I Fingered My Little Sister

I Fingered My Little Sister

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Experiments I conducted on my little sister: Part I

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I’m the second child in four. The good thing about this fact is that while growing up, siblings #1 and #3 were both suitable playmates for me. If one of them didn’t want to play, I would simply hang out with the other one. Sometimes I had the luxury of choosing between the two of them.
Sometimes, at night, when my little sister and brother were already in bed and my elder sister didn’t want to play with me, I got bored with ways of entertaining myself. So occasionally, I would quietly sneak into their room, while they were still awake. My sister slept in a loft bed. At her feet, there was a big chair. My creative brain had invented the ultimate sport: get to that chair without getting noticed by her. This was a incredibly slow process, because my sister would be able to catch me with every potential noise I would make. If she simply turned her head and glanced over at the floor she would see me. Sometimes I would lie down on the floor for minutes without moving. Sometimes I would only move one limb per minute.
At times my brother, who slept in the same room, would spot me during this process. His bed was at a normal height. I would make him into my accomplice by quietly gesturing him to keep quiet. He always played along.
When I finally reached the big chair after a long and dangerous journey from the door, I would silently climb onto it. Quietly holding my breath, I would slowly change my weight from one foot to the other, until I was standing on the arms of the chair in ducked position.
At this point, my sister would still be completely unsuspecting of what was about to happen. She was usually just staring at the ceiling, minding her own thoughts, probably thinking about rainbows and sheep.
Out of nowhere, I would jump from behind her bed and scream. As you can imagine, this caused quite a reaction. It scared the hell out of her, time and time again.
It ended up with me laughing hysterically, thinking I was the most successful and hilarious super ninja in the world, and her needing to calm down after having a heart attack. In my mind I had the mad skills of a spy, which one day would prove to be useful in my future detective career.
Then I would just hang out for a bit. We would talk about whatever was on our minds until she got tired or I got bored and I would leave again.
You might think she hated this, but in fact, she really loved it.
These dark little visits gave me an idea.
I’ve always had a curious mind. So sometimes, in order to make sense of the world around me and prove certain theories, I would make my little sister into my own personal test subject.
I had heard about a certain theory that had caught my interest. Supposedly, you dream of the things that you hear around you during your sleep. This was a fascinating concept. It would mean, that you could influence what others dream about. That was even more exciting than lucid dreaming. I decided to test if it worked.
So one night, after my younger siblings fell asleep, I sneaked into their room.
I decided that the best way to test my theory, was by whispering one word over and over again in my sister’s ear. The next day, I would ask her what she had dreamt about. It was a fail-safe plan.
Great thought went into what word I would use. I thought about using a boy’s name from her school, but this was too big a risk. She might not want to share that with me the next day. It should be a word that normally wouldn’t necessarily be in her dreams, but would be very recognizable.
I decided to go with ‘washing machine’.
My sister was lying in bed. She was already dozing off, when suddenly she heard someone hissing into her ear. She opened her eyes, bewildered.
At this point she realised that I, for some reason, was 1. awfully close to her and 2. repeatedly whispering ‘washing machine’ (with a hypnotic rhythm and tone for effect) into her ear.
While still in the middle of my experiment, my sister had clearly awakened. This wasn’t really part of the plan, but as she was awake now anyways, I eagerly asked her what she dreamt about, just now. I was desperate to know if my experiment had worked.
Anything in particular, like… perhaps… a washing machine?
I WASN’T SLEEPING. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Disappointed with this new piece of information, I decided to confide in her. I told her of my fantastic experiment. She didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic. Clearly, she just wasn’t the kind of person who would recognise the value and beauty of a good science experiment when it is right in front of her.
Oh well. I figured I just needed to try again another time.
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Haha, I love this post! It’s definitely one of my favourites. Everrr. So much fun to read this from your point of view. I’m so going to save this and treasure it. You can illustrate a book: ‘OHANA adventures, crazy monkeys’. Going to be fun… Can’t wait for the rest of the series. ;)
Haha, I’m definitely considering drawing more ;)
Family stories are the best. This is so sweet and silly!
I loved reading this! You should make a children’s book out of this :D
:D Thanks! I have a lot more stories left, so who knows
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When My Little Sister Wants to Play 'Doctor'
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My sister is 10 years old, and we all try to encourage her to use her imagination and play. In this day and age, I feel like sometimes everyone (including kids) are too busy looking at screens for entertainment instead of entertaining themselves. I try to explain to her that I wish I felt like doing all the things she can, but having chronic fatigue syndrome leaves me very limited.
Naturally, she wants to play games and do things with me. We might play a game on the card table, where I can lay in the chair on the heating pad. She plays restaurant and brings me food. She made her own menu and everything. Then we swap roles and I bring her fake food.
However, after we were done playing restaurant, she wanted to play doctor. This may sound silly, possibly petty or even me just being plain sensitive. I told her alright, we can play that. She asks me why I am there, and of course, playing doctor is no fun if there is nothing wrong with you. Right? It makes sense for a kid to want to have something wrong with the other. That is what playing doctor is anyway.
I just kept hoping she would not bring up my illness. She had done it in the past. She had asked why I was there and even had a cure for it. I wish she did, I guess she wished so too. I had to explain to her over and over how it works. Do I expect her to perfectly understand? Of course not. But it sometimes seems like she does not believe me.
In the end, all she did was say I had strep throat. She then “removed” my tonsils later.
Every time she asks if I want to play doctor, my stomach drops. I am sick of doctors. I am sick of going to doctors with all sorts of things wrong with me and being told there is either nothing they can do or they do not believe me.
I hate that I am this way, and I hate that the very thought of playing doctor fills me with such dread and fear.
I hate that I am 22 years old, and I have enough diagnoses on my chart that it takes up many pages.
I hate that the smallest thing like this triggers all these emotions. I hate explaining it, so I typically don’t.
When my younger sister wants to play doctor, I do. I play with her. I swallow these emotions, because the last thing I need to do is make her feel like she needs to walk on eggshells.
I try my best to not let everything affect me personally, like when people that say, “if you do not have a wheelchair, you should not use the handicap parking.”
It’s those who refuse to believe someone as young as me can relate on a personal level to my grandmother and have numerous health problems.
It’s those using my illness as a joke or a fake reason not to have a job.
It’s those people who direct something at one population, and yet I get offended.
I feel like ableism is real, but I also feel I need to remember not everyone is aware. I was not aware til I got sick at 19. I was not aware of the world of chronic illness.
Educate those around you. Spread awareness not just for the illness you personally have, but the whole spoonie world.
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CFS/ME, Fibromyalgia, and Scoliosis. Possibly IBS. Depression. Married, 24. Taurus and INFJ. Demi.
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Debbie Lechtman is a sophomore at Syracuse University majoring in magazine journalism. In addition to interning at Her Campus this winter, Debbie writes for the Syracuse branch of Her Campus. She is also on the Syracuse gymnastics team and has written for several publications on campus. Debbie loves writing, Anthropologie, evil eye charms, and her dog, Justin Bobby. In the future, she hopes to pursue a career in either journalism or advertising.
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I have always been better with written words than with spoken ones. As a young gymnast, I never confided in my coaches when I felt scared or uncomfortable with a new, risky skill, and instead always performed it exactly as I had been instructed for fear of disappointing them. At age seven, when my mother chose not to attend my first gymnastics competition, I did not say a peep, even though I was a little upset because all the other girls had brought their mothers along.
I may not have said much — or anything at all, really — but I wrote and wrote and wrote. I have a stack of journals filled with nearly incomprehensible scribbles to prove it.
And so naturally, when my mother’s physical therapist and friend molested me at age 14, I did not utter a word — or the right ones, at least. I tried to tell my dad; I truly did. But can a 14-year-old really make an adult — her father, of all people — comprehend the incomprehensible?

