This sadistic behavior, the odds of a child being sexually abused is 1 in 4 for girls and 1 in 6 for boys. One out of every five children is sexually abused. That number is far too high and the practice of looking the other way for fear of addressing the issues has gone on way too long.
It's time to speak up, step out of the closet and put our collective foot down. The more we talk about it, the less of a stigma and secret it becomes.
I was an innocent, vulnerable 7 yr old, when my father started raping me. Not only does sexual abuse destroy a child's sense of self, physically but it erodes away their emotions, sense of safety, security, trust and often, their future.
The molester is a destroyer who hurts a child in The worst possible way. That child is forced to spend time hiding not only from the horrendous physical pain but from themselves. They quickly grow to hate and despise their own bodies. They learn to keep secrets, keep hidden and that it's not the crime that is heinous, but themselves. The abused, the small ones, believe that this pain they brought upon themselves. The abused are the ones full of shame and remorse, not the perpetrator.
Sometimes it is so easy to spot the grown ups who were the victims. They carry themselves with worthlessness visible to the naked eye. Some seek comfort in food, in obsessions, addictions, in hoarding and hiding.
No one probably ever had an inkling, that I was being molested by my own father. Who does stupid shit like that? It's called incest. I remember when I first heard that word. Omg, I was nine years old and a couple schoolmates were talking behind me and stoically, I listened. They were laughing about it in disbelief. Quite suddenly and dramatically, I realized what was going on in my house, with my father...it was wrong.
Memories flood in moving pictures.
So I go home and tell my mother. I ask her if she had ever heard of that word. The look on her face, a mad mix of awareness, bewilderment and concern. I was sent to my room until dad got home. I heard them arguing in the bedroom. My fathers vehement denial. Yeah dad, I was just making it alll up.
Mom believed him. In tears and visible shaken, she told me she believed him. I was never to speak about it again. I kept telling her different facts, in a rather logical, perplexing way, but her ears shut, her eyes got distant and I was punished, sent to my room.
I remember the horrid feeling, I got that day, when I realized I had tattled and the nighttime excursions would not end. Night after night of being dragged out of my bed, to the basement, would surely continue.
I remember feeling....how I had lost my mother...that day. It was my one chance, and I blew it. See, that ol blame thingy creeps back.
Mom didn't believe. Dad kept raping me. Life just got a whole lot worse.
It's no fun being hurt, being helpless, being raped by a parent. It can fuck up your whole life and way of thinking.
I'm in therapy. I am getting better. I am healing. I release the past. I have forgiven my rapist, by my choice. Don't live and perpetuate secrets. Tell someone. And if that person doesn't believe you, tell another and another, find someone who will believe.
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