Grandfather’S Favorite Girl

By Jasmine Inari Jarden

This book is a journal that will take you on a roller coaster ride traipsing through my severely distressed mind as I work through the recovery process from past childhood sexual abuse. Going to a counselor twice a week, journaling daily, and experiencing the extreme emotional highs and lows all while keeping these secrets from my family was very painful and tricky. You will go step by step with me as I work through many issues such as feelings of shame and worthlessness, playing the blame game, and low self-esteem, just to name a few, in an attempt to regain my sanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499011593

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Copyright © 2014 by Jasmine Inari Jarden.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 05/06/2014

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Contents

Preface

Chapter One Running Blind

Chapter Two Anger Is a Scary Thing

Chapter Three Pulled into a Black Hole

Chapter Four Sinking! Sinking! Sinking!

Chapter five Men Placed on the Back Burner Is Good for Me

Chapter Six Loneliness

Chapter Seven They Never Noticed Anything

Chapter Eight Bonding with Friends Drifting from Family

Chapter Nine Running Away from Home to Avoid the Issue

Chapter Ten Grams’s Curtain Call Closes

Chapter Eleven I Didn’t Know

Chapter Twelve Don’t Blame the Little Girl

Chapter Thirteen Fly Away, Little Girl

To my mother and grandmother, who inspired me to do and be something bigger and more than myself in life. They also provided me with numerous examples of how to be a strong woman in this world.

PREFACE

E NCLOSED BETWEEN THESE book covers is a journal of some major past hardships. They required me to see a counselor then twice a week. I could not live one more day as I was, and now I’ve chosen to share my skeletons with you readers.

I remember that first day that I walked into the counseling office at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville. I was so determined and so scared. I was determined to get the answers I wanted and scared to start the process of opening the dark closets I had locked and tucked far away in my mind. Walking into that office was like a drowning person’s last surface and hope of rescue before going under forever. What caused me to open my eyes was an incident that happened the night before. I had been dating a man named Larry. He was a good ole country boy from North Carolina. The relationship was strained. I was not able to put much into it as usual. Larry wanted to move to the next level. He wanted a commitment, more sharing, and more emotion from me. We finally had it out that night, and he said some things to me that pushed me into reality.

He declared his love for me but said he was uncertain as to how I felt about him. Larry told me that he never knew what I was thinking, what I wanted, and where I was coming from or where I was going. He wondered if I even cared about him. I could not believe he would say such things to me. I spent as much time with him as he wanted. That was a biggie for me; I would not share my time with anyone unless I liked them a great deal. I spent so much time and energy trying to hold the pieces of myself together, and the fact that I relinquished some of that time to be with him was a definite hint of how much I liked him. Of course he knows nothing of the importance of time to me. I did express to him that he should know that I liked him by the fact that I shared my time with him in addition to my body. I let him do what he wanted to my body so he would be happy.

He argued his point some more, and I argued mine. We eventually ended the relationship that night, but before it was over, he made me see that I was sharing my time and my body and nothing else. Then I realized that all my relationships with men in the past ended for the same reasons. Later that night in my home, I could not sleep, not wanting to believe the things Larry said were true. But when I tried to figure out what I wanted or where I was coming from, I could not deny it any longer. I wanted nothing, not the most expensive car in the world, not diamonds, not fur coats, not friends, not even life. I did not know where the hell I was coming from and going, nowhere except maybe toward death. You see, I had decided that I could not go on this way anymore. There was only one way that I might have a chance to live—to find help or end it all. I realized that I needed help. I may have always known but pushed that thought away.

So there I was, filling out a questionnaire a woman in the office gave me. When I reached the question that asked what problem I was having, I looked up. I did not want that woman to know why I wanted help. She was not going to be my psychiatrist; I just wanted her to recommend someone qualified to help me. So I finally wrote that I wanted her to recommend a good doctor to help me with childhood sexual abuse. When she called me into her office, she questioned me about my sexual abuse. She said her name was Patricia and that she could give me the names of a couple of doctors that were good and would work with me about the fees. She asked if I attended the university (University of Tennessee at Knoxville), and I told her that I graduated last year. Then she said that I could see a counselor here, and it would not cost anything because a percentage of my tuition paid for their services. I expressed my doubt about their qualifications. She assured me that the staff there were professionals and qualified to deal with such cases. I still had money in my school account at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville. I decided to use that resource. I was also working as an assistant manager at a convenient store in Maryville, Tennessee.

She looked down at my questionnaire and said, You are here about sexual abuse? Would you like to talk about it?

