nickname that I have ever had. I like it. When this is over, that's what I am going to make everyone call me.
This morning after my experience with the sun, I walked for a long time with Susan. She was crying, and I did something that I have never done before: I reached down and took her hand. I don't know why people get so riled up about holding hands because it's just so nice to be able to touch someone you care about. All this focus on sex, everyone thinking about it all the time. It's pathetic. You should be able to touch someone if you care about them.
Susan cries a lot, and I always want to be able to do something to make her feel better. When I felt how warm her hand was, I put it up to my face and turned to look at her. She smiled and said, “Thank you, J.J.,” and I knew that it was okay for me to keep holding it.
Holding someone's hand helps me too. I have spent a great deal of my life feeling lonely and fairly frightened of everything. These women here, behind me, around me, in front of me, they have given me such great comfort and strength that I can hardly think about it without crying. For the first time in my life I feel truly safe. I know that these women would do anything in the world for me and I the same for them.
When we started out like this, we never bothered to think about anything else. Now that I am thinking about it, I consider it very wise because we have always thought about everyone else and now it's finally time, for just a while, to think of ourselves.
Since we started, I've felt truly relaxed and not worried about anything except putting one foot in front of the other. If I can manage to even say the word
happy,
then that is what I am right now. There is nothing to hold up, no one to smile at, no more secrets that can come flying out of a mouth that is tired and finally needs to stay closed.
It is so unlikely for me to be here, because what happened to me when I was seventeen years old has spun a web inside of me that has kept me from letting go of those terrible moments.
Before befriending these women, I told only one person what had happened to me—my mother. I'm sure she only told my father because she is the one who came back to me pleading that I do nothing. So that is what I did for all these years, until I told these women. My husband does not know, my two daughters do not know, but Jeff Hammes knows.
When I read in
Sports Illustrated
about his bad knee injury and his addiction to painkillers ending his NFL career years ago, I can honestly say that I was glad. I feel he deserves nothing good, and the people who raised him and coached him and knew about the blackness in his heart deserve the same.
My mother should have helped me, sent me to talk to someone, but I never even saw a doctor. In 1970 the world was not as accepting and open as it is now. Even though we were all supposed to be liberated from the '60s, Waukesha was not so liberated—at least not in my neighborhood, where nearly every house had a two-car garage and a large lawn and a father who drove to work in the city.
What I think about most is my own teenage daughters. I have always wanted to tell them what Jeff did to me, but somehow I have never been able to. Would it help them? Would they shrink back and give me that big-eyed look I have come to interpret as, “What's wrong with you, Mother?” Maybe I needed to do this journey first, or maybe I needed to wait until they were just a bit older. Surely Jess and Caitlin are stronger and smarter than I ever was. That is why I have not blurted it out when we have had our talks about sex and being careful and being in control of your own body.
But there isn't a day or a second when I don't think about something terrible happening to them. Oh, I know all mothers worry like this. All mothers creep through the house at night when their babies are sleeping, just to watch them breathe, just to know that for those few minutes their babies are alive and safe. All mothers
This morning after my experience with the sun, I walked for a long time with Susan. She was crying, and I did something that I have never done before: I reached down and took her hand. I don't know why people get so riled up about holding hands because it's just so nice to be able to touch someone you care about. All this focus on sex, everyone thinking about it all the time. It's pathetic. You should be able to touch someone if you care about them.
Susan cries a lot, and I always want to be able to do something to make her feel better. When I felt how warm her hand was, I put it up to my face and turned to look at her. She smiled and said, “Thank you, J.J.,” and I knew that it was okay for me to keep holding it.
Holding someone's hand helps me too. I have spent a great deal of my life feeling lonely and fairly frightened of everything. These women here, behind me, around me, in front of me, they have given me such great comfort and strength that I can hardly think about it without crying. For the first time in my life I feel truly safe. I know that these women would do anything in the world for me and I the same for them.
When we started out like this, we never bothered to think about anything else. Now that I am thinking about it, I consider it very wise because we have always thought about everyone else and now it's finally time, for just a while, to think of ourselves.
Since we started, I've felt truly relaxed and not worried about anything except putting one foot in front of the other. If I can manage to even say the word
happy,
then that is what I am right now. There is nothing to hold up, no one to smile at, no more secrets that can come flying out of a mouth that is tired and finally needs to stay closed.
It is so unlikely for me to be here, because what happened to me when I was seventeen years old has spun a web inside of me that has kept me from letting go of those terrible moments.
Before befriending these women, I told only one person what had happened to me—my mother. I'm sure she only told my father because she is the one who came back to me pleading that I do nothing. So that is what I did for all these years, until I told these women. My husband does not know, my two daughters do not know, but Jeff Hammes knows.
When I read in
Sports Illustrated
about his bad knee injury and his addiction to painkillers ending his NFL career years ago, I can honestly say that I was glad. I feel he deserves nothing good, and the people who raised him and coached him and knew about the blackness in his heart deserve the same.
My mother should have helped me, sent me to talk to someone, but I never even saw a doctor. In 1970 the world was not as accepting and open as it is now. Even though we were all supposed to be liberated from the '60s, Waukesha was not so liberated—at least not in my neighborhood, where nearly every house had a two-car garage and a large lawn and a father who drove to work in the city.
What I think about most is my own teenage daughters. I have always wanted to tell them what Jeff did to me, but somehow I have never been able to. Would it help them? Would they shrink back and give me that big-eyed look I have come to interpret as, “What's wrong with you, Mother?” Maybe I needed to do this journey first, or maybe I needed to wait until they were just a bit older. Surely Jess and Caitlin are stronger and smarter than I ever was. That is why I have not blurted it out when we have had our talks about sex and being careful and being in control of your own body.
But there isn't a day or a second when I don't think about something terrible happening to them. Oh, I know all mothers worry like this. All mothers creep through the house at night when their babies are sleeping, just to watch them breathe, just to know that for those few minutes their babies are alive and safe. All mothers
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