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He convinced me that I was dirty, filthy, that my parents would be ashamed – but that he was kind, and would forgive me and keep my horrible secret on one condition. He never once touched me that night, but what started in my bedroom became something bigger that would scar me. He made me take off my pajama bottoms, and told me to touch myself, so that he could make sure I was doing it. This friend that I had found, the big kiddish man that had played cards and console games with me was gone, replaced by something menacing and terrible. He caught me with my hands down my pajamas and told me in no uncertain terms that I was doing something shameful and wrong. I would fantasize about my favorite actors and my young boyfriend and getting married someday and letting some boy see the parts I hid under my bathing suits. I snuck around my house and found pornography – legal, adult pornography – and masturbated furiously to it when no one was home. I found out that if I touched myself, I felt pleasure. Then, as most children – to – teenagers do, I began discovering my body. I was willing to forgive that momentary transgression because he was offering me something I needed – acceptance. I suppose on some level, my young self was just looking for a friend. I never really stopped to question why it was that he spent more time being “fun” and irresponsible than being an adult and having a job. He was a strange breed of man one that was too misanthropic and childlike to be around adults, but far too old to be really acceptable with children. To my dismay, my abuser moved in with us. The sad part is that my young boyfriend would be the last one I would tell that secret to for almost five years. Instead, I was left thinking that things like that just happened sometimes. I wanted someone to tell me that I was right, that this was not okay. Now, in retrospect, I wonder if he ever “acted odd” with my young boyfriend. He looked down and away and mumbled something about how my abuser acted odd when he was tired. I wanted something from him that he wasn’t old enough to understand – because what happened to me was something neither of us were old enough to understand. I wanted him to defend my honor and flip out and say I was his girlfriend and how dare this friend of his do something like that?īut he was just a kid. Deep in the maze, which seems now like some sort of metaphor, I told him that my abuser had put my hand on his penis.
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On a whim, we both went into this amusing maze meant for kids to get lost in and have fun. Cute Boyfriend and I were at a renaissance faire together. Warning sign: If they can’t have friends their own age, don’t expose your children to them. He was good friends with my abuser, despite the difference of eleven years in their ages. We called each other, thought we loved each other, had a “song” that we shared. I use quotes because I was eleven, and all we ever did was slow dance and kiss once. He shrugged and gave me this ridiculous irresponsible grin and said, “I just wanted to see what you’d do.” It was all a game to him then.Īround that time, I got my first “boyfriend”. I froze, confused, immediately aware that something was wrong, and looked up at him slowly. Out of the blue, he took my hand, and he put it on the bulge in his pants. He began tickling me, and I squirmed and squealed and fell across his lap. We were sharing a room at a campsite where my family was staying there weren’t enough beds in the rooms for us to have our own rooms, and my mother was off doing something else on the camp. I clearly remember the first time he made me uncomfortable.
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I think this is the first time I’ve ever written in full detail about what he did to me. When I was eleven, another monster entered my life. I really am not yet ready to talk much about that yet. There was a brief brush with another monster he was however, a young, troubled boy who did to me what I’m relatively sure someone was doing to him. My first abuser taught me that I was a victim, and gave me the necessary insecurities that would let my second abuser run roughshod over my childhood.Įventually, that relationship ended for my mother, and that monster left my life. He taught me that no one would believe me, and that adults had the power. This abuse was minor, but I think it primed me for what was to come. She would look at me and say, “What did you do to?” So from a very young age I was taught that what I suffered was my own fault. He would carefully call it “spanking” instead of “belting” or “beating” because then when I went to my mother to cry, I would tell her that he spanked me. When he did it, he would tell me the whole time how I deserved it, and how I shouldn’t have made him do it. He would find the most minor infractions and make me stand there while he thrashed me with his belt. When I was four years old, my then-stepfather took to beating me.