A Collection Of Things I Am To Afraid To Say

January 24th, 2018

The first time I was sexually assaulted I was in the first grade.
While everyone else was preparing for dinosaur week I was befriending a kid who didn't have very many friends.
He didn't have very many friends because he was in the special education program.
And I was determined to be his friend.

But on the day, the day that taught me not everyone should have the chance to we your friend.
This boy, this six year old little boy, took off his shirt and pushed me into the corner of the room.
And after he forced me into the corner of the room he tried to force his hands down my pants.

I was only six years old and I knew this was very wrong.
What made him think it was okay to touch me that way?
So I naturally screamed for the teacher.
Who somehow managed to not see any of the altercation,
Came running towards the distress and pull this little boy away from me.

After he was aided in replacing his shirt back onto his body, the teacher looked at me for explanation as if I was in the wrong.
"Why were you alone with him?" She yelled.
"He pushed me into the corner and told me not to scream." I told the teacher.
She merely shook her head as if I was lying to her.

"It's true and then he took of his shirt and put his hand in the front of my pants." I told her, my sobbing little six year old self.
This is the moment when the teacher looked at me and her world seemed to stop.
Under her care a mentally challenged boy had just sexually assaulted a small girl.

Might I add that this boy was not severely handicapped. He had ADHD and had random outbursts of aggression.

"He doesn't understand like the rest of us dear, his brain works differently than ours." The teacher said.
"My mom told me no ones allowed to touch me without my permission." I said to the teacher.
"Well did you tell him no?" She asked me.
"No. I just tried to push him away." I said.
"Well then he didn't know it was wrong." She said dismissively, as if me physically trying to remove this boy off of me wasn't enough for a six year old to say she didn't want her private parts touched.

The teacher was protected. The boy was protected and I was left alone to deal with the invisible scars he had left on me. I was still forced to be in the same class and sit at the same table. Not even a phone call home was made to my parents.

The boys name was Jacob.

The second time I was sexually assaulted, I was sixteen.
I thought I was in love with him.
He was my cousins bestfriend.

We were all drinking and the parents were out so I got a little to drunk to remember anything besides the screaming on my end. And the 'no's' and the sobbing. I scratched at his back to get him off of me until he bled, leaving scars on him that will never fade away.

I remember walking out of his truck barefoot, my shirt on backwards and my feet being pricked by all the pokies in the dirt. I remember laying on the ground in my aunts living room and being asked where I had been, and I simply said "I don't remember."

I remember feeling dirty the next morning and waking up to use the restroom finding blood in my inside out panties and bruise on my arms and thighs. I remember wanting to hide.

He was gone before I woke up. And that made it easier to ignore the conversation that would later come. He lived so far away, I could avoid him for the rest of my life.

Fast forward a year and I had only come to the conclusion that I had lost my virginity in a bad dream. All of the details lost in the haze of tequila and Malibu rum. To many shots and to little remembered, that is, until my assailant called me. And ADMITTED to what he did. He opened up the doors for memories I never wanted returned.

He told me he was surprised I didn't press charges and surprised I didn't tell my family. He said he was sorry for raping me. He said I was sending mixed signals. I was so drunk I couldn't stand straight and he only wanted to help.

Help by stealing my purity? Help by ruining my views on men further? Help by scarring me so deeply in my subconscious that when my boyfriend now, who actually loves me and values me as a human being, four years later touches me and sometimes, I still flinch away?

His name was also Jacob.

When I was six, I was sexually assaulted by a Jacob. And when I was sixteen, ten years later, it happened again.

History really does have a disgusting way of repeating itself doesn't it?