TW. Seriously, this is not a pretty tale.
My first sexual encounter, age 3.
I am the survivor of sexual abuse that tore a chasm in my life. This isn’t the first time I’ve posted the details of my abuse but this is a new take on an old tale. My first time…
“You’re a virgin, right? We’re all virgins. I mean, right?” – at least one bubble-headed girl at every sleepover I ever went to.
I wasn’t a virgin. I don’t remember ever being a virgin. By the time I knew the word, that ship had long sailed. I remember a lot of things but virginity? Nope.
I remember playing in my backyard with the two older neighbor boys from next door. I remember a huge cardboard box, like someone had just bought a new stove. I remember being in the box and being offered candy from a red heart shaped box if I took off my pants. They used a tree branch.
Later that night I was crying in pain and my parents took me to the family doctor the next day. He confirmed what I had been trying to tell them. They hurt me with a stick.
The car ride home from that doctor’s appointment was a critical point in my psychological development. I learned that:
- Nobody wants to talk about this
- Mom and Dad are mad, probably at me.
- I did something wrong.
Lucky me, for one reason or another I either attracted in or kept randomly crossing paths with other sexual predators and, as a result, I had been everything from fondled to raped countless times over the first 37 years of my life.
My primal wound, the one in my sex chakra? Yeah, it’s ridiculous. But I just keep peeling away the layers of the onion hoping to get past the grief and pain and find the three year old within me who remembers being innocent and safe.
I wonder what she wanted to be when she grew up?