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An old man & his granddaughter - stories from my childhood
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When I was a little girl, my grandfather (my mother’s father) would take me with him while he went grocery shopping for his wife. We would walk down a small road in Dombivili, past the teenage boys playing cricket, past Kamath uncle’s snacks store and uphill towards the flour mill. But first, we would go to the vegetable vendors where he would pick out…
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Nearly every day at 4 p.m., for years, he would summon me to bed. His acts were unthinkable, but now I'm ready to talk.
In Michelle Stevens' powerful, just-published memoir, Scared Selfless , she shares how she overcame horrendous child sexual abuse and mental illness to lead a satisfying and happy life as a successful psychologist, wife and mother. Here, an excerpt from the book:
Since birth, I had been Michelle Brechbill. Daughter of Judy. Granddaughter of Evelyn and Glenn. Now, with the flick of a pen, I was Mooch (a nickname) Lundquist, daughter of Gary, new student at his out-of-state school. In 1976 no one seemed to question any of this. No one seemed to care that my school records displayed a different name or that Gary was not my legal guardian. We weren't even related. He was just my mother's boyfriend. But social norms dictate that we do not insert ourselves into other people's personal lives. Being polite means keeping one's mouth shut.
And so I, the newly minted Mooch Lundquist, became a third grader at Delaware Township School. My classroom was on the first floor of the elementary building — just a staircase away from Gary. Every day at 3 p.m., as soon as the bell rang, I was expected to climb those stairs and report to Gary's desk. Inevitably, a few of his favored 10-year-old students would still be hanging around — joking with him or sitting on his lap.
Some days Gary would oversee an after-school activity. The gifted and talented club was invitation only — Gary's invitation, that is. Trouble was: Gary had no real training or authority to be administering IQ tests. Instead, he gave kids a short multiple-choice test, the Mickey Mouse kind sold in bookstores. Then, based on his findings, he labeled certain kids — the kids he liked and wanted to spend more time with — as "gifted."
I was gifted, according to Gary. This was a real convenience, as he demanded I join his, and only his, after-school clubs. He signed me up for his drama club too and encouraged me to sing in the school talent contest. On the night of the show, various kids performed their acts, and the winner was chosen based on audience response. Gary was among the judges who awarded me first prize. After that, I was given the lead in all the school plays that he directed.
To the other parents, I suppose it seemed that Gary was harmlessly lauding his new daughter. In a certain way, he was. Not because he actually thought I was gifted or talented. Gary was a narcissist, and narcissists view their families as extensions of themselves, as trophies. Gary believed he was superior, so it was imperative that the world see his daughter as superior too.
Behind closed doors it was a different story. Gary treated me with a dizzying blend of over-involvement, neglect, overindulgence and cruelty. With Svengali-like skill, he quickly took over every aspect of my life, dictating what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.
Gary dictated what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.
He also strove to monopolize my time — an easy accomplishment since my mother left for work before I awoke and didn't return until evening. During the school year, this meant Gary had me all to himself for an hour each morning and at least three hours every afternoon. Once summer came, he had me all day, every day, all to himself.
Summer was the time when Gary could really play out his S/M (sadomasochism) fantasies and treat me like a full-time sex slave. This meant being subjected to daily "training sessions" — intense periods when I was explicitly instructed on how to behave and think like a slave. Much like a dog must be trained to sit, to stay, to heel, practitioners of sadomasochism believe a sex slave must be trained in how to speak, sit, serve. In short, like a dog, she must be taught total obedience.
Gary's dungeon was in the basement. Because he had to avoid my mother's prying eyes, though, he could not leave it permanently set up like other S/M enthusiasts. Instead, he left a series of nails and hooks attached to the ceiling beams, which could quickly and easily hold a harness, a rope or some other type of bondage device. While much of Gary's paraphernalia had to be kept hidden, I could tell he also had some fun in displaying a few tools of his trade. The dog cage, for instance, was left in plain sight — folded up in a cluttered corner where it appeared to be waiting for the next garage sale. He also kept a wooden paddle hanging on the wall of his home office, which he jokingly told guests was for "errant children." Little did they realize it was no joke. Nor did most people realize that he kept a set of metal handcuffs in his desk drawer, right next to a stun gun and his handgun.
I can't remember being threatened with the gun — although it may have happened. (Due to amnesia, as well as the normal forgetfulness of memory, there are many details about my abuse I can't recall. I know this because, over the years, eyewitnesses have told stories about my abuse that I cannot personally remember.) I do, however, remember Gary threatening me with the stun gun repeatedly. He even used it on me once. Once was all it took. For after experiencing the excruciating, utterly indescribable pain it inflicted, I never, ever wanted to experience it again.
When he wasn't hurting me, he lavished me with parental attention. On the long drives to and from school, he would initiate conversations about history, politics and art. We ate nearly every meal together while he instructed me on things like table manners and ethnic cuisine. He gave me my first typewriter and influenced my decisions to become both a writer and psychologist. He took the time to open up the world for me. He was my first and most significant mentor.
