Warning: This is extremely graphic and involves the ab*se of a ch*ld (myself).
I am literally begging you not to read this if this topic is triggering to you.
Not even my own mother had the stomach to hear me talk about this.
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There is a version of myself that lives in the past that is stronger than the version of myself today.
My 16 year old self was so, so strong and so resilient. The most that she did to cope was write in her journal.
I have journals and journals fill of writing, creative exercises, and drawings. That was the only way that I knew how to express my pain.
I remember wanting to be happy. I fought for it. It was a choice that I made everyday.
I don't know how it happened.
I don't know at what point I just slipped, and gave it all up.
I know what it's like to be happy.
How did I get back here?
Woah.
I cried almost everyday, back then.
I would rub fresh sea salt into the fresh and vulnerable wounds of my trauma no matter how much it hurt.
This was a difficult process, but my therapist told me that it always gets a lot worse before it gets any better.
I trusted this process wholeheartedly.
Everytime I felt like it was getting worse, I reminded myself that I was just on the road to feeling the best.
I trusted that I had to go through it, in order to grow through it.
Thankfully, even if it was only for a little while, I found peace within myself and my surroundings.
I chose to deal with my pain and vomited up all of my insides for everyone to see. Look at what I went through! Why don't you care?
It felt like nobody cared about me.
I barely went to school, but I definitely wasn't happy at home either.
Eventually, I got sent to therapy while simultaneously meeting with the school counsellors.
Before I dragged myself out of this previously depressive state, misery practically radiated off of my body.
Everyone around me was repulsed by it.
I was angry, miserable, and so incredibly frustrated.
I was mad at the world for the cards that I was dealt, and my energy made everyone assume that I was all-in-all just a horrible and negative person.
My trauma demanded to be confronted.
It always bit back at me when I tried to push it back into it's cage.
It's teeth were sharp, and I hated that it wanted to be free and one with me.
When I was five years old, I was molested by my uncle.
My mother took me over to my ma's house, as she often did, to watch the new Barbie movie with his sister.
His sister and I were relatively close in age, so I just call her my cousin despite the fact that she's actually my aunty.
I was dressed in my new pyjamas and I was so ready to have an awesome night. Barbie and the Three Musketeers.
I was going to tell my friends at school all about it on Monday.
I got to my ma's house and my uncle was there.
My mommy left me with him, she went to go and pick my "cousin" up a few houses away.
He asked me to come to the bathroom, and as I tell this story I still feel like that same five year old girl.
There are a few parts where everything goes blank.
I wasn't that tall.
My age could still only be counted on one hand.
The lights were bright and very white, the bathroom looked like a sterile hospital. It was kind of cold, too.
It was October of 2009.
My crown birthday was coming up that November.
I would be six years old on the sixth day of the month.
He made me kiss him.
When I moved my head away because my mouth was getting tired, he just moved my head right back.
It goes blank again.
When did he take his pants off?
When were my pants pulled down?
My panties had a cartoon print on it.
I can't remember if it was a print of a white kitten or Tinkerball, but the rest of the material was pastel coloured.
When did he pull those down?
He didn't undress me completely. He wanted a "quickie".
My mommy wouldn't be long, she'd come and help me soon.
He'd have to stop as soon as she got back, and that comforted me.
My pyjamas were pink. I wanted to look like Barbie. For the movie.
I had a head full of soft curls.
More blank spots.
His hand was in my head. I opened my eyes to see what was happening.
His eyes were closed, his tongue forcefully invading my mouth.
I told him that I wanted to stop at some point. I know that I wanted it to stop.
He was rubbing the tip of his penis against my exposed parts.
I remember everything smelling really strong.
He was already rubbing his pre-cum on me.
I may seem unnecessarily graphic.
As uncomfortable as you may feel reading this, how do you think I felt experiencing it as a baby?
I was just a baby.
This is what my brother's ex-girlfriend was shouting at me, crying when I tried to soothe her after telling her what had happened to me.
"You were just a baby!" the crack in her voice haunts me to this day.
I need you to understand exactly why pedophiles deserve no empathy.
He was using a child to get off, abusing a body that had been inside of a womb only five years prior for his own self gratification.
As he used me, his eyes rolled back, he moaned and grunted while I stood stiff, tired and confused.
He came before he even put anything inside of me.
Did he put anything inside of me?
For some reason, I can remember the taste of something.
He made me rinse my mouth out when he heard my mommy come back, and he made me promise not to tell anyone.
I had to stand on my tippy toes to reach the sink.
I scooped up a handful of water and took sips of it as I brought it to my mouth.
I remember leaving the bathroom and being in the tight embrace of my cousin less than five seconds later.
As I hugged her, my eyes met with my mother's who gave me a big smile in return.
My genitals were still wet with him while I watched the movie with my cousin.
This can't be my story.
This isn't something that I feel strong enough to deal with.
I don't even want to write this anymore. Thank you for reading.
❥ With everlasting love,
angelsclique - 01.10.24
