6 years old, is when you should be, learning to ride your bike, jumping rope at recess and your biggest problem is who you should invite to your birthday party.
6 years old, is how old I was the first time I was molested.
He called himself ‘The Man’. He never gave me bruises, but instead gave me money, toys and made me laugh. He would go out of his way to be friendly to everyone.
He kept me home from school, made me watch porn and did things to me I do not care to relive.
He touched and violated me.
These recurring events were so frequent, I am unable to tell you how many times it happened.
I had to repeat the fourth grade because of how much school I had missed. Looking back it is not surprising teachers always said I had behavioral issues and trouble focusing.
At 9, my unknowing mother became engaged to ‘The Man’ and we lived together for two more years.
As I matured the abuse lessened and at 11 it ultimately stopped.
At 17, I finally told my parents the truth about what happened to me. It was not easy, but something changed and I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
My parents went to the police, the police contacted him and he shot himself in the head.
He took what healing process I could have had in confronting him.
He took my childhood, he took my innocence.
Because of what he did to me, I have dealt with depression, anxiety and a distorted sense of tactile perception.
I have darkness in my story but I have chosen to rise above it.
I will never be able to forget my past, and I know I am not alone; and I am here to tell you, you are not alone.
I am alive, I am strong, and today I am not my invasion.