Child Abuse Story From Darlene Barriere

by Darlene Barriere
(Kamloops, British Columbia, Canada)

I was 12, almost 13 years old the first time I was molested. I was babysitting at the time. My mother had volunteered me to sit for her friend's two children—one who was a little girl of 4, the other who was a baby boy of 8 months—while my mother and her friend attended an Al-Anon meeting. For those who don't know, Al-Anon is a support group for the spouses of alcoholics.

I knew the little girl loved to dance, so I brought a couple of my music albums so that she and I could dance before it was time for her to go to bed. The baby was already asleep when I got there.

The mother of these children was on welfare. She had no luxuries to speak of. She wore no make-up. She cut her own hair with a pair of dull sewing scissors. And the only two dresses I ever saw her in both came from the bins at the goodwill store. She had no telephone, no radio and no TV. The only electronic equipment she owned was an old record player.

The cupboards were bare, except for two cans of tomatoes, generic brand macaroni, a pillow-sized bag of puffed rice, powdered skimmed milk and two boxes of baby food. Buckets and pots and pans littered the kitchen floor, strategically arranged in an effort to keep rain water at bay, rain water she often heated on the one working burner on her stove in order to draw a warm bath for her children. The landlord had replaced the faltering hot water tank with an unpredictable used one, so she constantly had to turn the main water valve off. The back door leading to the kitchen was off kilter and wouldn't lock. I had once overheard her tell my mother that her alcoholic husband offered no child support, and that she suspected he was "doing things" to her daughter. She also said that thankfully, she hadn't seen or heard from him since her son had been born. I wasn't sure what she meant by "doing things," but I knew whatever it was, it was bad.

An hour or so after my mother and her friend had left, and after I had put the little girl to bed, I heard a racket coming from the kitchen. My heart leapt into my throat; it was too early for my mother and her friend to be back from their meeting. Besides, I hadn't heard my mother's car pull up in the driveway, and I knew they would have announced their presence as soon as they entered the house.

I tiptoed toward the children's bedroom to make sure they were okay; I was relieved to see both of them sleeping soundly. I slowly made my way to the kitchen, praying, hoping on hope that it was my mother and her friend, and that I was being ridiculous and afraid for absolutely nothing.

I peered around the kitchen doorway to see who was in there. A balding, big-bellied man was stumbling through the maze of pots and pans, carefully protecting the six-pack of beer he had tucked under his right arm. I couldn't call the police. I didn't know what to do. I didn't even know who he was.

"Where are my goddamn kids?" he said when he caught a glimpse of me at the doorway. "I wanna see my goddamn kids."

I was terrified. "I'll call the police if you don't leave," I threatened, gathering up all the courage I could possibly find.

"Ya? And how do you think you're going to do that with no phone?" he replied with a laugh. He tripped again on one of the pans sitting in the middle of the floor. His six-pack was still safely supported by his right arm.

"Please, just leave," I said. My whole body was shaking.

"This is my house and I'll goddamn well leave IF and whenever I want to," he replied, coming at me. "Now where are my kids?"

I couldn't stop him. The guy was as big as a house. So I stepped aside and followed him through the hallway, toward the kids' bedroom, still pleading with him to leave. I tried to block him from entering the bedroom by squeezing myself between him and the door jamb.

"Well, aren't you the sexy little thing," he said, groping at one of my breasts with his free hand. I wanted to puke. My heart felt as though it would jump right out of my chest. All I could think of was protecting the kids.

"Why don't we talk in the living room," I said, trying to lure him away from the bedroom.

"If it means watching your sexy ass, lead the way," he said invitingly as he grabbed and squeezed one of my butt cheeks. My knees were trembling so bad, it took everything I had to stop myself from dropping to the floor.

"Put some music on and dance for me," he crooned as he paced the six-pack of beer on the end table. He plopped himself on the couch and reached for one of those beers. Then he rifled through his pockets, looking for . . . something. When he found his keys, he used his keychain to open the bottle.

"Dance for me," he said, this time more forcefully. "I wanna see you wiggle that cute little ass of yours."

I wanted to protect those kids; I did what he wanted.

He guzzled from his open bottle of beer. "Show me more leg," he ordered.

I needed to protect those kids; I did what he ordered.

"Higher," he said, licking his disgusting lips.

I had to protect those kids . . . .

He put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed me into his right side, nearly in a head-lock. Fear and the stench of beer and sweat and car oil turned my stomach sour. He forced me toward the second bedroom. He threw me onto the bed and flopped himself on top of me. I couldn't breathe. His hot, wet, rancid tongue made its way from my shoulder to my neck, all the way up to my ear. I was sobbing. My brain was screaming "Stop!" but my heart was yelling even louder Don't let him near the kids!

"You want me, I know you want me," he whispered in my ear. He ran his filthy paws over my breast. He rubbed himself against me.

"Please don't hurt me," I said in a barely audible cry.

Suddenly, dead heavy weight on my chest. His head fell on the bed beside my ear. It took all my strength to heave him off of me. My virginity was still intact.

When the mother of the children got home, I told her that her husband was passed out on her bed, drunk. "I protected the children," I said. "He didn't touch them. I promise he didn't touch them." She was near to tears.

I didn't tell her that I enticed him into the living room. I didn't tell her that I had danced for him. I didn't tell her that I didn't fight him. And when I got in the car, my mother could tell that something was wrong. "What happened?" she asked me, her eyes the size of silver dollars.

I told her that her friend's drunken husband had let himself in through the kitchen. "He passed out on her bed," was all I said.

I was twenty-four years old before I learned that what happened was not my fault, that "letting" him do what he did to me did not make it my fault, and that I had nothing to be ashamed of. But you see, until I was twenty-four, until my therapist helped me put things into proper perspective, I really did believe that I had everything to be ashamed of.

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