The Lake House

Growing up my family was fortunate enough to have a second house; a house on a lake. Seven acres of lake front property, on a cove, with hardly a neighbor in sight except the cows. It was perfect, pristine and peaceful. Well the house wasn’t always there; at first we just had camper trailers. I don’t remember those times very clearly, but I do remember being inside one of the trailers on the top bunk bed and feeling like I was in a very small space. I couldn’t have been 4 years old and weighed all of 25 pounds. This is where we came to be with family. Every chance we got we were at the lake house with some other part of our family. There were a lot of very happy memories made at the lake house. It was also where some extremely traumatic and life-changing things happened.

When I was about 3 my aunt and uncle adopted a little girl who was maybe 5 years old. She had been taken away from an abusive family and we all warmly welcomed her into our family. Her name was Stacy Beth. To this day I have never met anyone like her. She was brutal, mean, crass and abusive. She would kick, spit and cuss at her parents, and even her older brother was afraid of her. There are some people that can swallow air and then make themselves burp…I remember her being able to make herself fart in a similar way.

I don’t know how it all began. A lot of it I think I’ve suppressed. However, I do remember the first time I remembered and knew what had happened to me. I was in middle school; eighth grade. Stacy Beth had been gone to a mental hospital of some sorts for nearly two years. A friend was sleeping over and we were looking through some old photo albums in my room when we came across some pictures from the lake house and of Stacy Beth. It was like something from a movie. Flashes from the past flickered in my mind.


I stopped. Frozen.


Then like a nuclear explosion I suddenly realized I had been sexually abused for five years. I was so young when it started that I never saw it for what it truly was, abuse. I was already in therapy at the time dealing with the P.E. teacher mess (I'll tell you about that another time) so I spoke to my therapist about what I had remembered. I don’t think I ever told her any of the details, they are still hard to talk about. She asked if I had talked to my parents about it. Since I hadn’t it was decided that they would come in for a joint session and we would all discuss it.
Mom and Dad sat where I normally did; that huge window filled with trees behind them. It’s funny the things that stick in our memory. Although I learned a lot that day, big parts of me were still empty. It turned out Mom had her own history. She cried; only the second time I had seen that. I am sure there were a lot of things said that day, but these are the only words that echoed in my head. “We had an idea that something like this was going on, but we wanted her adoption to work.” At thirteen that translated into “We know, but she was more important than you.” I felt very alone and very small.

Bunk beds and broom sticks

In the downstairs bedroom at the lake house were bunk beds and a trundle bed. This is where all of the kids (all 6 of us at the time) slept and stayed while we were at the lake house. There were many occasions when the rest of the family was out of the house, down at the water or on a walk, when Stacy Beth and I would be in that room of beds. She would have me get on the top bunk where no one could walk in and see us. We would take turns laying down and taking our clothes off or moving them to the side. We would touch each other. She was always more aggressive than I was and always wanted me to do more than I was willing to. Stacy Beth played with my nipples, sucking on them, pinching and twisting them and rubbing my very flat breast. Then she would move her hands down my body and over my privates, spending a lot of time there; putting her fingers inside me. Then it was my turn to ‘play’ with her. I remember how hairy she was, she was a few years older than me and had already starting going through puberty. Her breast had started to form, I remember the way they filled my hands.

One time we were outside of that room in the basement. I was sitting on a chair backed against a wall. Stacy Beth had me spread my legs and she went to get the broom. It had a wooden handle and was very old, it had started to splinter. She forced the broom inside me. I remember feeling the harsh wood against my delicate skin; I asked her to stop but she wouldn’t. She thrust that broom into me over and over and harder and harder. I felt the splinters and the coarseness of the broom.

Not all of the abuse happened behind closed doors though. In the cloudy dark brown water we would swim through each other’s legs. I remember swimming through her legs and she was pulling my face into her vagina; smashing my nose inside her. I remember the smell. I remember the feeling around my nose, the pressure of her body against the bridge of my nose and the rest of her around the sides of my face; like when you put your face inside a cup. I remember the hair tickling and itching my face; and her hand on the back of my head, not being able to breath she held me there so long, wanting me to put my tongue inside her. Then it was her turn to swim under my legs. She put her tongue inside me right away and moved it around. I don’t remember it feeling good, just strange. She pulled my bathing suit to the side and slid her tongue inside me. I remember the empty aching feeling in my stomach.