I trusted you.

**Trigger warning**The following is about my personal sexual abuse. Please stop reading if you find this content too difficult to read.

It’s the middle of the night and I know he will be here soon. I never sleep when I’m here. I know what happens. I’m tired but I try to keep my eyes open. I hear the door open. See his shadow. Then feel his hands on me, under my pajamas. I recede into my own head, hoping he will leave soon. After he does I always go to the bathroom and pee. I want to go home, but I’m scared. I don’t understand what is happening to me so I just stay in bed until morning when he acts like nothing even happened.

I was six or so when I started getting molested. Maybe seven? I didn’t understand what was happening. It happened on and off until I was old enough to figure it out and tell someone. It was someone I trusted and it fucked me up. There’s no elegant way to put it. I spent the better part of my life seeking out men of all ages to try and find validation. I have abandonment issues. I have PTSD now with traumatic flashbacks. I go to therapy once a week.

My therapist is going on vacation for three weeks and I don’t know how I won’t have a mental breakdown while she’s gone. I am 31 years old and this is the closest I’ve gotten to actually talking about what he did to me. I have written poems. I have alluded to it. Hidden behind metaphors and adjectives. I have cried and screamed in my car and beat my hands against my steering wheel thinking of it. I have prayed on my knees and asked God, “Why me?”. But I have never talked about it this openly or this pointedly before.

Why? Because simply, I wasn’t ready. It left me spiraling into an angry mess, looking into the bottom of a bottle every time I tried to talk about it.

Something no one tells you about abuse is that sometimes, a part of you still loves the abuser. After all, he taught me about computers, helped me install my first PC games. They were Barbie games. I printed pages and pages of real fabric outfits for my dolls on his printer when the ink was even more expensive than it is now. We watched Saturday morning cartoons and ate cereal. He helped me build two huge lego castles and we held epic lego battles there complete with Merlin. He walked with me at Disneyland when I sprained my ankle and everyone else walked too fast for me to keep up.

And at night, when the whole house slept, he came into the room I slept in, wherever I was alone and molested me. Every single time I was alone. I struggled with this. For so long. How do you love someone you hate? Someone who literally abused you? How do they show you love and abuse at the same time?

The answer is they are manipulative, sick people. Knowing that a child seeks their love, trusts them, and uses it against them. There is no excuse for it. There never will be. It will never be okay.

But I will be, eventually. After all the years of therapy, all the panic attacks, the nightmares, the trauma, and the flashbacks. I know someday, I will be okay. It has taken me so long to write this and it’s just the tip of the iceberg for me. Just a small piece of what he did that I am finally able to talk about. I think some of it I have suppressed at this point and it only comes back in nightmares and flashbacks. I’ll remember his heavy breathing in my ear. Or the door to a room will creak just so and send me into a tailspin. He would put his hands under my shirt when I played at the computer and to this day I will still find myself glancing over my shoulder, making sure no one is there while I type.

Anyway, I can’t talk about it anymore today. I think I’m done now. I need a drink.



Categories: Addiction, Anxiety, bipolar disorder, Depression, Love, Mania, Mental Health, OCD, PTSD, Rape, Self Esteem, Sexual Abuse, Suicide, Writing

Tags: ,

2 replies

  1. I’m proud of you for sharing this. I know it’s hard. I know it’s terrifying. I know it’s overwhelming. But you did it. I’m so proud of you.

    This is your story to tell. Please tell it in a way that’s best for you. Alluding to it is okay. Poetry about it is okay. Talking about it candidly is okay. Any way that you feel like you can talk about it is completely acceptable and please don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. You know what’s best for you.

    You matter.
    Your voice matters.
    Your story matters.
    Your well-being matters.

    You are going to get through this. The memories. The PTSD. The tailspins. I have all the faith in the world in you.

    Keep going, dear friend. Keep writing. Keep sharing. Keep speaking out.

    Hope

    Like

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