I said, It is so hard, and broke down and started crying. She asked gently if she could ask me some questions. I said, Yes, only if they were yes and no questions. I could not bear the thought of talking about all the things my step-grandfather had done to me. The next two hours I spent with this woman asking me a series of who, what, when, where, and by whom, and I was just nodding my head yes or no or pushing out one-word answers. I thought the session was horrible. For one short second, I felt like I was floating on salty water because I was no longer weighted down with the horrible secret. Someone else knew who was supposed to be on my side. Like I said, it was short lived. That old feeling of being buried two hundred miles under, trying to dig myself out, overtook me again. I was no longer worried about keeping the secret. I had a new worry now. What was going to happen now that I had opened that dark closet for someone else to enter as well as myself? I had never looked inside. Now I was about to let someone else down the line.

The woman asked me if I wanted to come back to see her, and I answered yes. It was not because I really wanted to continue this; I knew I did not. It was more because I felt trapped. I felt obligated to come back since she spent two hours of her time with me. I also felt like it was the proper thing to do. I did not want to be rude. Lastly, I felt like she wanted me to continue, so the well-trained me followed the unspoken instructions of an adult. The next two visits were unsuccessful as far as I was concerned. I did not know what to say. She would ask me what I did between visits. I could not even remember sometimes. So we would talk about what I thought about school, my job, and the weather. The weather was always a good topic when there was nothing I wanted to discuss. There was very little I was willing to talk about. I decided then to keep a journal, at Patricia’s recommendation, not a diary, of my daily events. I considered diaries a weakness. I had heard of many instances when diaries were confiscated and secrets revealed. I have never heard of this happening with journals.

This is how my journal came into existence. I am revealing this journal to tell my story, to bring closure, and to be truly set free. I have accumulated a fairly large journal during my therapy. I had reached a breaking point in my life when I began therapy. I was considering taking my own life. I was tired of the hurt, hate, pain, anger, loneliness, guilt, and sadness. I just did not feel as if I could go any longer.

Henceforth, you are about to read a day-to-day account of my recovery from thirteen years of sexual abuse and how I am to discover intense feelings of love for my mother, grandmother, and, most importantly, myself.

This story is about my recovery from 1986 to 1989, and it is the toughest battle I’ve confronted. The good part is that I’m winning. It feels great because there were so many times where I almost did not make it. What I am trying to achieve in this book is complete honesty. I think the readers will attain a greater understanding this way. Understanding is a major concern. I want the public to talk about incest. I hope that many psychological centers are established or expanded to help people like me and their families. Yes, incest is still prevalent in our society. Yes, we are still trying to hide and cover up this evil. I couldn’t even get my publisher to print my manuscript in its original state. Yes, families are still ashamed of its existence. I want someone who is going through or has experienced some form of sexual abuse to find truth, hope, love, understanding, concern, sympathy, strength, and freedom within these pages.

My end state has been for this composition to provide people reading it an understanding of what I went through personally during recovery, with the hopes that it will help set another abused person (of sexual assault of any kind) free. You have to tell. You have to talk about it. It is painful and scary, but the end result—freedom—is worth it all. Trust me, I know.

CHAPTER ONE

Running Blind

T HE FIRST TIME Timmy, my step-grandfather, invaded me and took the relationship to a different level between us was so humiliating and scary. I was up late watching a movie, and he was up as well, apparently waiting for everyone in the house to go to bed. I guess I could have always gone to bed early to get away from him, but I knew he expected me to stay up with him. He did not make me do things out of physical fear but rather out of mental fear and control. The times I did go to bed early, he would offend me in my room while my sister slept next to me. I was terrified she would wake up and see what he was doing. Most times I just did what he wanted without him saying a word because I knew what he wanted and what he was going to do just by looking at him. I was well coached at the tender young age of eight. Nonetheless, after everyone was in bed asleep, my step-grandfather would close the gap between the two of us on the sofa and start invading me. I would disappear into some dreamscape where he was not there or continue to watch TV, wishing with all my might until I was there in the program. Sometimes I could accomplish this and participate in the television program instead of what Timmy is doing. I felt smothered when he was on me…

Okay, let’s go back about thirty days or so.

19 September 1986

I went to class today. The classes are so short; nothing is really accomplished within the fifty-minute period. The class formed a French club yesterday, and I was nominated as the official tutor. I was quite pleased about that turn of events even though I felt grossly inadequate. I do not know enough French to tutor anyone. This class is so simple I do not think it would be so difficult to answer a few questions from the students. The reason I signed up for the class was because I felt myself sinking into a deep depression. I had no reason to get up in the morning. It worked. The sinking feeling has stopped. I still had funds left on my biological father’s government education benefits to use, so I continued to take a few classes at the Tennessee State.

