#6

When I was nine, my fifteen year old neighbor and I used to play together. Looking back on the games we played, I realize that I was the always losing member—I was always the one in the position to have broken my leg or smashed my head open, he was always the one to think up these sadistic games. But what did I care? There were no other kids in the neighborhood. And anyway, I was nine and there was a 15 year old who wanted to hang out with me. I felt special. And if there was something I didn’t understand that he suggested, it was just because I was younger than him. I was afraid that if I questioned him, he would remember how young I was, and would stop playing with me. So I chose not to question; I wanted to appear older than I was.

The first time that he proposed that we be tied together was while jumping on the trampoline. A few weeks later, we went into his room to play video games as usual, but this time he shut the door, and asked if I wanted to play something else-- the same game but without the trampoline. On his bed, he tied my hands together, tied my body to his. He would slide his hands into my pants, feeling my soft baby hair, and rub my tiny breasts—really nothing more than swollen nipples. We played truth or dare, and he dared me to take off my clothes. He took off his, and held his erect penis in his hands. These events took place a few times a week probably over a year (it’s hard to remember exactly). The strange thing is that I never really understood what was going on. I knew that I couldn’t tell my parents, but I didn’t really know why. Since I only ever saw his penis when it was erect, I came to the conclusion that some penises stand up, and others lay down. I didn’t really understand what sex was until maybe a year later, in fifth grade. I didn’t learn much about sex from these closed-door encounters—I could only imagine what my nine-year-old brain could think up. But what I did learn was how to stay silent, how not to say “no.” This lesson I took with me.

When I was twelve, a sixteen year old boy pressured me into giving him a blow job in a storeroom at a church. That was when I learned about ejaculation. Still, no one had taught me how to say “no.”

When I was 16, I fell asleep sharing a tent at a music festival with a friend, a 50-something year old man, who I assumed would not touch me. (That was at an age when I still I thought being “adult” involved some sort of higher moral standard—I assumed that he wouldn’t break the rules.) But I woke up that night with him on top and inside of me, saying, “I am such a lucky man.”

Of course, these are only a few of the hundreds of instances that have reinforced my inability to speak up for myself. Like Sarah, I thought that being held was synonymous with being held down—I had never experienced anything different. Even now, many years later, it was only after reading this blog about a year ago that I realized that events like the ones I’ve mentioned were sexual abuse. I knew that when I was nine, I was abused. I was child—I had no way to consent. But what happened when I was 12, and the events onward from there, I believed to be my own moral degradation.

Even now, it seems that every time I make headway in empowering myself, in speaking up for myself, I find myself tacked against a wall again, unable to say what I’m feeling, laughing nervously as unwanted advances are made. And each time this happens, all the moments that I have stood up for myself, and all the times that I have said what I needed to say—those times become irrelevant, because I know that no matter who I try to become, the person that I will always be is that scared little girl, backed up against the wall, hoping that maybe this is the time that he will just forget and walk away.

-Anonymous

#5

so, i went to a therapist last year (really, many therapists over many years) but this woman was exceptionally rad. a former punker, she was able to be my ally and hear my story and respond in all the right ways. and so anyways, this rad punker therapist, she and i talked a lot about the different personalities inside of me, and there was this one that i nicknamed "the vietnam vet" who was ready, with his weapon (lock and load style), to destroy anything that might hurt me ever again. which is completely awesome, right? i got somebody in there who will protect me from hurting, who feels so bad and guilty that they couldn't have prevented the hurt the first time that this time they've got guns, weapons, hand grenades, and they will keep me from hurting ever again.

only problem is that in order to heal from all the hurt that happened the first time, i'm probably going to have to hurt some more through the telling. so i try to type out my story, to talk about all the ways that being raped by my brother affected me, still affects me, and i've got this vietnam vet character part of me who is throwing bombs to distract me, to keep me from thinking about how much i was hurt, how much i still hurt. i'm glad i have part of me that wants to work so hard to keep me from feeling pain. only it crushes me a little to think of all that i don't let myself feel, so that i can survive.

