Nickie
I was six.
I didn’t know that there was anything wrong with it; I was too young to know it was wrong. He was a prominent figure in my life, and I trusted him.
I trusted him.
He started slowly, making sure he didn’t abuse my trust. I didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to be happening. I thought it was normal. I had no way of knowing it wasn’t.
He gained my trust. Then shattered it.
Time went on. It went on. I didn’t know it shouldn’t be going on. I didn’t know it was the wrong kind of attention. I thought it meant he loved me. He wasn’t hurting me. So I thought it was okay.
It wasn’t okay.
I was too young to know the damage he was doing to me mentally. It went on. I didn’t say no. I didn’t know I could say no.
By the time I was a preteen, I was too ashamed to tell. I had a feeling it was wrong. But I thought it was my fault because I had allowed it to happen. I was ashamed because it felt good. What he was doing to me felt good. Obviously I was bad and was asking for it because it felt good.
His secret became my secret.
I lived with this secret until I was 14 years old. I lived with the shame until I was in my 30s. I didn’t know I was torturing myself without reason. I felt shame because as a child, a young child who knew nothing about sex, I enjoyed the physical feelings he gave me. I didn’t know that I had no control over those physical feelings. I didn’t know that I had those feelings because he was an adult who knew what he was doing and knew how to create those feelings. I didn’t know that he was using those feelings to further his agenda. I was too young to know.
It took many years for me to finally admit that… to finally admit that while being molested it felt good. Of course it did, he was a grown man who knew about sexual stimulation and he knew what to do. I didn’t. I was a child who wasn’t being ‘hurt’ and it ‘felt good’ so how was I supposed to know it wasn’t my fault?
The feelings of shame nearly destroyed me. Living with nine years of being molested on a near constant basis didn’t. I survived that. I moved on from that. I couldn’t move on from the shame.
I was so ashamed.
It has been over 20 years since I stopped keeping his secret. I’m not ashamed any more. I know it wasn’t my fault. I know it wasn’t anything I had any control over. I was a child. He was the adult. I did nothing wrong. I wasn’t a bad girl because he made it feel good. I wasn’t asking for it because he made it feel good. He took advantage of my innocence. He was in control. And I am not ashamed.
I refuse to be a victim.
I will not allow myself to be a victim– of him or of myself. I am not a victim of abuse. I am a survivor. I am not a victim of my own turmoil and shame. I am a survivor. I will not let this nine year even define who I am. I am stronger than that. I have beaten it. It did not beat me. I have won. It does not control me. He does not control me.
I am at peace.
I have come to terms with my childhood. I have forgiven all that needed to be forgiven. And I have let it go. It no longer has a hold on me, not even a tiny one. I can talk about it- it doesn’t bother me. I can write about it- it doesn’t bother me. My 30 year struggle is over. I am completely at peace.
And the cycle is broken.
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Nickie writes at Southern Expressions.
Marissa
I was abused/molested by my older brother for years. I think it started when I was 4 or 5. I blocked the sexual abuse out for years and still cannot remember all of the ‘details’. I’m actually glad that my brain is protecting me from the specifics and the raw horror that I went through.
But when I was 17 years old I got a call from a friend. She’d just gone out with her boyfriend and he’d raped her. I’d asked her if she told her mom and she’d said no, that her mom liked him and, after all, she was ‘dating’ him. We were just learning about date rape back then and I told her that no meant NO! But it triggers something in me.
That same night, I have nightmares and wake up wondering if ‘it’ really happened to me. I remember him on top of me in the bathroom. I remember the knock on the door and him rolling off me, panicked. He’d motioned for me to climb into the cupboard and be quiet. I’d hurried, I was scared. I remember someone coming in and using the bathroom. After they leave, I slip out of the cupboard and run to my room. I’m in my room and am scared when I see him watching me through the crack in the door. “Don’t tell – they won’t believe you anyway” and he smirks and walks away. Last time it was ‘Don’t tell or I will kill your dog’. Always a threat.
I wonder did this happen to me? Our family was NOT perfect but THAT couldn’t happen in our family…or could it…
I confront him and he admits it, almost shrugs it off like it’s not his problem, it’s mine. I feel sickened. What should I do? Who should I tell? Would they believe me? I decide to tell mom but can’t do it face to face. I tell her through the bathroom door. Silence. Did she hear me? Yes, she heard me. Said she was sorry. From that day, we never discussed it again. I wanted to–more than she’ll ever know.
As the years pass, I remember more and more of that sexual abuse I suffered at the hands of my brother and it sickens me. I get clammy hands when I know I have to see him. Until recently, I’ve always let him have the power over me. Putting me down. Stealing from me. I put a lock on my door and he still invaded my space. When I was going through all of this – it was normal or maybe it was that I didn’t want to deal with it or didn’t want to realize that my mother did nothing to stop it, did nothing to help me understand it was not my fault, did nothing to help me heal.
I also remember so many doctor visits… my bottom red, raw–it hurt to have underwear and pants on it was so raw. Why didn’t the doctor put two and two together? Or was it because my mom refused to see the ‘truth’. The doctor told mom I need cotton underwear, that nylon was the cause.
I wasn’t able to breastfeed my son because of him. But then again, I gave him that power. I should have realized that I was in control and breastfeeding was natural and not disgusting and was not abusing my son. It felt wrong to think of my son breastfeeding.
Last year my brother put his hands around my neck. He was frustrated and we were fighting about the care of our mother. I told him to get his hands off me and if he wanted to beat me up, he could do it outside but not in front of mom or my son (who was 8 at the time). Mom got in between us and he stopped.
I still am trying to make sense of all of this and still have those ‘blocked’ memories surfacing and still fight to NOT to let him have the control over me.
I am a woman now, a mother, a wife and I will not let him have control over my emotions. Not after 30 years. It’s my time. I’ve forgiven him but will not forget and will not ever let my guard down when I’m around him. He still can make me nauseated by thinking of him.
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