The first sexual abuse memories that came back were from my second abuser, my best friend’s older brother. He was six years older than us, and it seems like the abuse started when I started to sleep over at her house, at around age four, but he had access to us long before that. He boasted a few times that he used to help change our diapers, but that seems unlikely. He abused us in her bedroom, and in the den when we slept on the fold out couch in order to watch TV. He also abused us during the day, in the pool and in the kitchen, when he was left to watch us.
I couldn’t have told you that I was being abused if you’d asked me at the time. The memories dived under the surface as soon as they were created. All I knew was that whenever I saw my best friend’s brother I felt sick to my stomach and frightened, but I wasn’t sure why.
I stopped sleeping over at their house, abruptly, when I was seven or eight years old, after I couldn’t get to sleep one night during our weekly sleepover. I don’t remember going to bed, and I don’t remember the abuse that night, I just remember pacing in my friend’s room and then walking out into the hall and knocking on her parents’ bedroom door and asking to go home. It may have been ten o’clock at night, but to me it felt like three o’clock in the morning. I called home on the phone in the hall, and Mom came to get me, though I don’t actually remember going home. There’s a lot I don’t remember.
This was my best friend’s house. We’d met as infants, when our mothers took us to Mother’s Day Out at the local community center. We did everything together, for years, except that we eventually went to different schools. She went to a Lutheran school and I went to a Jewish school. I brought her with me to junior congregation at my synagogue, and we danced around her living room to a record of Jesus songs for kids.
“Who’s dancing?”
Looking back, the abuse must have taken a turn that last night, something worse than usual to make me so desperate, but I don’t know what it was. It’s possible that something else woke me up to my fear, or to the idea that I could leave if I wanted to. I don’t know. But I still went over to her house during the day, even though I was starting to be aware that something was wrong. I knew that I felt nauseous each time I saw her brother, and I knew that it seemed ironic (and yes, I knew that word as a kid), that I wasn’t allowed to walk home alone from her house once it got dark, and her brother was sent along to protect me. He liked to carry Nun Chucks. Their parents thought they were keeping me safe from the bad guys by sending him along with me. They never let me walk home alone in the dark, no matter how much I begged.
“Grr!”
My friend and I grew apart for multiple reasons. We were, as I said, at different schools during the day, and my father became more and more religious, making us keep kosher, so that I couldn’t eat at her house anymore. But the abuse had to have played a role too, though neither one of us talked about it, or seemed to remember that it had happened. There was some sort of secret miasma that sat between us in a way we couldn’t articulate. I went to her eighth birthday party, a sleepover, but I threw up multiple times and had to go home, again in the middle of the night.
It took years to piece those pictures together, though, and to guess how old I was in each one, and how one thing led to another. It’s still like a kaleidoscope, with tiny pieces taped together in incomplete patterns; but the memories I have are vivid, and eventually, when we were older, my friend and I were able to talk about what happened and validate each other’s memories.
“Harrumph.”
We’d both experienced amnesia for the abuse. When we talked about it years later, our memories of the abuse were remarkably similar, including the ways we had forgotten about it, but while my memories of being abused always included her sleeping nearby, or being abused as well, she’d blocked out any memory that I was even there.
Flashes of different images came back to me at different times, out of context. I didn’t have words for what he had done to us, sexually, or emotionally, or psychologically. I couldn’t make sense of why he would do those things. I remember these little speeches he gave, telling me to close my eyes and that everything would be fine, telling me that my friend was fine with it so I should be fine with it too, telling me that I couldn’t tell anyone about it because they’d be disappointed in me. My friend was right next to me in her bed, sleeping through his abuse of me, and of her, and I couldn’t make sense of that. I didn’t understand how she couldn’t hear him. I hated how easily she fell asleep.