sometimes it doesn't feel like the rape was the worst part. i look at all of my family, and the brother who raped me for 4 years isn't the person who i feel the rage against. Is it stockholm syndrome, am I siding with the abuser and trying to forgive too soon in order to make it all seem ok again? probably somewhat, but mostly because when i see him it is so painfully obvious that he is wounded and messed up and suffering still from those years.

what was the worst part was the way that my family wanted to pretend that it never happened. after i slit my wrists, after i came home from the hospital, after my parents found out the truth, after they decided to not tell my oldest brother what was going on (so as not to upset him?!), after 4 months of therapy for me and 2 months of therapy for my middle brother, it became the official skeleton in the closet that no one would ever ever ever talk about again. if i ever tried to bring it up, my mother would cry and ask me when i was going to get over it. and so, well, i never did want to make my mom cry. and so i learned that they were never going to want to address it. and its that silence that is sickening, infuriating. that silence is the silence that somehow make sex abuse sanctioned, that silence tries to shame me against expressing my own truth. that silence is what oppression is built on, i believe.

i was raped by my brother for 4 years, ages 10-14. i've been raped by so many other people in the 16 years since then. rape, date rape, nonconsensual sex...what i learned as a kid is that it feels most comfortable to have sex be something that happens to me. or those moments of stress and hunger, wanting to be held so badly. because being held down sometimes still feels like being held.

my name is sarah, and that is one part of my story of who i am.

Postcard

# 4

Looking back on those years is like squinting and trying to make out the details on the horizon. Who was I then? Why have I left the child, I was, behind like everyone else? I can only speak for the present moment truthfully and the past would only be misrepresented. My memory has softened the gory details -- the blood, the broken legs, and broken heart, and shortened those infinitely-long years into a dull, emotional phrase, "... when I was abused as a child." If I'm going to make an honest attempt at conjuring the past, I'm going to have be hurt again....

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He put a red light bulb in the room for aura. He'd ask me to stand still and proceed to hit me in the knees with a hammer. To convince me, he would hold his favorite switchblade knife against my neck. I'd fall to the ground like jelly. He'd yell and tell me a "real man would get up."

There was this pacing he would do with his hands pulling at his hair, his face turning red, and his feet making heavy stomps. He would just circle around in madness. It seemed like he was calculating something in his head. And when he was done, he'd kick me in the head (always with steel-toed boots) once. Then, in sets of three, or four.

In defense, I'd curl up into a ball with my hands over head, and he'd pick me up and throw me against the wall. Sometimes, he'd throw a knife at me and expect me to knife-fight with him. He always won. And when he did, I always had to take a week or two off school.

Other nights, well most nights, at the point where he had broken my knees, he'd watch porn while forcing his penis into my mouth and then switching up by shoving it into my small asshole. When my mother came home, he'd threaten her not to say anything. He'd punch her in the face. She stood up in my defense. (I knew that she wouldn't able to take this for much longer.) My mother would have to clean my wounds and wash his sperm from my body.

On really, really bad days, he'd grab me and take me up the stairs. He'd throw me back down the stairs and say, "Why did you do that?" He'd go back down the steps and grab my feet and drag me up with my head hitting all 24 steps. On the second floor, our destination was the bathroom. Perched over the toilet, his hands would tug the hair at the back of my head and force me into the toilet. Every time, I felt like I was going to drown. I knew it was nearly over when he'd bind my neck with the toilet seat and then sit down only to shit on my head. (Year after year of this happening, I struggled even less to keep breathing when he'd do this.)

By the end of almost every night for the next three years, he'd throw me back, nude, in the rat ridden closet with the red light bulb. He'd take a trash can and make me watch him throw my would-be dinner away. He'd ask if I was sorry and if that I truly were then I would willingly give head to him. At some points, I considered. But every time, I said no. He'd bolt out, pad-lock the door, and throw things at the wall or threaten me from the other side. Eventually, he'd fall asleep and I'd find the peace and solitude to cry.