I just finished playing racquetball with a man named Ricky. I met him at my store this past June. He sold insurance for Gulf Life Insurance. I was interested in a medical policy, so I told him to come back in eight weeks. He did and gave me his pitch. He surprised me somewhat when he failed to make suggestive passes toward me. I had already figured him to be a horny little married salesman. Could I be wrong? He was the perfect gentleman at the gym today (guess I will wait and see).

I did not take the policy with him right away. I wanted to shop around and compare rates. Those policies are so expensive. However, I kept playing racquetball with him and continued to see him on a friendly basis. I am at work now; I just finished reading a story about a man’s fight against Satan and his ultimate return to God. It brought back childhood fears of judgment day that I still carry with me to this day. I would rather God skip my turn and just send me straight to hell. I did not want to know what I let my grandfather do to me. It is like I have been carrying this dirty film on me for many years. I feel like I will not progress any further unless I get it off me.

I have since learned that God is love, peace, and joy. I was blinded by the molestation and could not see God’s love for me clearly when it was obvious he was carrying me the entire time through this ordeal. I still, to this day, wonder why I had to go through this experience.

20 September 1986

I just went to work today. I hate getting up at 4:30 a.m. The day passed uneventfully. Wayfred brought me breakfast; he is such a sweet man. I have never been pampered by a man before. In the past, men were always about what they wanted and did not consider what I wanted. I cannot let myself become attracted to him because he is in the family way (married). Roger called. He is also married, forty-one years old, and quite handsome. I do not know why I have sex with him. He does not excite me. Maybe because it pleases him so much to have sex with me. I did not realize it then as I do now that my grandfather trained me to satisfy men. I want out of this relationship, but I cannot seem to take the initiative and end it. It is funny now how I never realized these things until I started keeping this journal.

Sept 21, 1986

Wayfred brought me breakfast again. My, my, my. Some of these men that visit this store have some of the most superb bodies I have ever seen. Playgirl would be like a kid in a candy store here. I am at work, by the way. Sometimes I think about the term counseling, and it is basic theory, and I am at a complete loss for understanding it. I know that it has been proven effective time and time again, but I do not understand how it is going to help me conquer my past by talking about all those dirty things that lay hidden in the closet. I feel guilty about coming here.

Sept 22, 1986

I went to class today. I am beginning to become fed up with it. The teacher is so unorganized I have not learned a thing I did not already know. It is the same material I learned in French I at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville. I picked up my paycheck, paid the bills, and now it is gone (money). I am so lonely. It seems that no one is on my side. Just got off work and I am trying to study my French lesson. I am so tired. Something got to give and soon.

Sept 23, 1986

I went to class today. It was okay. The student government (SG) president came by, and she embarrassed me when she introduced the class officers. She said, This beautiful young lady is our tutor. I felt like crawling under the floor. How could she say something so untrue? I know how I look, and it is certainly not beautiful.

My grandmother is mad at me because I am not in a talkative mood while she is. My sister Saela was admitted to the hospital today; she may have an ulcer and may need surgery.

Wayfred came by today and brought me dinner. He said he was glad he had a friend in me because that is just what he needed right now. His marriage is not progressing very well. This made me realize that I am always something to someone. My mom is always saying I am her backbone. My granny says the same thing. I do not really mind that. Who am I kidding? Yes, I do mind. I would like someone to be my backbone.

Sept 24, 1986

I woke up this morning to go to class and decided not to. I am so tired. I cannot continue this pace every day. It is too exhausting. I am listening to Donahue this morning. There is a lady who was a guest on the show. She mentioned that she hated her father because he beat her mother. My grandmother was on the phone and only caught part of the statement. When she hung up the phone, she asked me if the woman said her father raped her. I got mad and said with a sharp voice, No, does every woman that hates her father hate him because he raped her?

25 SEP 86

Dear Little Girl,

Today I had tea and bagels with Dennis, who is a married insurance salesman I know. We had a good conversation. I don’t quite know what to make of him.

I went to my counseling session, and afterward, I feel like an idiot for crying all the time. I hardly ever cry. I realize now that I had established this wall of numbness where I would not allow myself to feel. It protected me mentally during the years of my molestation. I even took this wall with me into the army as a soldier. I also recall my family always referring to me as cold and without any feelings. That would hurt me so much because they just did not know what I had endured. At the time, I did not think they could understand. I thought they would think it was my fault and that I was a horrible person. If