I suspect he has copped it enough anyway. You won’t be the only one to know, and you’ll not be the first to tell someone. His stepson will be a stain on the whole family’s reputation and whispers like this can wreck a whole family’s lives.
I’ve NC’d for this.
It goes deeper too. My grandad, who I loved dearly and who created many of the happy early memories of my life that I hold dear, was revealed after his death to have been a prolific paedophile. He molested my mother for many years, and when he came to live with us (just don’t go there), my sister and cousins. He was a school caretaker (again don’t say anything- the whole ‘it was different times’ thing isn’t just for celebrities) who abused girls in the schools he worked in. My mother can remember the utter shame and humiliation of the school being told in assembly not to go anywhere alone with him. Apparently this went on for years. My gran was always going to leave him, but stayed out of loyalty. One of my uncles left home at 16 and refused to have anything to do with him.
Nothing happened to me, being a boy, but I remember things like wondering why my sister got more presents than me. (Didn’t realise until later she was paying a price).
Survivor’s guilt has haunted me for years. How could I not have known? Why didn’t I stop it? Tell someone? I know I couldn’t- I didn’t know, but I should have, and that tortures me.
I suffered a lifetime of abuse, mental and emotional and sexually inappropriate behaviour from my mum, then domestic abuse in my marriage until I found out that not everyone is a git, and met my DP. I’ve got quite serious MH problems as well as the legacy of a birth injury that affects my processing. Whenever I am ill, or need to escape, I go back to the early times when I played in the stream in Gran’s village, when Grandad took me for walks on the downs, showed me rabbit holes and badger setts. My parents hadn’t split up, Mum wasn’t abusive, we had the best Christmases. It was, and always will be my safe place. But he was the village school’s caretaker, they lived in the school house. He was probably doing his thing while I blissfully laid down those memories, so they are tainted. He always seemed popular, a kindly old man but how many people on the Island have dark memories? I haven’t got his surname, but what if?
I have a pathological fear of somehow catching it from them, that being a paedophile is hereditary. When I’m on a bus or train and children are around, I stare out of the window and don’t make eye contact. Sometimes my train is the school train. It’s horrid. I become engrossed in my phone. What if I’m staring? What if somebody ‘knows’?
When my DDand DSD became teenagers I withdrew a little. I worry about should I tell them they look amazing when they go out? What wonderful strong intelligent young women they are. If their friends come, I find a reason to be somewhere else, and when they interact (of course they do, I’m their dad), I’m constantly checking the appropriateness of what I’m doing.
It’s not there all the time, I know it’s in my head, but it’s always there somewhere like a little whispering voice.
I am determined though, that the victims end with my sister and me. That nobody in my family will ever feel like I did as a child, and I’ve worked hard to break the cycle. But I’m fifty- bloody-two. I sort of hoped I wouldn’t feel this by now. And really it’s not about me, it’s about my sister, my cousins, my mum, all those countless little girls.
I’m sorry, I ranted a bit, and it’s not what I started to say, it’s just sort of poured forth from somewhere I haven’t opened before, and I need to think about this for a while. But I’ve realised just recently that the victims of abuse spiral out from the actual physical victims.