There's More To Me Than You Know (June 1, 2018)

I was sitting in my church youth room at age 14, when someone came in to speak on sexual abuse. It’s funny because I was very interested in hearing their story. It wasn’t until about halfway through that I started seeing similarities between her story, and my childhood. Then it hit me. All those days and feelings, they weren’t normal. I was sexually abused.

Weeks and weeks of crying, screaming, and confusion went by. I questioned everything about me. What I liked, what I did, what I ate, even how I spoke. I didn’t trust anything or anyone. How could I? I had just realized that everything she told me, everything that was normal, even necessary, was a lie.

She told me I needed to do these things. She would say, “everyone does it, you should too.” I looked up to her. She taught me what I thought I needed to know. She fed me lies and I believed her. If I didn’t believe her, she’d cut me off, telling me that I wasn’t worth anything and that I was stupid, or too little to understand. But of course I listened; she liked me, she didn’t see me as little and annoying, and I found a friend in her, but apparently a friend wasn’t what she was looking for. She showed me how to do things that made me feel good, and I honestly thought it was normal.

You see, when you are five, you are very gullible and if something happens to you often, with no one telling you it’s wrong, it becomes right. You are still learning and growing, and you tend to believe what people tell you. People ask me now, “why didn’t you do anything?” “Why did you wait until now to find help?” “How did you not know?” And even, “It must not be that bad since you waited until now; are you sure it even happened?” Yea, that one makes me pretty angry.

Even after I realized, I couldn’t tell anyone. I was embarrassed. I thought it was my fault. I gave her excuses for why she would’ve done this – why she would’ve hurt me like that. I blamed myself and I was ashamed. I have never felt more ashamed of myself in my life. I fell into a deep state of depression because if I was to blame for everything wrong in my life, why would I even want to be alive? It didn’t help that during the exact time I realized, I was in the process of being diagnosed with some chronic illness, of which I’m still not sure of what it is. My life had become a mixture of confusion and fear. I went to bed crying and shaking every night, scared of closing my eyes and letting my guard down. It all hit me at once, and I couldn’t stop it. I was emotionally, physically, and mentally done with life, and I couldn’t tell anyone why.

I remembered how she forced me to take my clothes off and then put her hands on me. How she would play “hide and seek” and when she found me she would grab me and touch me. She said that was what she got for winning. She showed me parts of my body that I didn’t even know about. She ripped away my innocence and left me with something that will affect me for the rest of my life.

It always felt strange though, like something wasn’t right. I thank God to this day that I didn’t try to “teach” anyone else because I didn’t know any better. The way she looked at me like I was just a prize for her. How the hell can you do that to a five year old?

The years went on and as we got older she found more interest in boys than in me. At that point, I hate to say it, but I was sad. I felt like I did something wrong and wondered why I wasn’t getting this “special treatment” anymore. Believe me, I know how effed up that sounds now. You think that would’ve been the end, but no.

She taught me how to talk to boys over message, and yes, by talk, I mean sext. I had just gotten my first phone, I was in fourth grade. Now I wish I had never gotten it in the first place. She downloaded Kik and would show me how to use Omegle to get usernames. Once we had boys to message, the talking began. She told me what to say, but not what the things I was saying meant. At this point I was probably around 10, but still, I had no clue it was wrong. She would take pictures of my body and send them to random men. Yes, I know, it was disgusting. But it was my normal, and it felt good. For a girl who nobody paid much attention to, this attention from these guys, it felt good. And that is when it ended, sort of.

She moved away when I was 11 and I was left with lots of information and feelings, and no one to share them with. I got depressed because again, I was the girl nobody looked at. And so I started messaging guys on my own; I knew how to do it, so why not? I became addicted to sexting boys I had never met before. I became addicted to the thought of someone liking me.

For those who are confused – or even disgusted – about why I kept doing this, sexual abuse causes many psychological problems. Your brain has been altered to think a certain way. Often times, children that have suffered sexual abuse are hyper-sexual and have a fear of being touched. These were what most affected me. Yes, they might counter each other, but it makes sense. My brain would constantly think about sexual things, but when it came to physical contact, I would freak out, and I had no idea why. It didn't happen all the time, but even now, if a friend touches me too quickly or I feel trapped in close proximity to someone, I start hyperventilating and have a nervous breakdown. Luckily, this happens less and less as the years go on, and I have gotten accustomed to how to properly handle it.

