Surviving Childhood Abuse

For so many years I have been afraid to tell my story. Afraid of the backlash and stigma of being a rape survivor, afraid of knowing that people know, afraid to be that person.

I am starting to realize that in light of the stigma that surrounds childhood abuse, especially sexual abuse, there is someone out there that needs to hear our stories. Not just for me, I’m doing this for the thousands of men and women that suffer in silence. This is no longer the time to be silent.

Growing up with this demon on my back has been hard. I could never have a real relationship. I gave up sex like candy and never wanted or thought I was worthy of love. I battled years of eating disorders, from bulimia to binge eating I did it. My teenage years consisted of drugs and alcohol. Anything to numb my pain. I slept with anyone who would give me the time of day just to feel love one way or another.

It all started when I was about 7 years old. You see, I developed way too early. I had the body of a woman by 8. I guess he thought because I was mensturating I was ready. I think in a way I was already used to abuse. My biological father hated me and would hit me anytime he got mad. He was the textbook definition of an alcoholic and a racist. You see, he was Irish through and through. Red hair, freckles, the whole nine yards. I on the other hand was a spitting image of my Hispanic mother. Dark hair, dark eyes beautiful skin, everyone thought I was perfect. I guess he did too.

So my bio dad decided he would send me to his sister’s house and she had two older sons who were 15 and 16 respectively. I remember my oldest cousin and thinking it was wrong the way he looked at me and how he looked at my freshly developed breasts, the way he listed over me like I was grown. I remember the way he would “accidentally” touch me. Under the table, when I went to the bathroom, before he went to sleep.

I guess I didn’t think it was wrong until it was too late….

As time went on the abuse got worse. It was no longer just touching. He started to tell me crude, sexual jokes, as a child I had no idea what these things meant. I pretended to know and laughed along. Maybe he thought I understood. As a child of 9 how could I? He had a girlfriend that was his age and I started to get jealous of her. For a long time, I thought I was sick too. I mean, how could a sane person be jealous of the attentions of their abuser placed elsewhere? It took me many years to understand that these were normal feelings.

As time went in his brother started to join in. He wouldn’t touch me other than a slap on the butt or rub of my hand but it still significantly impacted my self esteem as a child. I felt love, I thought I belonged somewhere, I thought I was part of a family. I believe my aunt knew of the abuse and just didn’t say anything. She was a cruel woman.

The day finally came when he decided he was done playing childish games. I remember being in a side bedroom when he came in. He smelled like old spice. My aunt and cousin were in the kitchen. I could hear the noises of dinner being prepared. He started kissing my lips and touching me between my legs. I remember the bike riding in my chest and feeling sick to my stomach like I wanted to puke. I remember my muffled screams as his hand covered my mouth and the tears running down my face when he entered me. I remember the terror as I felt myself open and tear. I remember feeling like I was falling and I watched him finish from outside my body. I remember him telling me I was bleeding and feeling discarded like yesterday’s trash.

I wish I could say this was the only time something like this happened to me. I wish I could say this was just a part of my past and that it was something I healed from.

No, this was just the beginning.