Thanks for sharing your story, Sherry. I hope the orange juice memory is just a glitch or connected to something strong, but benign. Like food poisoning.
This line sticks out for me: “…consistently downplaying the impact it had and insisting that my abuse simply didn’t measure up to what happened to other children. Lots of other children.”
Sexual abuse stories like this are getting more airing here in Canada. This follows a news item of a popular radio host who was fired for his admitted sexual preferences (BDSM). In the wake, nine women have come forward to say, um, no, that wasn’t consensual, that was an attack. But they kept it to themselves for years. Until one actress came forward.
Now on social media, girls, women, and men are finding their voices to answer the question, “But why didn’t you say anything when it happened?” There are many reasons, including the fact that each victim downplayed the attack.
When I was a young girl, I was “attacked.” See the quotes? Yup, downplay. Picture it: a public park, we kids are seated in the shade around the wading pool. There are dozens of kids and their minders. A grubby, grizzly old guy comes up to me. Makes small chat about “what a cutie” and then he reaches out and pokes me in the crotch with his dirty finger. I recoiled and looked at him, confused. And that was it. He was gone.
On the scheme of things, it was minor. It barely registers on the sexual abuse meter. But the fact remains, he crossed a line. That is all it takes to qualify as abuse, in my books.
Karen at Mended Musings wrote a beautiful and brave post yesterday that I was honored to reblog at her request. As part of that reblog, I promised to write my own story of sexual abuse in a effort to shine even more light into the dark places that many, many MANY of us have and uncover those secrets that keep us sick and wondering what’s wrong with us.
There’s nothing wrong with us. In fact, when we’re brave and tell our stories, we move from victims to victors.
My maternal grandmother was my salvation as a child. I would go and visit her in the mountains of Western Maryland in the summers of my childhood. There, with her, I felt that I was loved. I was accepted. I could exhale. She was my biggest hero, my confidant, my true north.
She was also my pimp.
When I was…
View original post 849 more words
Categories: In Other News
Tags: sexual abuse