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So, why three years? Well, three years later, I snuck in a framing hammer in self-defense, in case I'd have to use it. There was one night where after being nearly fatally wounded, bleeding, and hungry.

I still remember the night. I remember the starlight and the cold. I remember using a nearly empty, knit bag of rice to keep myself warm. I was fighting the feeling of passing out and I knew that it'd be a long time before my mother would come home. On the phone, I overhead my mother's voice on the phone and that she'd be staying late at work. I was only eight years old and I had to make the decision to give up or to not. I knew what giving up meant. I didn't know what the opposite meant. Somewhere inside of me, there was a feeling of even greater warmth. I started contemplating love: falling in love and giving love. I thought about possibilities and that I would have to fight for them. I went over to the corner where I kept the hammer.

I looked at the wall, the door, my father guarding the rest of the world away from me and the life that I could have. With the hammer in hand, I beat at the wall. I couldn't believe I made a hole. I knew my father would wake up from the sound. I had to work fast. I worked to unfasten the door. The door fell. The wall began to collapse, it was weaker than me even in my weakened state. My father came out into the kitchen and saw me grabbing food like a wild animal. He was about to get near me and I screamed at him to not get close. I screamed, "No more!" He collapsed and fell onto the ground crying.

The rest was a blur. I had a seizure. I passed out and found my mother sleeping next to me. I remember being in a hospital. I remember being raised in the air by nurses and onto a gurney. I remember breathing in a gas to fall asleep. I remember driving away from the hospital with my mother.

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My father was given the incredible ability to tell stories. As a writer and storyteller myself, there's a certain responsibility about the things you create. Stories should carry wisdom even if they don't tell all the details. As for my father, he was an incredible liar. He was a charming man when it comes to food and stories at dinner time. He's played down our past into a cute story of an unruly boy that always got into trouble. At many points, he almost had me convinced that nothing happened. His lies have only intensified the pain from all the cuts from being beaten and raped, my emaciation, and my anger. Even now, it's something my family has forgotten. I've been incredibly alone in trying to defend my past and to raise it to life. I've felt like I was going crazy because I'm the only one who remembers it.

Now, I'm beginning to tell my story for myself.

There's a purpose and hope I have in bringing this out into the open. It's more than just helping me and talking about a "cause". For me, it's about visiting that child that needs a voice. It's about bridging that gap between now and then, between you and me, and helping to give awareness that sexual abuse exists even if it's not written or talked about in the public space. But in the end, it is essential that we humanize suffering, understand it, and work to stop it from progressing and repeating.

My name is Christopher and I'm 26 years old. I plan on becoming a grade school teacher, continuing my writing, and doing work with children to help intervene in abuse towards children. Thank you.

# 3

So i was eight years old.
I guess my mom was trying to be economical and hired the oldest neighbor boy on the street to babysit for a little while. Sixteen, maybe eighteen.
He had these tests for me and my brother. He would time us to see how fast we could clean up our toys or else we would be punished.
Lo and behold, every time, he would show us that we missed a playing card or a piece of the train set.

So he would give me options; A spanking, or i could suck on his penis.
I always chose the spanking. My brother got one too.
Probably the third time he babysat, when i got to choose my punishment, he asked me to suck on his finger, so i did, thinking i was getting off easy. He told me that sucking on his penis felt like the same thing. He explained that his penis hurt and i would be helping him out and i wouldn't have to get a spanking.

He convinced me to go in the bathroom with him. He sat on the toilet seat and i did what he asked me to do. He told me not to bite and he would push the skin above my anus when he wanted me to stop.
I don't remember how many times is happened.
I know it was more than twice.
I know one time he put toothpaste all over it to make it taste better for me.
I know one time he played doctor with me and inserted an empty pen into my anus acting as a thermometer.
And my brother remembers him sitting me on a beanbag chair naked.

Two years later, my brother and i were brushing our teeth and i thought he would find the story funny.
"Remember that babysitter? Well, one time he asked me to suck on his penis!"
My brother, who must have just heard this phrase on the news screamed, "That's sexual harassment! I'm telling mom!"

