“If you’ve been sexually assaulted that many times, buy a fucking gun”
That is a message I received over Twitter tonight when discussing the numerous times I have been sexually abused. I decided in that moment that if I am to defend my argument I must then explain why I believe what I do and how it all started for me.
I hope that by sharing my stories of vulnerability and the road of darkness I am trying to escape from perhaps some of you will find some semblance of peace. Perhaps you will no that not only are you not alone but you are not at fault for the act of the preditors that attempt to break you. This is the story of the first time I was sexually abused.
It happened in Calgary Alberta Canada.
It is so weird but all these years and I still cannot remember how old I was, I do remember that everything about me began to change in grade four.
I used to be a creative thinker, I used to be able to drift away inside my mind where nothing could hurt me, this incident changed everything.
We were at my mom’s friend’s house. She had another friend there named R, from out of town. It was a fun night, my brother and I were playing games and the adults were drinking wine and laughing, everyone was having a good time.
I remember that at some point I was sitting on his lap while he played guitar and sang my brother and I songs….at the time it seemed all so innocent.
I had fallen asleep and I heard K and R arguing, K was going to walk mom home and R was going to watch us kids, he wanted to move me into the bedroom but she was saying something about having to move me back later.
I remember going back to sleep and cuddling into K’s blankets, they were so warm and soft.
I remember R coming into the bedroom and touching me between my legs. I woke up instantly, and I felt it again, his fingers did not go inside of me, but I felt them as if I were touching myself…I told him to stop.
When he realized I was awake he slowly eased away from the bed.
I stayed there, too scared to move, when K came home she walked me into the living room and put me back to sleep on the couch, he stood there leaning against the bathroom in the hallway, smirking he knew I wouldn’t say anything.
I waited, I listened. They were having sex.
It was three am when I walked myself the half block home and knocked on the door. My mother wasn’t pleased that I had left and I did not tell her why. Instead I crawled into bed and tried to sleep, I slept well into the next day.
I was thirteen before I said anything. I was 13 before I told my mom during an episode of Oprah, in which she was talking about children’s behaviors when they had been abused.
This is the first time I have told that story since.
This was just the first time.