I remembered hiding in the bathroom one night and holding the door shut, even though it was already locked, and arguing with her father, because I thought he was her brother coming to get me, when he tried to open the door. I remembered standing in their kitchen, with the sun shining on my face, and my underpants down at my ankles. He’d made it into a game, kind of like hide and seek, and I was terrible at hiding. I’m very bad at games in general, but I was also a very slow runner compared to my friend. I remember her leaning out of her hiding place and asking why no one had found her yet. I remember being terrified as her brother counted down, because I couldn’t think of anywhere good to hide.
“I could have helped you, Mommy.”
It wasn’t until I’d been in therapy for a few months, at age 19, after years of remembering parts of the abuse, that I felt strong enough to confront my friend’s mother with my memories. The family had moved out of the neighborhood and it was a long drive out to see her. By the time we got there I was too scared to get out of the car, so Mom had to talk to her first. That’s when we found out that my friend had already told her what had happened, a year or so earlier, but had only told her about one other little girl who’d been abused, and not about me.
My friend called me in the middle of the night, that night, for the first time in years, to talk about our memories of the abuse. She had no answer for why she hadn’t mentioned me to her parents, when she confronted them with her own memories of the abuse. She said that she just didn’t remember that I’d been there that much. She even named someone else, a boy, as her best friend from that time. It was part of the dissociative response, I guess. That’s the most sense I can make of it. She had told herself that we weren’t as close as I knew we’d been, and that I hadn’t spent as much time at her house as I knew I did. Something about remembering that I was abused too was more than her brain could handle. And even her mother, who could have guessed that I was, at least, a potential victim, had forced herself not to think about the possibility. But in the next sentence, my friend told me that it was my fault that she was so bossy to her friends, because I’d let her get away with that behavior when we were little. She saw me as the template for all of her later friendships, but she couldn’t remember that I’d been at her house constantly, for years, being abused right along with her. No matter how much my therapist tried to explain dissociation to me, I still had a hard time with that.
My friend’s parents made a special trip to see my parents, a few weeks later, and I tried to listen in on their conversation from my bedroom upstairs, but I could only hear the clinking of glasses, and laughter, while I sat in my room, shaking with fear, and anger. The one line I remember from Mom’s description of the conversation later on, was that my friend’s father had said, well, it gave her something to write about, or something to that affect, because I’d given my friend a story I’d written about the abuse, which she then shared with her parents, and her brother.
My father’s response to me, the day after seeing my friend’s parents, was that he was “surprised to find out that the memories were true and not just your fantasy.” This was said with a smile.
“This is worse than Grr.”
The validation of the sexual abuse by my best friend’s brother was probably the trigger that allowed me to look at the even darker memories I had around my father. I’d been hinting at abuse by him to my therapist, telling her about all kinds of weird things he’d said, about how children under five don’t remember anything, and children under three don’t feel pain. And the way he took me on “dates,” and the way he tried to get between me and my mom, and bribe me with presents, and the way he’d used religion to control me. There were so many things that were off, overtly, about my father and the relationships within the family, but it wasn’t until after the validation of my memories of abuse at my friend’s house that I could even contemplate the other images that kept swirling around in my head.
And even then, it was a long process, with images being pieced together over time, and body memories finally being verbalized, and memories I’d always had being re-examined. I started to recognize that the same way my memories of the abuse at my friend’s house would fade to black, memories of time spent with my father, in the darkroom developing pictures, and in the dark, period, faded to black too.
Why am I writing about this now? Because I was doing one of my language learning apps and the word for “eel” came up in Hebrew, and below it there was a sketch of an eel, and suddenly, memories of the abuse by my friend’s older brother rushed back; memories that I’d supposedly worked through ad infinitum over the years, and resolved, over many years of therapy. The images of a squid and an octopus, both phallic-adjacent, had bothered me in earlier lessons, but it was the eel that pushed me over the edge.
I resent the way memory works, but I’ve gotten better at dealing with the consequences of these triggers, and honoring the need to process what comes at me, with as much patience and self-compassion as I can muster. I used to think that I could force all of the therapy work to be done at one time, and on my schedule, and fully under my own control, but my brain refuses to let me. It decides when I’m ready, and when I’m not.
