I haven’t ever spoken about this because, well…I didn’t want to.
But I saw this today:
If you don’t feel like clicking on that, it’s a statement Ashton Kutcher makes to the US Senate about child sex trafficking. He makes it quite clear that he’s seen and heard things that are incomprehensible, which makes the the experience of these children that much more horrific.
I’ve never spoken about my own abuse because it was shrouded in so much sadness and shame within my family since it was at the hands of another family member.
I also never wanted anyone to equate abuse with promiscuity, but we will never know who I would’ve been if I wasn’t molested as a 3 year-old.
I just want people to know that I’m proud of Ashton Kutcher’s work, and I’m not ashamed of something that happened to me without my consent. I found myself often trying to dismiss it like, “Well, it was a one off…I wasn’t hurt…I wasn’t raped…it could have been much worse…” but the reality is that it doesn’t take much to be reminded every goddamn day of my life that someone did that to me. I think about it at least once a day. Every time someone makes a “creepy uncle” joke -which is surprisingly often- I’m reminded of what happened. I look at a caravan (where it happened) and I’m reminded. I have refused to go on multiple holidays for the sheer fact that I cannot go into a caravan ever again. I would sleep on the street before I’d step into a caravan at this point.
While I’ve tried almost all of my life to pretend this didn’t happen, it did. I literally think about it at least once a day. On a good day I’m only reminded once. And usually that’s as I’m about to fall asleep like, “Wow, you know what I didn’t think about today?”
My photographic memory is great for a lot of things, but I would happily welcome amnesia in order to wipe my vivid memory of what happened to me over twenty years ago. It’s just there. I can’t erase it. It’s like the screensaver in my mind. And whilst it wasn’t violent, it’s still deeply, and aggressively, disturbing.
So that’s that. That is the thing I haven’t told anyone. And that I’m now telling everyone. I mean, I told my mum when I was six. And I’ve told a couple of my friends, but I haven’t told anyone how I really feel about it. Mainly because people always want to diffuse the situation by telling me about their own feelings about it or about someone else they know who went through the same thing. No offence, but I don’t care for those stories. I am very sorry if anyone else went through something worse, but telling me about it isn’t helping even a little bit.
If you know me in real life and are reading this, don’t talk to me about it. I’ll talk to you if I want to. Everyone tries to make everything I do about them and I just want to live my life without everyone assuming my actions have anything to do with them. They don’t. They have nothing to do with my abuser and they have nothing to do with anyone but me.
We will never know who I would’ve been if that hadn’t happened, but it did. So let it go. I have.