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He put his hands around my neck, gently pressing his thumbs into a notch of my throat. Demonstrating how someone feels when being choked. He asked me if I felt it. I tried to nod. I froze. He was supposed to be an ally. I came to him for help.
Oregon & Beyond.
I was a victim, then a survivor, now I choose to thrive!
“But Becky, I got away…”
That’s what I told her.
I had been in therapy with her for years, discussing my childhood molestation and the sexual assault while serving in Pensacola and the and harassment that followed in the aftermath. But this. This I never told her. Because. Well, because, I got away.
We would lie in his bed, watching TV and he’d fondle me. I don’t know if he penetrated me. I just don’t know. But I do know there were times that he’d insist that I return the favor. I remember what I think was the first time he unbuttoned his jeans and took my hand in his, pushing it under the waistband of his underwear, until it reached his coarse pubic hair. My tiny fingers reached his penis. It was warm down there. I pulled my hand back. He pushed it back down. That’s the last thing I remember.