TRIGGER WARNING. THIS ARTICLE WILL CONTAIN SEXUAL ASSAULT.
When I was around 5 years old, I was molested. Not by one person. Not by two people. But three. They were brothers. My dad’s step-sons. It went on for 6 years. It started off with three. Then just two. But one of them was more into it. He was about ten years older than me. When I use to go over to my dad’s house, I would dread being there. But I loved my dad. When he would leave for work, things will happen. Or in the middle of night when I would go to the bathroom, one of them would pull me and molest me, talk to me in a disgusting, blood curdling way. They will tell the things they want to do to me. They would blackmail me saying if I didn’t do what they said, they will tell my dad I was acting bad or stealing, so on and so forth. When you are at such a young age, of course you will believe them. I did, at least. In my mind I would think that since my dad chose that woman over his own daughter, he would basically take their side instead of mine. They would take my stuff and tell me the only way I could have it back is if I “touch them” or watch porn with them. The on brother who would never stop, we will call him “Michael”, would be the one to make me do “things”, or he would do “things” to me. “Does it hurt?” “You will be okay”. “Don’t cry”. Were the things I would hear as they did their wrongful doings.
I dont remember my childhood that much.
“You remember that birthday party you had when you were seven?”
“Do you remember when you dressed up like a witch for Halloween?”
I dont remember anything from when I was a kid. As much as I would like to, I dont.
I refuse to go back to those times when I couldn’t sleep at night because I had the feeling of someone watching me, or with my closet open, or without my night light. The times I woke up in the middle of the night, crying and shaking because I couldn’t help the fact that even in my own home, away from Michael, he was still there.
Every weekend, something happened. When I would play with my toys and dolls, Michael would take my doll and he would grab a male power ranger or a wrestler and tell me “this is what I’m going to do to you” as the power ranger/wrestler would be having “sex” with my doll.
When I was seven, I grabbed my dolls and I asked her “what does this mean?” And I showed her exactly what he did me. Her eyes widened. “Who showed you that?” And I remember crying because that’s when my heart knew it was bad. I told her. Everything. She called my dad and he showed up later and brought Michael. I had to repeat myself again and explain everything that happened. Of course, Michael denied everything. My father took his side. My father. But the fucked up thing is, I was still going over there. I dont know why my Mom let me keep going. I never asked her and I won’t. As the years go by and I get older, things got worse. I was almost raped. But escaped. I suffered from insomnia so bad that I had dark circles under my eyes at such a young age it was horrible. I thought to myself, “what does it even matter if I continue saying something if no one believes me?”.
I dont blame my mom. I dont blame my dad. I was too ashamed to say anything because of the threats those brothers would give me. The fear in my eyes gave them power. My tears was nothing but fuel for them.
When I was ten, that’s when it stopped. The day before fifth grade started for me, that Sunday, Michael told me my “brother”, (my dad’s son), was looking for me upstairs, so I go up there and Michael pulls me into his room. My “brother” is nowhere to be found. Michael tells me “he will be back”. He goes into his closet and pulls out a model car he made and tells me “you can go a chose one of cars to have”. He knew I liked them. And of course, I believed him. I go and look at them and he grabs me from behind and pulls me to look at him. Behind him is playing a porn and he just smiles. He tries to pull down my skirt and he unzips his pants. He had such a strong grip on me that I couldn’t free myself. I started to go towards the door, its locked. As he was struggling to get my skirt undone, I stood there stuck with fear asking myself, “Should I let this happen?”. No. I defended myself. I kicked him, I slapped him, kicked him in the nuts, everything I could possibly think of. He just laughed at me. As I finally got free, I yanked the door open. From my peripheral, he took the porn off and threw the VHS in his closet. I went and told my dad. He got his girlfriend and told her to get his VHS player, the porn was gone of course. My dad told me to get my things and get ready to go home. He took my to 7-Eleven and got me a slushee and said “tell your mom when you get home”. As I did. She called the police. They did nothing. “We will send him to a school to show him that’s a bad ting to do” is what they told me and mom. I never went back to my dad’s house after that. I tried to kill myself when I was ten. I never told anyone. As middle school came around, I was diagnosed with severe anxiety. My asthma got worse. I had plenty of asthma attacks to the point where I wished I was dead. Girls at school always made fun of because I would button my school shirt all the way and guys would never look at me. If only they knew.
I found out later on, Michael was in jail. Not for what he did to me. Drugs. He was in jail for drugs. I went to a middle school right across the street of the high school he went. Being in a area that he was or used to be in would make me sick to my stomach. I would be so fast to get on my bus, it was as if I was in a race.
Later on when I was in high school, he found a girl and they had kids. Not knowing what he did to me. Fuck his happiness. I hope everything gets ripped away from him. Just like he did my innocence. My childhood. My happiness. My life.
High school was a shit show, I was bullied because I didn’t dress “girly” enough. I didn’t show enough skin. I always wore loose clothing, sweaters, always kept to myself or to the friends I did have. If only they knew.
Here I am now. Still scared of my own shadow. Still sleeping with some kind of light on. Scared to have my closet doors open. Suffering. But it’s okay. I know I am strong in some way. I have tried to commit suicide throughout middle school, high school, even after. Writing my goodbye letters. Not telling anyone.
Here I am telling my story to all of you. Shaking with fear. To those who have children, be cautious. To those expecting, be cautious. To those who want kids, be cautious. This world is a fucked up place, where fucked up people live. I want to make a difference and show that I am strong. I can surpass it. Even if it takes years. I know I will get better.
This is my life story. This is what made me. This is what changed me. But no matter what, I will always be me.