Tonight I finished reading “My Dark Vanessa” by Kate Elizabeth Russell. It took me two days to read the novel. It was impossible to put down and also brutally painful to read.
I don’t want to give a book review here. Instead, I want to talk about how this book made me feel.
A few weeks ago, my first boyfriend, Cason J. Lee, was arrested for sexually assaulting his children. I’m not gonna go into any specifics here. That’s not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about belief.
Do I believe the girls? Because I’ve seen online banter about how girls aren’t to be believed. (Something this novel also tackles, btw).
HELL YES. Of course, I believe them.
But where’s the proof?
Proof? You want proof, do you?
I gave birth to my first child TWO months after my 18th birthday. I was impregnated while barely 17. But I was 16 when it started. He was 19.
He used to make jokes that he would call me “jailbait” to his friends. Everyone laughed. Ha Ha. I heard it myself. I didn’t understand it. I was a literal child, and nobody took the time to explain the joke to me until much later in my life.
He provided me with a steady stream of alcohol, parties, and an escape from my impossibly broken family life.
In exchange, I just had to lay still and not scream while he fucked me. I could cry. I did cry. I cried the whole time. “Do you want me to stop?” he would say, but he never did when I would say “Yes”. “I’ll hurry up,” he would say instead. Bite the pillow. He’ll go to sleep soon after, then you can cry in the shower until the water is cold.
When my oldest child was conceived, I told him no. He didn’t listen. He begged. He pleaded. “It’s not fair,” he said. It was never fair. I looked cute. I shouldn’t dress like that. My shorts were too short. My shirt too small. It was my fault. (He chose my clothes much of the time, anyway.) Halfway through, he stopped, but I didn’t see why. I was told years later that he made a joke out of the fact that he removed the condom halfway through so I’d get pregnant. Even my daughters have heard him joke about it. It’s embarassing to me that I was so naive, I didn’t notice the difference. Everyone says you can tell, but back then, I hated it so much, I could never tell.
Once, I pretended to be sick for two months so he wouldn’t make me have sex with him. Then, he said he didn’t care anymore. He did it anyway.
He made me watch pornos in the living room with our small children and his friends. He laughed and said it was funny.
He took pictures of me while I was a minor with his Polaroid camera, and he would show them off to his friends, and I had to smile and pretend like I liked it. When we broke up, he refused to return the pictures. He probably still has them.
When we moved into a house together, he drove me to his friend’s parents’ house. Inside, he introduced me to them. “This is Ma and Pa. They’re your parents now.” And I was only allowed to see my real parents when I threw a tantrum big enough to be a problem. Screaming, breaking things, threatening to move out, threatening to call the cops. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” he would say. “They would arrest you for lying.”
I developed a crush on a coworker once. The kid was barely 18. My ex invited him to a house party, then proceeded to get the kid so drunk he passed out on the kitchen floor. When the party was over, he took the kid somewhere and dropped him on a porch. Made me sit on the bathroom floor with him all night while he took a bubble bath and told me what a slut I was, that I didn’t deserve him, that he could do what he wanted now because I had cheated by liking someone else. He kept saying he was going to kill himself. He paced the driveway with a knife that night, kept sticking it into his skull, telling me I was making him do it even though I was far away.
For years, he tormented me, long after I left him. When the kids wanted to do something, an activity or event. If he was in a mood, they weren’t allowed to go. That included therapy, school events, and doctors’ appointments. When I threw a fit, we fought. It would always end the same. “If you want the kids to do this, you know what has to happen,” and we would have sex. I wouldn’t cry anymore, but instead, I would go somewhere else in my mind. A place where someone loved me and didn’t want to make me cry. A place where I was still a kid, and I still had a future.
This continued until I married someone else. There were a lot of other relationships during that time. It continued through all of them. Most of them knew and thought it was funny. They all abused me in their own ways. Guys are just silly that way.
My ex controlled everything about my life. I couldn’t go to the store, the library, the gas station, etc., without him or one of his henchmen siblings at my side. I never had my own money, even when I worked. I would steal things that I wanted because he wouldn’t let me buy anything.
I lost myself. He took what was left of an already broken girl, already damaged from abuse she can’t speak of yet, and he shattered her more.
YES, I BELIEVE THE GIRLS.
BECAUSE I LIVED IT, TOO.
How many times did he tell me that if I left him, he would kill himself, kill me, kill my children? (In graphic detail, I might add. Ever had anyone describe to you how they would murder their own children? It’s an experience you don’t recover from.) How many times did he stare me in the eyes as I cried and begged him to stop while he pounded into me, while I clawed at the sheets and tried to get away?
DOZENS.
HUNDREDS.
THOUSANDS.
I lost count.
I made excuses for him. “His mom abused him,” “His dad abandoned him.” “His stepdad abused him.”
SO WHAT?
I couldn’t see it before, but I see it now.
I was abused too. SO WHAT?
I chose not to do it to other people.
I am not a monster. I was NEVER the monster.
If you blame the girls, you’re the monster.
That much is Black and White.
I thought since I got away from him, I could bury the past and move on. But the past has a way of coming back to haunt you. My demons are banging on the door, demanding attention. Demanding that I don’t continue to ignore this.
Because who’s next? I’ve spoken to a handful of girls about their experiences, and it’s all bad. I know there are more.
Maybe I was the first. Maybe I wasn’t.
It doesn’t matter where I fall on the list. My name is on it.
He put it there, not me.
I WAS A FUCKING CHILD.
PERIOD.
Until Next Time,
Cathy Marie Bown
Cathy Marie Bown 