? I didn’t let the ensuing gut punch stop me. I grabbed your tiny weapon and yanked as hard as I could. As you rolled off of me, screaming like a banshee, I rolled on top of you and started doing some punching of my own. The next thing I remember was my friend–your granddaughter pulling me off of you and pleading with me to leave. That damn, SUFFOCATING shed.

This took place on a Saturday, if my memory serves me correctly. My friend–your granddaughter didn’t show up to school the following Monday. She wasn’t allowed to come to the phone when I called. When she showed up for school on Tuesday, she was black and blue. I started crying, because I knew you did that because of me, and also because she was forbidden from seeing me. You fucking coward. King of that damn, SUFFOCATING shed.

I never told my parents what happened. I had all sorts of reasons that seemed to make sense in my pre-teen mind. Besides, wasn’t it society’s unspoken rule that such things never happened? Two of the reasons I remember well are that I didn’t want my dad to go to jail for killing you, and I felt that I somehow caused you to do what you did to me. Decades later, I know better. That damn shed.

When my friend–your granddaughter showed up at school all bruised up, social services were called. She and her brother, who I found out years later was also abused, were separated into separate foster homes. I only saw my friend–your granddaughter a couple of more times before her foster mom moved out of the state. I only heard from my friend–your granddaughter once after that. I have been spending all these years, about three decades, looking for her. I wonder every day if she actually survived her ordeal. That damn shed.

I spent my teen and early adult years buried under a ton of anger, denial, and self loathing. I joined the military and traveled around the world.  I’ve had a lot of ups and downs, just like anyone else. However, I always felt like there were pieces of me missing. It was when I entered my thirties that I finally started finding some pieces of myself. I began to finally be true to myself and came out of the closet. That damn shed.

Over the years, I’ve learned from my experiences; I’ve thankfully grown much calmer. You might be surprised to find that I don’t hate all men. I never have. Thankfully, I’ve always had wonderful, amazing men in my life, starting with my father and brothers. My time in the military had me working with every type of man under the sun. I still have a strong aversion to old, short, fat, bald men. There is one thing that turns my stomach, no matter who the man is. That is the smell of sweat, especially when it’s mixed with cigarette smoke. If the man has been drinking, I have a deep urge to both puke my guts out and beat his ass into the ground. Yes, you still have that effect on me. Thankfully, I have great internal mechanisms to keep me from acting out. Funny thing, I would have though that booze and cigarettes would have been your demise. But I heard that one of your sons caught you molesting his son, and that he shot you through the heart. I never could find out if that was true, since it happened when I was in the military. That shed.

I’ve traveled extensively over the past several years. No place has felt like home. I lost that feeling of “home” when you started with me. I’ve never felt that I truly fit in anywhere. I’ve only mentioned this to very few; they always seemed surprised. I’m awkward at times in social situations, again, a fact that surprises the same few that I’ve mentioned this too. They all say they don’t see it, since I deal with strangers on a day to day basis, and I’ve done much public speaking and teaching over the years. Everyone sees me as a strong, independent woman who will take on any fight and go to bat for the underdog. They don’t understand the terrified girl who lives inside of me, the one who is wary of strangers, wondering what they are thinking. I tend not to make too many friends because of that. I tend to keep people at a distance. You did that to me. When I first met you, I thought you were one of the nicest men I’d ever met. You welcomed me into your home, and over time, began to treat me like one of your own. Too much, I would later find out. That shed.

It has only been in the past few months that I have finally allowed myself to admit everything that happened to me way back then. It all started with vivid dreams that would have me waking up shaking and sweating. I didn’t want to go back to sleep, for fear that the dreams would start again. I didn’t understand why I was having these dreams. Then, one day, I heard a group of old men down in the barber shop next to my shop, laughing like hyenas over some shared tale. The memories slammed into me like a ton of bricks. I spent the rest of my workday in a fog. That shed.

I’ve been searching even harder now for my friend–your granddaughter, to no avail. I will continue to search for her. Call it a fool’s hope, but I sense that she is alive. If I do find her, she may not want to speak to me, because of the memories. I can accept that. I only want her to know that she is loved and not forgotten. That shed.

Thanks to victim advocacy work I’ve been involved with over the past several years, I was able to recognize what I was going through. I’ve started taking steps toward acceptance and healing. I am still angry at you. I always will be. I will never forgive you, you don’t deserve it. However, I’m not going to let this anger continue to consume me any longer; it’s had its hold on my life long enough now.

I will shed.