Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert
When I was a toddler, my mother bought me the most adorable little green dress paired with cute white bloomers. It was the early 60s, a time when children were encouraged to go outside and play. It was a more innocent time, and neighbors looked out for one another’s children.
One day, I found myself at my grandparents’ house, where my great grandparents were staying as well. As I tiptoed outside through the swinging screen door, the sound of it banging shut echoed through the yard and sidewalk. It was then that one of my great grandfather Sam’s friends called me over to his front porch. Filled with curiosity, I eagerly climbed up the stairs, taking each step with my tiny body, and settled down next to the man.
He engaged in conversation with me, our exchange filled with the simple joy of connecting generations. After a little while, he kindly invited me inside his home for a cookie. If you can imagine the unthinkable, that’s what happened. I was a toddler growing into a child. What he did damaged me not only physically, but profoundly as the years went on. What I am not going to do is list the details of this event, because to do so would give credence to any pedophile who might read this book and I will not engage. What he did was fundamentally wrong he changed the course of my life forever.
As I made my way back to my great grandmother’s room, blood trickled down my legs. A heavy sadness weighed on her face. It was a different time back then, where tragedies and traumas were kept tightly locked away within the confines of one’s heart. Seeking help from psychiatrists was unheard of, and even if they were available, people rarely sought their aid. Family matters were held close, secrets hidden beneath calm facades. She took my panties off, cleaned me up, put new clothes on and tossed the bloody mess in the trash can, along with any voice I might ever have.
In the aftermath of what had happened to me, silence prevailed. The incident was never spoken of, never acknowledged. Its impact on my mind, however, was profound. That day marked the birth of my dissociative amnesia, a defense mechanism that allowed me to detach from the memories that haunted me. It became my means of survival, a coping mechanism I would carry with me for the rest of my life.
In a world where support was scarce and talking about personal struggles was frowned upon, I found solace in the ability to dissociate myself from the trauma I endured. It became my shield, guarding me from the overwhelming weight of my experiences.
Though those times have changed, the impact of my dissociative amnesia remains. It is a testament to the lengths we go to protect ourselves in a world that may not always offer the understanding and support we need.
Reba Nietert 