I Was Close With My Cousin — Until Her New Husband Tried To Rape Me And We Never Spoke Again

I found out he had done the same to other family members, but they then decided to protect him by denying what happened to them - and to me.

Hi dolls,

Enough about me. I mean, seriously, yesterday’s post was a lot of very inside stuff and written by my not-most-fun-to-edit writer, me. So today I'm extra happy to be able to give you a story about more than an email I got (though it sure is continual fun gossiping with you about it).

One of the sparkliest gems to come out of editing AJPT for me has been meeting Judith Hannah Weiss and being able to publish her exquisite and unique writing. If you haven't read any of her stuff yet, I highly recommend looking at her first piece here and maybe one of her others like this one before you delve into the story below. Up to you.

One more thing I want to share with you before pressing send on this is something Judith wrote me while we were emailing back and forth about her story: “I have never written a piece like this or about this or about anything even slightly resembling this.” So let’s keep that in mind as we talk about and to her in these comments.

I love being here with all of you so so so much. And I thank you, Judith, beyond.

Love,

MeMeMe

PS I am characteristically* late in announcing our AJPT One Year Anniversary Specials, but look out for those offers within the week and take advantage of them! They will be worth the wait!

*I threw my daughter a sweet 17 party, for one great mom example. Ok, moving on….

Trumbull, CT, 2 AM

This is a photo of me about 14 years after the event. I was a 20-year-old girl when it happened and there were very few photos of me taken then.

By Judith Hannah Weiss

Last night I went to sleep at the age of 70-something in my bed in Charlottesville, Virginia and woke up in the middle of the night at the age of 20 in Trumbull, Connecticut in my cousin’s home. It was 2AM a few million miles ago, and a few decades, too. She was 21 and newly married to a male I will call “D.”

He woke me roughly with his hands on my body and somehow I kicked him off. Decades later, I still sometimes kick hard in my dreams, dislodging quilts, sheets and my dear dog, Will. Also the dog before him and the dog before that, three dogs in all, and quite a few cats.

I had been sleeping on the floor in an elegant home D’s trust fund had bought. My cousin was sleeping upstairs in their bed. Their marital bed. I don’t remember seeing her before I fled the next morning, but if I did, I must have made up some excuse.

Strange, I remember the hands on me and the kick to the groin that dislodged the male, but I remember nothing else until a few hours later when I saw my mom and told her. And I remember her words to me, which were, “Don’t ever tell that to anyone.”

I didn’t. Until about 20 years later, when I told my cousin’s younger sister, who was my other cousin, of course. Her name starts with the letter “A” and she said the male had done the same thing to her. “M” and her husband were still living in Trumbull with two by-now-teenage daughters. I told “A” we must tell “M” and “A” seemed to agree. But then?

Although I trusted our agreement, “A,” who was a practicing psychotherapist, must have changed her mind. I tried to contact her for years, as recently as this year, in fact, both at her office and home. She changed her phone and email. My very small family grew smaller by half and I never saw or heard from “A” or “M” again. Did the male ever do this to someone else? Like his own daughters, perhaps? Or “A’s” own daughters? I will never know. But last night, I was in Trumbull again.

Though this is not the actual shirt, my shirt was torn after the attack happened. I was wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants.

Googling, I learned that the older cousin, “M” and her husband now own two homes, including a home on the Connecticut shore, which must be quite lovely. The other is the home I was in that one night that changed my life. I also learned she likes to garden, has been honored multiple times, and has a grandchild with whom she likes to paint. Google also confirmed that my younger cousin, “A,” is still a therapist, specializing in abuse.

I was only able to reach my younger cousin, the therapist, before she changed her numbers. In that extremely short “conversation,” she said she had, in fact, changed her mind. She would not be coming forward and was “afraid I would tell the truth.” It seemed that if I then told the truth alone, she would deny what she knew had occurred. Not only what happened to me, but also what happened to her.

Sometimes I have to restrain myself from trying again to contact my younger cousin. Then I ask myself what that could accomplish. I started getting old and—given the alternative—must hope to keep doing it. Should I try again? I don’t know. Will I? I also don’t know that. Once, I had two cousins who felt like sisters to me and I would like to see at least one of them again.