Don’t Feel Sorry For Me

when I was 4 almost 5 years old I was sexually molested
raped by a teen age son
of neighbors
he
took me into a
fort hideout playhouse construction
that the neighborhood kids had build out of
cardboard and
fallen limbs
it was dark inside
light came through cracks
I don’t remember what he did
I don’t remember if it hurt
I know it happened more than once
I’ve always known
from the time that I was a little girl
that I was bad
that I wasn’t
worth
the same
as my sisters were
that there was something wrong with me
and I didn’t know what it was because
because this was all swept under the rug
I knew I was bad because I was the one that was punished
I
was told
that it was something that I made up
that I shouldn’t tell lies
I know
now
that my parents thought
that if they didn’t
admit that it happened that I would forget about it
that it wouldn’t touch me
 
but I had
nightmares
and night terrors
and I have unreasonable fears
and I
have never had
well
a normal, healthy view of myself
I’ve always known
that there was something wrong with me
and I didn’t know what it was
 
years later
when I began to
know what had happened to me
when
my dreams
became
what they really were
which was memories
 
I
never
felt
that I had
the same value
as other girls
and I know now that the reason was
because
I knew I had done something wrong
I knew that I had done something wrong and that was the reason why
I was punished
and the boy wasn’t
why
my mom and dad didn’t love me any more
why they didn’t hold me
and protect me
and tell me that everything was alright
and that I was a good girl
and I had done nothing wrong
 
two or three years after
that
happened
when I was five
or maybe six or seven
we’d moved to another neighborhood
and this family moved to the same neighborhood
and I had vivid images of the boy
 
and I
knew
I couldn’t say anything
I couldn’t say I was afraid
I had to act
as if nothing
had ever
happened
I was told to never
say what had happened
never use those words
I was told that it never happened
that I made it up
and eventually
I forgot
 
 
Follow-Up: Even today, no one wants me to admit accept it. Husband, children, sister ~ all say “Don’t talk about it. It’s embarrassing. Why do you have to write that stuff?” 50 years later and I’m still the one at fault.

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