The problem with being addicted to sexting is that I associated it with her and what she did to me. So after I was done, I would cry and hate myself, but I couldn’t stop; I physically and mentally needed it. I wanted so badly to stop this vicious cycle, so instead of sexting, I tried to find other ways to occupy myself. That’s when the drinking and cutting started.

At this point I was in 8th grade and my best friend really wanted to drink, so I joined her. She did it for fun, but for me it was so much more than that. I realized that the drunker I got, the more my pain and memories would momentarily disappear. But it didn’t last and after a couple months, I couldn’t take trying to suppress the pain anymore, and I stopped. Not to mention my liver started failing (for totally unrelated reasons). Anyways, along with suppressing the pain, I also tried to get away from the sexting by filling up my free time with cutting. Let’s just say that didn’t satisfy me at all, and I stopped right away. I was officially back to square one, with these needs I couldn’t control and this shame that consumed my whole being.

I had to tell someone. I couldn’t let it eat away at me. I asked to meet with my pastor and his wife. I wrote down what I planned to say, knowing I wouldn’t get through it if I didn’t. I was so afraid of what they were going to think of me. I assumed they would be disgusted knowing me, a young girl, let this thing ruin her. I cried through the hurt and I saw them look at each other; they had no clue, but I guess, neither did I. I finished with tears running down my face, and I couldn’t even look at them; I thought that they must be so ashamed of me, but they weren’t. My pastor’s wife hugged me and told me it would be okay. I wasn’t sure I believed her, but it was nice to hear.

My pastor’s wife suggested that I go through a series of abuse and forgiveness counseling. The problem was that, that meant I had to tell my mom. I didn’t know how to. I could only imagine knowing how bad she would feel to know her daughter went through this right under her nose. Would she be ashamed of me? Would she be mad? I was simply terrified. After three weeks of building up the courage to tell her, I finally did. I gave her the reader's digest version on my way into the hospital to have a procedure done. I thought it was quite brilliant. She would have time to digest the information and she couldn’t get mad at me while I wasn’t there. But the minute I woke up, she hugged me and told me it was going to be okay, and for once, I believed that.

I worked through it: the shame, guilt, anger, confusion, and about a hundred other emotions. It wasn’t easy though. It wasn’t until I went through months and months of counseling that I was really able to not only forgive her, but also myself. I forgave her, because if I didn’t, I would never have been able to move on. The shame virtually disappeared and a huge weight was lifted off me. With that weight, the need for these things also left. All the questions and confusion were cleared up, and I was truly able to accept what had happened to me and move forward.

It’s not easy to tell people because most of the time they don’t understand. It’s not something you can truly understand unless you’ve gone through it, and still you can’t completely relate to someone else. I’m still afraid of people looking at me differently and thinking I’m disgusting. Or even being uncomfortable around me. When I say, “I was sexually abused as a child,” people automatically think the worst. They think that I am broken. I may be bruised, bent, or even a little cracked, but I’m not broken. I can honestly say that today, I’m okay. I’m not angry or upset anymore. I know I will never be completely healed, and I still find reflexes I have that relate to the abuse, but I’m okay. I do not wish it didn’t happen to me, because of it didn’t happen to me, it could’ve happened to someone else, someone else who might not of had the support team that I was blessed with. In all honesty, regardless of how traumatic it was and the negative impact it has had on my life, it’s a part of me. It has shaped me into the person I am today. Through the counseling I was able to find myself and be confident in who I am. I was able to strengthen my relationship with God. I was able to learn how to cope with problems and forgive people who probably don’t deserve it. But most importantly I learned how to love myself. Maybe life would be a bit easier if it didn’t happen, but I wouldn’t have the wisdom I have today without it. I will forever live by the phrase, “turn your wounds into wisdom.” It’s funny looking back on how I wondered why I did the things I did and now seeing everything link together. It explains why I’ve always connected better with adults than with kids my age, because for so long I was hurt by someone my age. It explains why I keep such a busy schedule and need to have constant control, because for too long, I had no control. How I’m able to stand up for myself, because for so long I didn’t know how to. Why I have separation anxiety, because when I was alone, bad things happened. And why for so long I lived to please others regardless of the repercussions on my life. There is a purpose for everything, and as I get older, I am slowly realizing the purpose of this part of me. In the end, I was able to turn this horrible experience into something good, and I wouldn’t trade that feeling of accomplishment for the world.