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?