So I never said much, but this time was different. What had happened to me was so unfathomable, so utterly terrifying and confusing, that I never even wrote about it until last year — not even in my private journals. I was too ashamed to tell my friends.
The thing is, when you have trouble expressing that you have been sexually abused, it is hard for the people around you to understand that something truly terrible has happened to you. And personally, I have never found anything more alienating than this.
But I am writing about it now, and it all went something like this:
At age five, after watching the 1996 Olympics on television (doing a headstand, of all things. That’s right — I watched the 1996 Olympics from a headstand, supporting myself against my parents’ bed. It is one of my most vivid memories), I begged my parents to let me enroll in a gymnastics class. Two years later, when I was seven years old, I joined a competitive gymnastics team, and that was it — I was immediately hooked. I lived, breathed, ate, and slept gymnastics. I subscribed to International Gymnast magazine. I plastered posters of famous gymnasts on my walls. And whenever I wasn’t at practice, I forced my little sister to play “the gymnastics game” with me (I was the United States. She was China. I was also the judge and the coach. Basically, I always won. My poor sister).
As I got older and stronger, my skills became riskier, my training more intense. At one point, my coaches hired a physical therapist, “C,” from their native country, Cuba, to help with the team’s various ailments. A few months later, he mysteriously stopped showing up; evidently, he had been fired, but no one really knew what had happened. At age twelve, I injured my back, and surprise, surprise, I had trouble expressing to my parents and coaches just how badly it hurt.
My mother, a long-time tennis player, had kept in contact with C. Every week (sometimes even twice a week), she drove to his house (something that I didn’t think much of at the time, but that I now find odd), claiming that he helped relieve her pain. After months of training in nearly unbearable pain, my mother insisted that I go see C, too.
C and I never got along. He mocked me constantly, but I rarely retaliated. One time, I fell asleep on his massage table. When I woke up, he imitated my face, running his index finger from his mouth to his chin, indicating that I had drooled. My mother sat beside me and laughed along.
And then one afternoon, while my mother was in the bathroom, the molestation happened.
[pagebreak]
I lay on the massage table, frozen. Paralyzed with fear, I showed no resistance, which I now know to be a very common reaction to sexual abuse. This haunted me for years (“surely I had asked for it!” I thought. When my mother returned from the bathroom, C immediately started treating my back again, acting as if nothing had happened.