Maybe someday I will know everything that happened, and I will stop feeling like there are ghosts waiting to jump out at me from behind every curtain. But maybe not.
If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.
Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?
rachelmankowitz 
“Like” seems like the wrong response to this post (though I did “like” it), but I’m glad you’re getting this out in the open where you can deal with it.
Thank you!
My feelings are identical with yours, Suzanne!
Was your friend’s brother ever brought to face up to what he had done, any of it?
I don’t know. The problem is that some people who abuse as children never do it again, and others continue for the rest of their lives, and it’s hard to know which ones are which. Ideally, therapists intervene early, and either stop the abuse or warn the family that they have an ongoing problem.
This is very brave Rachel. I almost always read your posts, and I admire your fortitude and honesty. Thank you for putting this out there.
Shahar
Thank you for reading! I really appreciate it.
There’s nothing I can comment that doesn’t somehow trivialise this but when I got to the end I skipped back to the beginning to see this monster was only 6 years older than you. How does this happen? Thanks for sharing. I’ll get hold of the book for sure.
Thank you so much! Unfortunately, most abusers start young, in response to being abused themselves. We tend to think of children as resilient, but what they really are is malleable, they grow and adapt to their circumstances.
I hesitated to click like here. but I appreciate the fact you are able to tell us about these horrific experiences from your past. I wonder if the triggers (such as the eel) help you to work through the memories.
They do! I just wish I could schedule the triggers to fit my own timeline.
I’m sending you a great big safe social distancing ((HUG)), Rachel.
In my case, I have so many memories that I wish I could forget. But, there are a couple of memories that remain mercifully blank. And, silly me, I keep trying to remember those. The human mind is very complex.
Very complex, and fascinating!
I feel like beating the hell out of that kid and his family and saying. “What is wrong with all of you?!” I’m glad you are able to get this out, Rachel. I hope this is helpful to anyone else who is going through this or has gone through it.
Me too! Thank you!
You are incredible, Rachel. Both as a survivor and a writer. Incredible. Thank you for sharing your story.
Thank you so much!
Damn Rachel that was a heavy read, thanks for the bravery of sharing such an intense memory.
Thank you for reading!
All I can say is that I have learned (the hard way) that telling our stories help us navigate through the pain. Virtual hugs.
Thank you! It really does help! And the hugs help too!
I know that if I look up the words brave, courage and intelligent I will see you.
Thank you!
The horribleness of people never ceases to amaze me. Stay safe! 💖
Thank you! You too!
It’s at moments like this that I feel so limited by a button labeled “like” because I truly despise what happened to you and the flippant manner in which the adults handled your abuse. So instead I leave a comment of support. Rachel, You are a gifted writer. I admire your ability to take a reader on the journey of life along with you. I look forward to your Saturday posts because I know I have much to learn from you. Give Cricket and Ellie an extra treat from us and Adi sends a big labrador lick.
Thank you so much! Cricket and Ellie are demanding MANY extra treats these days, but at least they give kisses in return.
“Like” is such an inappropriate response to this post, Rachel. But you are very brave for sharing it. Thank you.
Thank you so much!
It always amazes me how memories are triggered and how the brain works. I’m so sorry you had to go through all of this. You’re so brave for writing about it!
Thank you! Brains are fascinating!
This makes my heart ache. Prayers for you..
Thank you!
Oh, my goodness what powerful writing, Rachel. My heart aches to read of and think about your complex journey. I hope you can continue to find some help with your therapist and your own soul searching.
Thank you!
Oh, my dear friend and fellow writer. I have missed reading your work. My, you have really grown. Your post makes me cry for us, and for all of us, all over the world, who were little kids once…and had that jewel of childhood ripped from our hands and shattered into a million shards.
