When I am writing this, it will be a week until my 23rd birthday. 12 years since you died and 15 years since you assaulted me.
The memory of what you made me do all those years ago flash like every photograph my mom forced me to take with you after the incident. I was just a kid, eight-year old Mariely, snacking in her grandparent’s room while she watched cartoons, a normal kid activity. You came in, I assumed to grab something quick and head out again but you locked the door.
My heart rate still speeds up remembering, and I bet yours did too knowing that you would get to enjoy yourself. How could you?
I was a kid, the youngest in the family with so much responsibilities on me and you knew we were close, you would give me money for snacks and watched movies with me. I can’t eat eggs anymore because of what you did. Was caring for me when my parents were working a part of your master plan to coerce me or did the opportunity came up in your disgusting brain when you saw me in your room? I’m surprised I can still eat ketchup after that incident too. I hate that most of my memories from 7 to 9 years old are blurry because of what you did. I use 8 years old as a pin point in my memories because the memory of forcing me to pleasure you the way I ate my snacks is the only thing I can remember since it was so traumatic. I pray to God that you didn’t do the same to my sister but if you did, I hope you’re burning in hell forever.
Was it because I was seen as exotic to you, an elderly male, white Cuban to an eight-year-old, from a white passing Dominican mother and an Afro-Dominican father? Years after you were gone, my dad told me that he wanted to keep me safe and never left me alone in a room with a man again. Was it because of you? Was it your disgusting actions that made my father so overprotective of me after? I wonder if he ended up fighting you, I wouldn’t remember; the only memory I have left was you using me to pleasure yourself.
At my young age, I was used as an adult by my own family members, knowing too much about money, social standing, having to be a translator at 7 years old, and made me a super helpful child; a perfect child. One to pick up after herself, not be so loud, bringing food to older members of the family. But you saw it as an opportunity to use me, abuse me, just for pleasure. I was already being treated as an adult by my parents and you did too, in your own fucked up way.
And it still sticks me with me now, the older men, who could be my own father, catcalling me right when I hit puberty, hugs from male members of my family making me uncomfortable because one wrong move and I will feel their penis on my thigh and they could relish in the feeling on my chest pressed up against theirs. Wearing long sleeves and jeans so I wouldn’t be perceived as desirable so men wouldn’t have sexualized me just like you did. I slouch my shoulders because I hate when men see my chest, even with my small breasts, I still know that there’s perverts who would perceive me as younger and attempt to abuse me. Gross men at amusement parks rubbing against my form reminded me of what you did. I leaned more into male hobbies, like cars and wrestling because being perceived as a female was a death sentence in my head. You destroyed me, but I destroyed myself even more.
You died and I was relieved, everyone was sad, but I was glad I didn’t have to keep up a front anymore.
I’m alive and thriving, sure, I have my days where I feel like I’m only lovable if I’m being used, but I’m getting better.
You are dead, and I am in the process of being reborn.
You are dead and everyone who loves me is alive.
You are dead and every time I remember how you used me, I want to commit suicide so I wouldn’t have to see you standing over me.
But I remember that it’s only a bad memory and that I can choose how it affects me and I choose that you will no longer have control over me.
Dear grandpa, I hope you are not well, but know that I’m getting better.
dreamscape 