My dad always drove me home from physical therapy. That day was no different. Almost immediately, I hissed between tears, “I’m never going back there again!”
My dad said that was fine. I never really liked him anyway, he said.
But I wanted him to press me for details.
He still didn’t press for details, although he did promise me I would never have to return to C’s (a promise that, thankfully, he kept). My dad, who had endured my mother’s verbal and emotional abuse for years, had a history of dismissing me whenever I claimed to be struggling or in pain. Not surprisingly, this time he suggested that I had perhaps misinterpreted what had happened, that it really wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it was.
That was enough to convince me that I should never admit to what had really happened. It was not, however, enough for me not to beg my dad to tell my mother to stop going to C’s for nearly a year.
I was scared that he would hurt her.
She told my dad, time and time again, that I was a liar. Like my father, my mother had a history of disregarding my feelings when she did not like what I had to say. In this case, admitting that I could be right meant that she would have to stop seeing C, and she was having none of it. It was her way or the highway.
I never truly told anyone what happened until over four years later – and even then, I had not meant to say anything at all. After the molestation, my anxiety grew exponentially, and I ended up developing anorexia nervosa. I became self-destructive, both through my eating disorder and other forms of self-harm, such as cutting or banging my head against the wall. I became angry and abruptly quit gymnastics, something that, to this day, I really regret. After years of enduring a secret personal hell, my father sent me to a therapist, and later, to a psychiatrist. During my initial evaluation, the doctor asked me, point blank, whether I had ever been abused in any way. I shook my head no, but before I knew it, my lip shook uncontrollably and a flood of tears streamed down my face. Why? I’m not quite sure. I’d denied the same thing to friends and teachers with no problem plenty of times in the past four years.
Once everything unraveled, my healing began.
I found the courage to tell my dad exactly what had happened (I used the words “sexual abuse” and everything). His reaction was heartbreaking, but for once, I felt less alone in dealing with the pain. My therapist attempted to explain everything to my abusive and emotionally unavailable mother, but she never showed me that she cared one way or the other (about a year after my molestation, she stopped seeing C because she claimed that he owed her money). To this day, she hasn’t shown any sympathy or concern. It still really hurts. I have not talked to her in over a year.

But for a shy kid who hates being the center of attention, I could not be more glad or proud that I was able to speak up.
The healing process was long and tedious and painful. I never pressed charges, and I know nothing about C’s whereabouts. But three years after I first spoke to my psychiatrist, I am now able to talk about what happened openly and shamelessly, both verbally and through writing, in hopes that I can someday help others in a similar situation. Last year, I even volunteered at my school’s rape crisis center.
So now I know that if someone does
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I Fingered My Little Sister

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