Under my mother's care, I'd been neglected and deprived. She was constantly at work, leaving me alone and lonely. Gary preyed on that loneliness. Like any skilled pedophile, he identified what I needed, and he gave it to me. He made me feel special, talented, smart.
Even sexually, staying on Gary's good side had its advantages. For once he felt I had become sufficiently trained and submissive, most of the torture tapered off. Afternoons in the basement were replaced by the bedroom. And his fervor to cause me pain was replaced with a passion to bring me pleasure. I suspect it made him feel powerful — like more of a man.
Nearly every day at 4 p.m., for years, he would summon me to bed for what can only be described as a lovers' tryst. The weird part, of course, was that his "lover" was just under four feet tall and weighed less than 60 pounds.
Nearly every day at 4 p.m., he would summon me to bed.
There was also the inconvenient fact that his official lover, my mother, refused to vanish. Unable to ditch her physically, he did it emotionally instead. Every evening, he locked himself in his home office. Every weekend, he went to his store. As I was expected to work for him, I followed wherever he went. Very early on, my mother began to notice this pattern, and she didn't like it. Not one bit. Being immature, she didn't handle the situation with grace. She felt excluded, which she was. So she began to yell a lot, mostly at me.
One particular Saturday morning (we had probably been living with Gary for about six weeks), I was in the bathroom getting dressed for the flea market, just as I did every weekend. But my mother wasn't happy, so she stood in the doorway, whining. "What're you gettin' dressed to go there for? Huh? You oughta be staying home with me."
Just then, Gary came into the hall. My mother cornered him. "I want Shell to stay home with me," she demanded. "She's down at that flea market with you way too much!"
Gary, as always, remained calm during my mother's onslaught. Nonchalantly, he remarked, "Why don't you let Mooch decide what she wants to do today? She's perfectly capable of choosing."
With one quick remark, he had abdicated all responsibility for the situation. Instead, all blame was now placed squarely on me. At 8 years old, I was being asked to choose between my mother and Gary. It was not a real decision, of course. Gary knew this. If I chose Gary, he would immediately whisk me away from my mother's ranting — and probably offer some kind of reward. But if I chose my mother, there would be no one to protect me from Gary. Crossing him would mean paying for my sins.
So, I chose Gary, and my mother flew into a jealous rage. "The flea market!" she screamed. "You can't go to the flea market! I'm your mother! You're staying with me!"
But Gary was already whisking me out the door. "You asked her to choose, and she chose, Judy," he said. "Live with it."
It was with this kind of scene that Gary was able to drive a wedge between my mother and me. I am certain that if Gary could've gotten rid of my mother entirely, he would have. He lobbied hard to adopt me, but my mother resisted. Despite being naïve in many ways, she knew that if Gary became my legal parent, he would dump her and seek full custody.
Thankfully, she never fell for the trap. Still, I'm astonished that she chose to stay with a man whose deepest desire was to kick her to the curb and steal her young daughter.
Personally, I know for a fact that Gary considered me his true lover. I know because he told me so. Constantly. "You are my real wife," he would say to me each morning as we drove together in the car. "You are my real wife," he would say to me each day as we worked side by side at the flea market. "You are my real wife," he would say to me each afternoon as we lay naked in the king-size bed he would share with my mother later that night.
He told me, constantly, 'You are my real wife.'
When he said it, I didn't quite know what to think. I knew he meant it as a compliment because he said it so often and with such pointed intensity. But my 8-year-old brain simply could not grasp that this 33-year-old man saw me as his mate. I was just a little girl. He was with my mother. That made us a family. He was my father, and I was his child. Right?
That's how I saw it. That's how I wanted to see it. I just wanted to be normal like other kids. I just wanted to have a normal life.
So when Gary said, "I'm only with her for you. You're the one I really want," it confused me. I felt uneasy. Guilty, I guess. On some level, I knew it was very wrong. The guy was telling me to replace my own mother. This made me feel terrible. Despite her shortcomings, I loved my mother and felt a deep and innate loyalty to her. Gary, on the other hand, scared and repulsed me. The last thing I wanted to do was compete with anyone — let alone my own mother — for his affection.
This excerpt was adapted from Scared Selfless, My Journey from Abuse and Madness to Surviving and Thriving with permission from Putnam. Michelle Stevens, Ph.D., is a psychologist and founder and director of Post-Traumatic Success , a nonprofit dedicated to educating and inspiring those affected by psychological trauma.
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Short Story – Lolita Photo credit: danielito from morguefile.com
A new person had appeared in their colony and for Arjun who was always looking for change, she became the subject of close scrutiny and wide speculation. The usual questions of who, from where, went around in the neighborhood, but no one would go forward to speak to her.
