One day you’re an innocent little flower who no one has touched or rubbed or shown their penis’s too.. and the next day, you’re used. That’s how the saying goes right? Learning I had already been experienced in giving sexual favors since the age of my beautiful niece Sidney, was something I didn’t want to learn. I didn’t want to think about it when I got out of the shower, I didn’t want it to effect every fucking step my family takes and I sure as hell didn’t want it to be a conversation I now have to have with the men I blow when they ask “why are you starting to panic?”. Who am I kidding, they never ask. I lucky didn’t remember my molestation until I was 15 years old. That means years and years of thinking I was the definition of “innocent”. Thinking I ruled the world, that I was my own women and that I was .. unfortunately the only word that came to my mind was, clean. Yeah I was called the classic “whore” in high school for simply talking to a boy or two. That’s how high school in a small town goes, you’re judged and ridiculed everyday until you finally graduate and then you’re judged and ridiculed in a more secretive, adult like fashion. Regardless, I knew in my teen mind that not one person has seen my vagina. Call me whatever you want because I know I am untouched and for some stupid god damn reason that meant the world to me.
It wasn’t until I was riding in the car with my mother back from taking my sister to college. 3 hour drive with 4 billboards makes a great time to fuck your daughters head up for life. I remember every world my mom said, every single time she coughed because she didn’t want me to notice her crying and every once of disgust I had for myself. I started off this memorable conversation by asking why did we all hate my step brother Dave so much. He had moved back in with us for a few years now at age 34 (we’ll get to that) and he never wanted to talk to me. Dave complained 24/7, made shitty comments to my mother and never picked up after himself. Granted he was an asshole but so was I. All these things and more made me want to smack the shit out of him but who knew I’d end up wanting to cut off his dick. My mom had made it clear (behind his back of course) that she hates Dave, but why did we all collectively hate him? She went on to ask me what I remember about Dave and how we grew up together.
I remember laughing a lot. Being excited that I had 3 new brothers in my life. My mom and dad divorced when I was young and all I had was my sister. She was great but no teen girl wants to hang around a 4 year old. I remember finally having 3 new family members that were wild, like me, who wanted to play outside 24/7 and who always included me. I was living the childhood dream right before my eyes and I knew that. I remember being really close with my brother Dave. He was so nice to me, let me win every time we played video games and always made me feel welcome. Dave would ask me to come into his room after a day of playing out in the pool with everyone and he wanted to “continue having fun.” I felt popular within my home. I felt wanted. Playing in Dave’s room was my favorite time because I was needed and I like being needed. That lasted a long time.
But I also remember a fancy women coming to our house. I remember my mom cleaned the house a lot that day and prepared snacks. I remember the glass of lemonade she had and wondering why she wasn’t touching it. She would ask me very odd questions. “What do you and Dave do together?” “Did Dave have you touch him ever?” “Did he touch you?” He did touch me, make me touch him, show me things.. but that was the game. I like games. Those games soon ended!
When my mom told me years later that this “fancy women” was a social worker and those games I loved so much was actually me being sexually abused, memories hit me harder than I would eventually hit Dave’s truck with a shovel. He would put me on his lap and tell me to ride, like I was on a horse and I remember it made me need to pee. I liked this game. Sometimes he’d even take off clothing so that it would be more natural. My mom played something similar however I was on her back, fully clothed and she’d have me hold on “like a horse”. That game was more fun and didn’t make me feel like I had to pee. Dave wanted to make me feel comfortable and would ask things like “how can we make things more fun?” I told him, “my mom has me hang onto something like I’m on a horse” so he had me hang on to his hands. So kind of him to oblige, right?
The worst part of finding out I had experienced this molestation wasn’t the panic attacks I was having, It wasn’t the heart palpitations every time someone touched my parts and it wasn’t even how much it makes me feel unworthy till this day. It was having to go home and live with the guy who had molested me. He was my step dads son, how could I kick him out? He has no where to go! .. At least that’s what I was told from my step dad. Before I go on, know that I have forgiven my family for this. We are all human just trying to do the best for everyone, every child.
I came home the night after I found out the news.. it took one “hey” from Dave for me to take a shovel out our garage and put dents into his truck. I screamed until my throat felt like it was bleeding. I sobbed until I felt like throwing up. I was mourning for something I didn’t know I had lost. Once you express your feelings you’re supposed to fell better, why didn’t I felt better? After letting out my anger, not only was I feeling disgusted about my body, feeling like a slut and feeling apart of a community I didn’t want to be apart of, but now my throat hurt and my eyes burned.
I’m now 26 now and I’d like to say this story is coming to an end but I unfortunately still deal with members of my “family” not believing that this happened to me. “If this really happened why did you live with him?” You tell me. I still deal with a random cousin of mine asking me questions I’ve answered multiple times before. “Wait, Dave did this to you? When?” I used to get shocked when someone in my family was flabbergasted when they find out Dave was my first sexual experience, unfortunately now I don’t get surprised. Now it just feels like they get a gossip story to hear while I have to talk about it and remember details to answer there questions. It’s just a some salt in all the multiple wounds that this man had put into me. It’s become an experience I’m numb too because for some reason it’s still everyone’s favorite topic of discussion.
I would be lying if I told you this was something easy to write. Something I’m stronger for and something I’ve become a bad ass “you can’t fuck with me” type of girl. But life isn’t a trending Instagram post and you’re not going to feel like the #survivor. Finding out that I was another girl who had experienced this type of pain devastated me and it was a club I didn’t want to be apart of; no one does.
trying to be someone i read about 