I immediately started crying. I told everyone it wasn't true.
My mom sent me to three therapists. One after another, I'm not sure why.
I wrote in my journal that i would tell them that he asked me to do it, but i never actually did.

Now when i think of everything, i tend to analyze my actions/reactions/realizations that came years after.

When my mom told me that she was molested by her brother, with the same name as the babysitter.
When i figured out that he had tricked us every time. He hid the playing card/train set piece himself.
When i figured out that it wasn't pee that had been in my mouth when he had me stop.
When i turned in a paper at school that had doodles in the margins, one of which my teachers and parents deemed, looked like a penis, and i had to go to therapy all over again.
The way i held my story over my friends' heads. You weren't my true best friend if you didn't know.
The way this has affected my sex life.

I think that's all i want to share.
Thank you for making this site.
Thank you for listening.

The Second Story

I was asked to write a story about my experiences with childhood sexual abuse from the perspective of someone relatively unscathed by this world. So here goes.

When I was a kid, I didn’t quite believe the statistic that 1 in 4, or 1 in 3, or way too many, women are sexually abused in their lifetime. I still thought of childhood sexual abuse from that clean distant standpoint of something tragic that happens to other people, usually at the hands of a creepy stranger in the park. I thought of “child molestation” as someone putting their hand on a boy’s penis, or on a girl’s vagina, and my imagination stopped there.

Now I know that “child molestation” is a clean, newspaper friendly term that can mean anything from touching to repeated, serial rape. Now I think maybe 1 in 4 is too low, an under-estimate by a nation that doesn’t talk.

Because we don’t talk.

I can’t convey the number of close friends and lovers of every gender that I have known for months or years before they told me quietly, while not looking at me, maybe only when drunk, about that thing that happened once. Or that thing that happened thousands of times. I can only imagine the number of people that I never got close enough to, to become privilege to that darkest of information.

What stands out to me, is our hesitation to use the word rape. And our hesitation to call things rape. And our desire to leave our perpetrator a way out, especially when we were drunk. I’m talking about friends telling me

“there was this one time where I was making out with this boy and I passed out and then I woke up and I was afraid I was pregnant” but not calling it rape
or
“I mean I was really drunk so I don’t know what happened for sure, but I think I remember him on top of me and my pants were definitely down around my ankles”
or
“I mean, I wouldn’t call it rape, but I knew there was no way I was getting out of that room without having sex with him”

oh, and why the hell do newspapers say “he was caught having sex with a 6 year old”? You don’t have sex with a 6 year old. You rape a 6 year old.

What stands out to me, is a lack of a pattern. The danger everywhere. At this point, I think I know someone that fits every stereotype. The rapist or pepetrator is a best friend’s dad. A babysitter. A stranger who broke into the house at night. A fellow student. A friend. A boyfriend. A mom. A dad. An uncle. These, that I have listed, are the perpetrators that I know about. How many have never been mentioned to me?

I don’t think growing older, and knowing more people to whom this has happened, has made me more scared of the world. It has definitely made me angrier.

I consider myself exceedingly lucky that nothing other that the catcalls and general harassment that comes with being female, or perhaps alive- I mean, no physical harm- has ever come to me. But I still have to hold my girlfriend as she wakes up 6 times a night to another nightmare about her father raping her. I have to worry about weird pains, and weird bleeding, and weird pap smear results, and asshole doctors who tell her “yeah, 4 is young, but many women are raped younger than that and they turn out fine. Maybe the pain is all in your head.”

So yeah, it does affect me. And I’m angry. I’m angry that we are silencing ourselves, and in doing so, allowing the world to think that our reality does not exist. That every human being alive today is not in some way affected by sexual abuse. I’m angry at our society’s amazing ability to, using clean language and self-censorship, effectively sweep a tragedy of catastrophic scale under the rug every day. I am angry at all the rapists walking around with their names unscathed, while our souls are anything but.

I want to start screaming. I want to start destroying things. I want to make art, and gather evidence, and attempt some level of visibility. I want company.

Tell me your story. Please. I know how to listen.