Elephants never forget

Yesterday on Miss Britt's blog, I read a sobering post. And I remembered something, even though I really would prefer not to.

See, I have this story... this event... this thing that happened to me a very long time ago. In actuality, it was two events, not just one, but they are part of the same story. And I have told exactly two people in my life. VERY BRIEFLY told two people, because I have such mixed feelings about it.

I don't even know what you call it. But it's been an elephant in my closet for years, and even though I've gotten over it, the fact that I haven't told the story still keeps the elephant there.

And trust me, my closets are packed to overflowing. That damn elephant really doesn't fit well. One small event can yield a pretty large elephant.

The first part happened sometime in my mid-high school years. My ugly-as-hell bedroom was being redecorated from the faded, cracked gray wallpaper that had been there since... oh, probably since my great-grandparents put it there. It was so worn that you could see the brown wallpaper backing on the front of the paper. The white ceiling paper was just as bad.

The new paper - still ugly, but at least yellow and green instead of gray - had been hung, and white tiles put up to cover the ceiling. Dad was just finishing installing a coordinating yellow & green shag carpet on the floor in place of the worn out antique area rug that I could remember watching my little brother pee on the time he sleepwalked to the "bathroom".

I stood in the doorway to my new room, in awe of the colors radiating from it. Not in awe of their ugliness... in awe that there were colors at all. This was so much better than faded and dirty grays, whites, and browns! And dad asked me for a thank you kiss.

I've never felt comfortable hugging or kissing my parents. It was something we just didn't do in our family, until one of my brothers was paralyzed in a serious car accident when I was 14. Almost losing one of us seemed to draw their attention to the fact that life was transient, and overnight they became more affectionate. Overnight was too fast for me, but I tried.

So I gave dad the hug and kiss he requested, though a bit reluctantly because he always gave his kisses on my lips. And this time, I felt his tongue trying to probe. I kept my mouth firmly closed. But I couldn't keep all of the ickiness out.

I tried to put that memory out of my mind in subsequent years. It was a one-time thing, and I avoided anything that might cause a repeat of it, until I began to feel a bit more comfortable again.

A few years later I was home from college for one of our breaks. College had allowed me to embrace the night-owl in myself. I loved staying up late to get my alone time, and I'd often hang out in the dorm lounges, watching TV alone until someone new wandered through. Then we'd sit together, watching TV and chatting late into the night.

Those habits didn't easily transfer back to my parents 7:00 am to 10:00 pm schedule. One evening I started watching a TV movie, and mom and my younger brother both went to bed. I was sitting on the floor. Dad was also up, I think in a rocking chair, but I don't really remember.

What I do remember is that somehow his hand began cupping my breast, over my shirt. I remember a comment asking if those were all mine. Which almost made me laugh because there isn't much now to call mine, and back then there was far less. But it also made me freeze. Because this was my dad, not some college guy in a dorm lounge at 2:00 am.

I sort of enjoyed that from college guys. To be honest, that might be one of the reasons I turned into a night-owl. I was pretty good at keeping anything from happening that I didn't want to happen. Except when it was my father. I froze. I don't even remember what I mumbled... I probably answered his question. I just remember the shock and uncertainty and more shock. Not knowing what to do.

I went to bed, my thoughts still going in circles. I should have done something. I could have done something. But I did nothing. Shock. Fear. Guilt. Confusion. They all spent the night sparring inside my head.

The next day, dad caught me alone and apologized. He didn't know why he had done it and promised it wouldn't happen again. I knew he meant it. I forgave him. But since I didn't understand why it happened, or why I allowed it to happen, I kept blaming myself to some extent too. And I put the elephant in my closet so no one would know about it.

Years later, just prior to the birth of our first son, my husband and I were discussing his mother being in the delivery room with us. He brought up my parents being there as well.

That was a tough one. I wanted them there, more for them than for myself. See, my siblings and I were all born in the 50's and 60's. And back then, fathers were not allowed in the delivery room. Dad begged and pleaded when my youngest brother was born. And his doctor was sympathetic, but couldn't allow it. He said the hospital would lose its license if he allowed it. (Hard to believe how times have changed, isn't it?)

Even though dad wasn't able to see any of his children born, I could let him see a grandchild be born. I wanted to give him that opportunity... that special gift. But after what had happened, could I be comfortable with my dad being in there?

Eventually I decided I could. And that was when I knew I really HAD forgiven him. Up until that point, I wasn't sure.

But the elephant remained, a big, gray, smelly secret wedged into my closet. Not even my husband knew this secret. He probably wondered why my closets were so crowded, but I couldn't tell him. He never had a decent father, and he looked up to mine. How could I let him think less of dad?

I still can't tell him, or anyone who knows dad. I still don't even know what to call the things that happened... my elephant remains unnamed. But maybe I can free a little closet space by telling you.