. I have been doing primarily visual art for the past 4 years, as you know, my Dad’s death took me down the rabbit hole for quite a while. My visual work has been getting some good responses, but, like you, I can really be set free by writing.
. Thank you for being so brave, sharing your story, your memories, your fears, the abuse you suffered. I still have flashbacks too, been learning not to expect them to go away, but to manage them. Just know that by sharing you DO make a difference, because somewhere out there is someone just like us who has not experienced the relief of putting it “out there”. Out of that hiding place where it can be exposed as what it is, and that it in NO WAY reflects on US as people. It was the evil owned by someone else, and it is out of us and we don’t have to hide it or hold it anymore.
. I always liked a technique I learned in sobriety when I was loaded down with shame and self-condemnation for my past; the sponsor suggested I write it all down, all that ugly baggage, and not showing it to anyone else, have a little private ceremony whereby I could set this list on fire and watch the ashes just blow away. I really found it freeing…
Unfortunately, fire is a trigger for me. And smoke. My mom tried burning sage to clear the apartment and I felt much worse. But the writing part…that always helps!
We did a grief ceremony where we wrote on dissolving paper and then put the paper in a bottle of bubbles and blew the bubbles away. It was the same idea, without the fire.
That sounds wonderful!
Looking forward to reading your novel!!! Congrats Published Author Lady!!!
Thank you!
Words fail me when I think of what some “humans” do to other humans, let alone children. It took real courage to face this. Stay strong and stay well Rachel. Allan
Thank you!
I wish you healing and hope as you continue to go forward Rachel. ❤
Thank you!
Sending you bear hugs ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ I’m reading your novel at such a slow pace. I’m only on chapter 5. My brain seems to have shut down during this lockdown period. ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿
I can totally relate! Thanks for making the effort!
ღゝ◡╹)ノ♡
the frailty of life is barely noticed, as we arrive in this world…
… it’s heartbreaking… the pain of our innocence, the meteor showers that try to pound us to dust before we’ve learned even the possibility of bloom. may the persistent hearts of your canine friends be the bodyguards of your living soul; may you find kindred souls with whom to amplify the music of creation from the background of awareness, with love.
Today Rabah!!!!!
This is so incredibly painful. An awful ordeal to have lived through. I’m really sorry this happened to you ….
Thank you!
Oh my God sweet Rachel, you are so more brave than fearful. Oh, and such an amazing writer! You write to the core of things. When you are anxious, just stop and think about how much strength it takes to do what you did.
I rarely feel strong or brave, but I DO feel loved. Thank you!
Rachel❤. I cannot imagine the pain you have experienced in this journey called life. You are truly brave for sharing your story. I wish you complete healing am praying for you💕💕
Thank you!!!
That was a disturbing read and I cannot in any way imagine what you’ve gone through but I appreciate that writing about it helps you.
Thank you!
It’s certainly true that bad memories are blocked out for the most part, a survival mechanism I presume. Though some bad memories can also reoccur daily like a stuck vinyl record. Writing is certainly good therapy…
Yes, it definitely helps.
You have faced so much! you are so brave.
Thank you!!!
I’m not clicking like for this post, but I want you to know that I’ve read it, and really admire your courage and honesty.
Thank you!
Incredibly well written post on a very difficult subject. Thanks.
Thank you!
Sending you hugs and love ❤️
Thank you!
You’re welcome!
So glad you are processing this as it comes. I could have had the same thing happen but for some reason when my friend’s older brother approached me it was during the day and I got scared, ran home and never went back. I don’t remember my age but still have the memory and the feeling that went with it. Your’s is so much more than that one incident. It makes me angry that this not only happens but if someone tells they are not believed.
I’m really worried about kids who are stuck at home right now with nowhere to go for help.
