Taking the Bait

The beginning

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. And I am not alone.  

Recent CDC statistics state 1-in-4 girls and 1-in-13 boys are abused in the US alone, where 91% of the time, their abuser is known to them. (1)

It was this way for me, too. 

I was sexually abused four separate times by four different men, all known to me, and all with authority over me.  The first incident occurred when I was four years old.  The second when I was eight.  The third when I was ten and the fourth when I was thirteen.

I immediately told my parents about the incident at age 4.  I was still innocent of the world and how it worked and simply told my parents what had happened, never realizing that my telling could cause trouble for someone else.  

But by age 8, that had changed and when I was molested again, due to the circumstances of my abuser’s identity, I decided at that tender age that I would never tell, convincing myself that someone dear to our family (not the abuser) would “get in trouble” since I had been under their care when the abuse happened.  

Thus began my “unspoken time” where everything was held inside. The same was true of both incidents that happened at age 10 and 13 - due to the abuser’s identities, there was no way I could ever tell - the price of telling was too high to pay. 

As a result, my life has been a roller coaster ride for decades dealing with the aftermath of the abuse.  The silence and pent up anger and rage were ever present no matter how “happy” I made my life look from the outside. The oppressive shame coupled with the silence also wears away at the soul. What would people think?

Not drugs, alcohol, moving far away, social media, making lots of money or anything else made any difference - I was angry to my core and it seemed like it would always be that way.

Until it wasn’t. 

It’s a long story, but I find myself now living peacefully on the inside, accepting of what was and what is now. It doesn’t mean my life is perfect. It doesn’t mean I am perfect, but it does mean the anger and rage and resentment are gone. Replaced with empathy, compassion, forgiveness, all given and received. 

This blog is the story of my journey to this place where I find myself today.  It is written not only for me to mark the accomplishment of throwing off the yoke of shame, but for all those still living within their own “unspoken time” who feel stuck in their own anger and resentment.  

I know your pain because I’ve lived it, too.  

I know the despair because I’ve hit rock bottom, too. 

I know the deep hurt because I’ve been hurt, too.  

Take my hand and walk with me while I share my journey of healing that will crack your heart wide open, letting out the anger and rage and letting in love and forgiveness.

There is hope and I’m living proof.

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The First Incident - Age 4

This memory is more dream than memory.  I see it and hear it only through my inner child’s eyes and ears and experience. Years later my mother would share her memory of the event, thus confirming this is not a dream and really happened to me. 

At the tender age of 4, I was keenly aware of the physical differences between girls and boys.  I was the only daughter living in a house full of boys and equipped with only one bathroom.  There were four of us kids: me, my two older brothers and one baby brother. Add in my mother and step-father and there were six humans sharing one bathroom, something that seems tactically impossible to me today.

Because of this fact, there were many times one would be in the bath when another would storm into the bathroom to pee.  It was an inevitability and one that exposed me to far too much male genitalia at an age where innocence still prevailed along with a healthy dose of curiosity.

This curiosity would be my undoing. 

It was a typical time in my house when my parents were out somewhere and there was a babysitter to care for me and my brothers.  

My two older brothers were always mean to me and it was even worse when my parents were away.  The treachery of their meanness still makes me cower today.  

The small bathroom of our home had a short hallway that led to the door.  It was easy to stand in the hallway and peer into the bathroom if the door was open.  It was also easy to lock the door and keep others at bay.  

But on this night, the door was left open and our babysitter was going pee, just like so many other times the boys or my step-father would enter the bathroom to do the same.

But curiosity would get the better of me as I huddled in the bathroom’s tiny hallway watching.  

I don’t remember his name, but I do remember feeling drawn to him.  A big boy, bigger than my older brothers and nicer, too.  As he pee’d, standing in the bathroom, he caught sight of me watching.  

“Do you want to see?” he kindly asked, as if offering a toy to share.

I inched closer to him and the toilet and there in all its glory, his grownup penis was there in my face.  

It’s a strange thing, the adult male penis.  It looks so different from a little boy’s wiener.  I was curious and the babysitter was clearly interested in exploring just how far my curiosity would take me in this tiny bout of exploration.

And then my older brothers were there behind me, giggling and egging me on.

“Put it in your mouth!” I heard… I looked up to the babysitter, still standing above me and said, “but you’ll pee in my mouth!”

“No I won’t! I promise.” he said as a matter of fact.

I took the bait and let him place the head of his penis in my mouth.  

And then he pee’d in my mouth.

I can still taste the saltiness of the urine, but worse than that, I can still hear the laughter of both my brothers who were thrilled I’d been tricked.

I never trusted my brothers again.