Photographic Memories

Author’s note: To the people who have been wondering why I have been struggling to post any stories lately - this story is why. But it had to come out ... This story contains references to sexual abuse. Please read with care.

I’ve had some tough moments in my life, but once they were done, I wasn’t prepared for them to make a comeback ...

I was enjoying a day off work, and as such was dressed in “mom jeans” and blue top, doing some vacuuming. When I had first started my transition, I felt like I HAD to wear skirts or dresses to be seen as a woman, but now I’m much more relaxed and know it isnt the clothes that make the difference anyway.

I had just put away the vacuum when the doorbell rang, sending my dog into a barking frenzy. She’s a good puppy, but she thinks it's her job to make sure we know when someone is at the door. I went to the door, and there were a policeman and a policewoman there.

“Yes?” I asked.

“We’re looking to speak to a Todd Bellion?” The policeman said.

For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to think about that. So many thoughts ran through my head ... “He doesn’t see me as a man ... why would the police be looking for me ...”

Finally I managed, “That was me. I go by Dorothy now.”

“Can we come in?” The policewoman asked.

I picked up my little dog, and said, “Sure. Don’t mind Lady, here. She just thinks she’s the house protector.”

I escorted them to my living room, and they sat on the chairs while I held my dog and sat down on the couch. Then I asked, “Now, what can I do for you? As far as I know, I’ve not done anything wrong.”

The policeman wrung his hands, as if struggling for words, and then said, ‘Er ... ma’am? In the nineteen-seventies a child psychologist was discovered to have raped several children who were patients of his. Files about his case have been stored in police archives, and recent events have caused us to have to take a look at those files again. The name of a patent named Todd Bellion is in those files.”

I stroked my dog’s fur, and replied, “That would have been me. I was one of his patients.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” The policewoman said.

“Thank you. I ... try not to think about it anymore. But what made you take another look, and what can I do for you now?”

“Because it appears that someone has made an illegal copy of those files, and there are pictures and notes about his ... sessions with you among the things we believed were copied.” She said.

I looked at her in shock.

“We don’t know what they plan to do with those copies. Maybe nothing, maybe it was just for their private use. But it's possible they plan to either try and blackmail you, or worse, simply release them onto the internet.” She continued.

I shook. I had always felt sorry for the kids who get abused today because once the images are on the net they never disappear, but I never thought I’d be one of them. A tear fell on my dog’s fur.

“Can I ... can I do ... anything?”

“You can let your friends and family know this might happen. And if they do contact you, you can call us.” The policeman said.

“O... okay.” I managed.

The policewoman stood up, came over, and showed me two cards.

“This...” she said, pointing to one of the cards, “Is our card. If they contact you, I want you to phone us right away. The other card is victim’s services. Its a free service, and please call them if you need to.”

I thanked them shakely, they stood up, went to the door, and the policewoman said, “I’m sorry this is happening to you. Please believe we’re going to do everything we can to catch this person, and prevent those pictures from getting out.”

After they left, I closed the door, let my dog down, went to my couch, curled up, and shook.

In the last three years, not only had I begun a transition, I had worked very hard at finally putting my time with that psychologist behind me, but here it was right back in my life again.

And this time, not as a nightmare or flashback, but something far worse.

Someone had pictures. Pictures of me ...

Finally, I regained enough composure to get off the couch and go to my computer. I left a blog on a couple of sites, contacted a couple of people directly through private messages, and generally asked for all the positive thoughts, prayers, and energy people could give me.

I also steeled myself for telling my mother that night when she came home from work ...

I tried to keep busy with my laundry and other weekly chores, but still, I was almost glad when my mom came home.

Once she was comfortable, I told her what had happened, she wept, and I ended up having to comfort her as she blamed herself for not protecting me back then.

Eventually, she calmed down, we shared supper, and since I found myself afraid to go online much, I went to bed early.

The next morning, I got up, and as I am pretty addicted to the net, I went online without even thinking about the possibilities.

As it happened, all I found were supportive messages, some private and some public, from a large number of people basically telling me to hang in there, I’d get through this.

As I read through the messages, it occurred to me that I might never know for sure if the pictures had been released, unless I deliberately go looking for them. I tend to visit only my favorite sites, and that would leave a lot of the net left over for the pictures to be on.

I shrugged, and just tried to get on with my regular day.

The next day I had to go back to work, and for the next week I stayed as close as I could to my normal routine, and tried to think as little as I could about those photos, and the circumstances under which they had been taken ...

I am not going into details here. But suffice to say it was horrific. The doctor manipulated me into doing things that make me sick just thinking about it.

So I tried to keep to my normal routine instead.

Then on my next day off I found a message in my email inbox.

“Got your pictures. Let’s talk.”

I began to shake after I read that.

But finally, I steadied myself, and answered back, “Don’t know who you are, or what pictures you think you have.”

Almost immediately there was a reply, “Who I am isn’t important right now. And I think you know what pictures I’m talking about. They aren’t out yet, if you want to know.”

“What do you want?”

“All I want is to meet you. It can be as public as you like.”

“I could just call the police. They told me the pictures had been copied.”

“You could. But I’ll just disappear, and you wont ever know where those pictures are.”

“Fine. Where would you suggest we meet?”

“At the food court of Mill Woods mall, tomorrow at noon.”

“Fine.” I wrote, and then the connection was gone.

So the next day I went to the mall and found a seat in the food court, wondering if I was doing the smart thing.

I hadn’t been sitting long before a woman came up and sat down opposite me. She looked close to my own age, with a bit of grey in her hair and some wrinkles on her face.

She said, “I understand you dont want to be here any longer than necessary, but all I want in exchange for these photos is five minutes of your time.”

Something in her voice softened my suspicions, and so I said, “I’ll listen.”

“The man who took these pictures ... the man who hurt you ... he was my father.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I just nodded.

She continued, “You must understand, I had no idea about .... what he was doing.to you, to the others. The man who came home to us every day was able to keep that part of himself hidden.

So hidden, that I didn’t believe it when he was arrested. I ... just couldn’t reconcile the person I knew with those crimes. I lived for years in denial, and then for many more trying to simply forget all of my childhood.

Then, not long ago, someone sent me these photos, and the pages of the journal associated with them.

And it broke through to me, I explored the internet and found you, and I felt the need to do something for you, because you didn’t come forward at the time of his trial, and because in your blogs you often talked about your self-doubts about whether your desire to transition came from him, if he had implanted that inside you.

My father’s notes are clear, Dorothy. You were a girl before he touched you, and I wanted you to know that, and that I am so sorry for what he did to you.”

I sat there for a minute or two, trying to digest what she had told me.

Then I did the only thing I could think of, and got up, came around the table, and hugged her.

“Thank you.” I said, and we both cried.

Later, she joined me as I took the photos and notes and burned them, and we cried again.

And ever since, the two of us have become the most unlikely friends you can imagine ...

End.