Driving and Crying by guest @hiyacynthia
Please join me in a big welcome back to Cindy Brown. This post continues Cindy’s story after her last post on Rachel in the OC, Bad Things Come in Threes.
Driving and Crying by Cindy Brown
I backed out of the driveway and drove toward the tracks. I made it over the rails, turned the corner, and the tears literally exploded from my body like nothing I had ever experienced. Heavy, thick, full body shaking sobs overtook me. I almost pulled over. I shouldn’t have been behind the wheel.
Instead of a DUI, I suppose I would have been slapped with a DWU; Driving while upset. It is one of two times I can clearly remember driving in a state of terrible emotional trauma. It was understandable, considering the circumstances of the previous fifteen minutes. I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
Driving and crying.
How… how could this happen? Why me? Why? Why, why, WHY?
“What am I going to do?”
The question was fruitless. There was no answer.
I was separated from my first husband, living back with my mother and stepfather. I was 21 years old. My husband and I only had one car at the time, so my grandpa loaned me my grandma’s old car. Man, I missed my grandma. She passed away when I was a teenager.
Driving and crying.
I had been packing things up at the apartment, preparing to end my marriage. I’d found a receipt for a hotel room above the visor in our car when he’d stayed out all night. There were other problems. That was just the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. I was done. There was no getting past that hump. At least, I didn’t think so.
Grandpa had been kind in letting me use the car. He was a nice man. Unless he was dressed up for a special occasion, you could always find him in overalls and straw hat. He loved his garden and took pride in selling his fruits and vegetables by the road. He just left the money jar on the picnic table with a scale to weigh the produce. He trusted that people would pay honestly and they always did.
He called me and asked me to drop by the house when I got a chance. He had something he wanted to talk to me about. Maybe it was about the car? Who knew? I figured he wanted to do something nice for me.
Driving and crying.
I went out to his house in the country and got the usual garden tour. My, it was a pretty day! We sat in lawn chairs out back near the garden. He patted my knee lovingly and fidgeted a bit as he began to talk to me about what was on his mind.
“You know, I’ve been real lonely since your grandma died and I know you could use some extra money right now and well… I’d pay you $20 a night to come out a few nights a week and sleep with me.”
Driving and crying.
Shock
Fear
Betrayal
Anger
Disappointment
Rage
Defeat
Emptiness
What emotion did I feel? I don’t know. I can’t nail down one single emotion that I felt in that moment. I was not expecting that to come out of his mouth. No siree, not one little bit.
If my jaw could have dropped wide open like it wanted to, I could have swallowed myself whole. I knew exactly what he meant. I was stunned.
What came out of my mouth in response was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said. I don’t know where it came from. I had to say something, but the words didn’t convey what I felt. My brain wouldn’t work right.
“Well, grandpa, thanks for thinking of me, but I can’t do that to grandma.”
Driving and crying.
Why in the holy hell did I say that? Of all things to say, that was my response? I didn’t even mean any of it in the slightest. WTF!
I guess it was all I could think of at the time to make my exit. I was still too nice to everyone and didn’t ever want to hurt anyone’s feelings, even my grandpa, who evidently wanted to pork me… for twenty bucks. Seriously? Help! Get me out of this lawn chair! What the hell just happened here?
I mustered the strength to lift myself up and start walking to the car. I made small talk and said goodbye. It was the last thing I ever said to him.
Driving and crying.
I sobbed the whole way home. The questions never ceasing, my body and soul in complete shock, I thought the impossible thought.
How am I going to tell my mother? It’s her father, for God’s sake!
I called my sister, still sobbing, and told her there was no way I could tell mom. My sister lived out of state, but I begged her to call her and tell mom for me. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t figure out how.
At least I was telling someone this time, unlike the rapes I successfully hid.
I avoided my mother until she got the call. It was late at night, but I’ll never forget that we took my grandma’s car to his house, attached a note thanking him for its use, and parked it quietly in the back garage without a word.
My husband had raped me in the near-empty apartment just before grandpa called me out to his house to talk that day. That was my third rape. It wasn’t long before I ended up going back to my estranged husband. I was so broken by the circumstances of life that it seemed like a good option at the time.
Driving and crying.
My grandpa died thirteen years later. I was having dinner with my best friend and her family at a pizza joint when I got the call from my mother. I did not shed one single tear.
I took a day off work for the funeral, but didn’t attend. I’d be damned if I was going to spend my birthday paying my respects to him.
He stole the sanctity of family from me. He stole a father figure and male role model from me. He stole what was left of my self-respect and dignity. He stole my respect for older men. He stole all of the good memories I had of him and of grandma. He betrayed her. He betrayed me. He stole the remaining good thoughts about men from me.
When I think of the years it took for me to repair my broken heart, I am sad. It didn’t matter that he didn’t actually physically molest me. The molestation of my mind was a consummated act that couldn’t be undone without a great deal of going through hell.
I’ve reconciled all of my hatred, feelings of self-blame (did I dress too skimpy around him and tempt him?), and learned to love men again. I now have a wonderful husband and a sound soul and I’ve learned, more importantly, to love myself again.
I have forgiven. But I will never forget…
Driving and Crying
About the Author:
I’m a freelance humor writer and I run a humor blog at EverydayUnderwear.com. Beautiful sights, great writing, and things that make me laugh are my main interests on Pinterest. Tweet @hiyacynthia.
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