I went from playing dress up to self harming

It Happened…

When I was 11. The world was a fantastical place, filled with fairies and magic. I would stay out to watch the sun set every summer night, climbing trees and setting up elaborate feasts for the gnomes that inhabited the woods that surrounded my tranquil home. Life was the most pure essence of innocence and wonder for me and my dolls, who followed me everywhere.

It Was …

A new member of my parents’ senior youth group quickly rid my world of all magic and imagination. His father was a pastor and his family quickly built a trusting relationship with mine. He paid an uncomfortable amount of attention to me, and soon his hands that would rest on my shoulder during bible study turned into weapons that would impact my life forever. I wish I could say he raped me and was done with it. Instead he prolonged his process of coaxing and confusing over a year, until my heart was so broken and there was not so much of a remnant left of the sweet little girl that used to inhabit my body.

Now, as an adult who is educated about sexual abuse, I see the gradual building of trust, the consistent use of fear and manipulation, and tactics that lead me to believe I didn’t or couldn’t fight back, nor would anyone believe my abuser would do anything to harm me.

I went from a child playing dress up, to an adolescent who began self-harming in the blink of an eye. His hands, his hot breath and his greasy hair made me feel so dirty and I didn’t know how else to rid myself of this feeling other than to hurt myself.

I went from a child playing dress up, to an adolescent who began self-harming in the blink of an eye.

I distinctly remember him finding cuts under my shirt, stopping his assault, and praying that God would forgive me for engaging in self-harm. He would later use this knowledge of my self-harm  as black mail so I wouldn’t tell.

You may wonder how he found me alone when I was so young. I wonder this often too. We wandered into a forest one day, where he slammed me up against a tree. Youth Group had a swimming party once and he snuck into the bathroom with me (there was a door into the bathroom from a bedroom that he found before I locked). Finally, I was over at his house at the end of summer when his parents left. I still have the jeans he took off of me that day.

It Made Me Feel…

I was broken. So broken. And used and unworthy of forgiveness and love. The physical feelings of his body still haunt me, as do feelings of helplessness and self hate.

I Told…

My partner. It look a long time. And I only told my story in pieces, terrified that my husband would leave me if he knew the truth. I will always remember sharing more than I ever had, especially surrounding details and specific instances where my assaults were more violent, on our honey moon. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” my husband said, wrapping me in as much love as I’ve ever felt. He has dealt with many a late night nightmare and now endless worries I have  about our daughter being hurt by men.

I Survived…

Because I knew there would be better times. When I met my husband I knew that there is kindness in the world and that he would understand me and fight to keep other children safe.

I Dream…

Of a world where kids can just be kids, and abuse doesn’t happen. I dream of a world where children are educated about their bodies, are taught  how to say ‘no’ and have a safety circle who they can and do tell when adults break body safety rules. I dream of a world where adults understand why we must respect children’s bodily autonomy and use proper names for all our body parts. I have lived in confusion and fear. I often wonder what it would have been like if I knew I had a vagina and clitoris, where they were, and that they are only mine. How would my life be different if I stood up and told? Children need to feel empowered and know they are wonderfully made and deserve respect and dignity.

I Want…

I want you to know that you are okay. You are enough. And that I believe you. I want survivors to know that if they have people around them that don’t beleive their truth, they need to find new people. Our experiences shape who we are and as horrible as our stories are, they call us survivors for a reason. We persist and we overcome.