Every morning when I left for school, when all the neighborhood was awake with men going to work, children to school and women washing clothes or vessels outside their doors, her door would be shut. In the afternoon when I would come back, which I hated because these eight years of my life had given me enough reasons not to return. Nevertheless I always came back because I knew my mother was waiting for me, afternoons were the only times that we could sit together and talk, I would tell her all what happened in school that day and she would patiently listen to me and after lunch she would go for her work.
Today when I returned I saw the new lady having a big fight with her immediate neighbor, I went forward to see what was happening, “You bas*ard, better tell your wife not to wash your dirty clothes outside my door, you understand?” she was shouting.
The man with an angry face went inside his house and closed the door, then I could only hear the screams of his wife, which was very common in all the houses, so I came home constantly thinking of the new lady. My mother was waiting for me, I told her about the fight while eating lunch, she didn’t speak to me because she couldn’t, today her face was bruised. After the lunch she gave me a hug and went for her work. I was alone at home and could not stop thinking of the new lady, her fierceness, her arrogance, her anger, she was different, different from all the women in the neighborhood, different from my mother.
After some time I went out to play cricket with the other boys. I was famous for my batting, I would hit the ball so hard, it was six most times and four the others. I loved the game, hitting the ball with all my might, the ball reminded me of my father and I would hit it harder. While playing I saw her, she was looking at me and gave me an impressed paan smile. I turned my head away and continued playing, she sat there for a long time looking at us. My mother came back and called me home, the day was over for me. I went home and sat in a corner beside her. She was doing her work. For every small noise from outside both of us would look at the door.
When I was having my dinner he came in, holding first the door and then whatever he could find to support himself. I looked at my mother, she told me to eat fast and go to sleep. He came and sat beside me. Now my mother was constantly looking at his movements and I was trying to swallow the food fast, at last I got up.
“Are you giving me food yourself or should I make you do that?” he shouted glaring at her.
Mother hastily served him. By this time I was on my mat, my head covered with the blanket I had. After some time I slept and he was still having his meal.
Next morning I got up between his snores, mother was washing clothes outside. In an hour I was out of the house for school and as always the new lady’s door was closed. When I returned she was sitting at her door, I went home and had lunch with my mother. After she left, I went out, the new lady was still sitting at her door. I went to her and asked, “What is your name?”
“Come in I’ll tell you”, she said. I hesitantly followed her inside.
“Sit here”. She pointed towards a small chair.
“But what is your name?” I was getting nervous; I decided that as soon as she tells me her name I would run outside.
“You’ll have some sweets?” Before I could answer she brought me some. Sitting beside me she answered my question,
“My name is Lolita and what is your name?” I took one sweet ate it at my own leisure and then answered her, “Arjun”. She just laughed.
“What does bas*ard mean?” I asked her at last.
“Yesterday you called your neighbor a bas*ard and then he did not fight with you”.
“Oh, bas*ard means a bad man, a very bad man. Anyways you want to watch T.V.? ”, she asked me. I nodded in the positive and she put it on. I saw ‘ Sholay’ , the whole movie and I loved it.
In the evening when I heard my mother calling out my name I got up, when I reached the door she asked. “Hey, will you come tomorrow?” I smiled and ran to my mother.
Next day after my mother left for her work I went to Lolita. “What movie do you want to watch today?” she asked me.
“Amitabh Bachchan’s I love all his movies.” I quickly replied.
“Because he beats up all the gundas and drunkards.”
Smiling she put up ‘ Deewar’ and sat beside me with a plate of sweets. I smiled and we both sat together and enjoyed the movie.
When I returned home my father had already come and was beating my mother for money, “You bi*ch you are not worth anything you know!”
He was shouting and hitting her simultaneously. With all my courage I went towards him, “You are a bas*ard!!!”
I shouted and ran outside. I came back late in the night, he was snoring, I went straight to bed.
Now all my afternoons were spent with Lolita. We would watch movies, play games or talk. It was very easy to be around her, I did not have to look at the door or sit in one corner. I was free here.
One afternoon I came to her beaten.
“Hey, what happened to you?” she asked me looking at the bruises.
“They told that you keep all the men under your control. I said that you are atleast better than the mothers who can’t even control their husbands, at this they got angry and beat me up”.
“What did you tell your mother about this?”
“I told her I fell down in school. She will feel bad if I tell her the truth”.
“And my sweets?” She smiled and gave me some. In the evening I did not hear mother calling me, but I knew that she must have returned home, so I left for her. She had returned but did not look at me when I entered,
“Why didn’t you call me today?” I asked her.
“Where do you go in the afternoons?” she looked angry.
“And what do you do there?” she was getting angrier.
“I watch movies and play with her.”
“Arjun listen and listen carefully, you will not go to her anymore and don’t imagine I will not know if you meet her, those boys will tell me again. Ok?”
“No, I will go to her. She is very good, I like to be with her”, now I was getting angry too.
“She’s a prostitute, the bi*ch sleeps with all the men in the neighborhood you understand that and understand one more thing you are not seeing her anymore let alone meeting her and if you don’t obey me I will lock you in the house and go for work ok?”
By now I was crying bitterly and I did n
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