The ‘hidden’ memories of abuse we suffered as children is, I think, common. Maybe it’s our young age (I was four), or the brain’s knowledge that as children we aren’t strong enough (yet) to handle the reality. My own abuse was from a neighbor’s son. He was entering adolescence and the therapists I’ve talked to about it (after the memory popped up) said he was probably experimenting. That is very cold comfort. It doesn’t begin to excuse the behavior in my opinion. It’s been 56 years now, and it still angers me if I think about it, so I try not to. I’m going to write a post of mine own about what you’ve written here. There are a lot more of us (abused as children) than is known, I think.
The reason why you’re not comforted by the idea that he was “experimenting” is because that’s just not how it works. Sexual experimentation among children is based in close, trusting and equal friendships, where both children are willing and aware. If one child forces, or manipulates, a weaker, younger, less willing child into sexual behavior it is a clear sign that he or she is acting out abuse previously done to them. And it is NOT okay, for either child. As long as therapists are uneducated about this, and authority figures minimize the damage, the abuse will continue.
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So sorry you experienced this pain.
Thank you!
“Liking” this post seems wrong on so many levels. So very sorry you endured this abuse and childhood trauma. No one should be subjected to this, much less a child. I hope by sharing your experiences and feelings, you find some resolution and peace.
Thank you!!!
I came into contact with stories like yours through fostering. They were horrific to me then and even more so now. I cannot put into words my respect for you Rachel, and sincerely hope that you can lay the ghosts to rest, or at least meet them on your own terms. ❤
Thank you!
Rachel, I am so sorry you or anyone has to go through these abuses. Thanks for sharing them as lessons for us parents, uncles and aunts, friends, etc. to heed what is being told to us by children and ask more questions. The abusers are good at masking their abuse to others, be it sexual or violence, so the victim is too often not believed. Keith
You are so right! Listening to children, asking questions, and letting children know that they are loved, believed, and respected makes an enormous difference.
Not marking “like” because of like but out of admiration. For your story and more so for your survival. I’m so pleased that you’re alive and also lively. I enjoy the company of your dogs as you share them with us.
I’ve met with a counselor and a spiritual director, but there’s still so much about abuse and memory of abuse that I do not understand. I can appreciate that we have ways of dealing that might become difficult for being merciful. The forgetting, denying, recalling only in parts. I feel sick, though, when reading about the abuse taken at all lightly by others.
Your talent for clarity is evident and so, so helpful. I grieve for the friendship you had with your friend, enjoying (I hope enjoying) both Jewish and Lutheran experiences and many other times. I mean, I grieve because friendships change over time, although this relationship evolved through the tainting of abuse.
Thank you for sharing this part of your experience. It becomes a matter of (positive) concern for others and also, importantly, for others. Stay safe and well, Rachel. Woof to the dogs.–Christopher
Thank you so much!
I had no similar experience, but I do firmly believe that relating your own in this way can only be positive, and helpful. Not just for you, but for so many others who have spent their lives in silence or denial. You have done a very good thing here, Rachel.
Best wishes, Pete.
Thank you so much!
You are so brave. I have suffered similar things too.
I’m so sorry!
As so many of your readers say, Like is not what we do with this sad post of yours, but we certainly all feel for you and the things you had to endure. No wonder you are so fond of your dogs who never let you down. You are so brave to face up to it all and bring it out, and there should have been some kind of punishment meted out to your friend’s brother, no matter how long ago it was. True he was young himself but he must have known it was wrong. Wonderful writing Rachel .Keep smiling through! Hugs and love to you.xx
Thank you!
As many commenters have already said, I couldn’t press ‘like’ for this one. I am so sorry this happened to you, and for the completely callous way in which the adults handled it. It makes me very angry.
Me too. Thank you!
I’m so sorry for what you endured, Rachel! No child should have to endure that kind of hell.
Thank you!
I have no words.
It took me a long time to find words for myself.
Heartbreaking, Rachel. ❤
❤️
It makes me so mad to hear you went through this. I admire you for working through it.
Thank you!
hugs
Thank you!
Thank you for bravely sharing.
Thank you for reading!
Heartbroken for you