Little Girl Flesh
"I really respect anybody who stands by their truth."
~ Tori Amos


The sexual abuse of children is becoming more and more prevalent in America, and all over the world. It seems as if every day, there is some new story of a pedophile being caught, or you hear about a child that was molested. Sometimes it is people you know. I was molested when I was three years old repeatedly by one of my mother's boyfriends. Although the memories are sketchy, I am still left with the repurcussions of that sick and twisted man's actions. My sister, who is now seven, was also molested, although not by the same person. When she was four she was molested by a twelve year old boy in her day care center. This boy had some quite obvious problems, and had no right being around small childen. The woman who ran the day care was in the back room, on the phone, while my precious little sister was in another room being molested by some fucked up kid. And that little boy was allowed to return to the day care center. I find it repulsive that both my sister and I were molested, by different people, a decade apart. And I find it even *more* repulsive that the AVERAGE pedophile will abuse something like 112 children before he is caught. Something MUST be done.


Reclaiming The Child
by Mercutia

I've always been a firm believer - psychology lessons aside - that what happens to an individual in their early formative years affects them for the rest of their lives. I also believe that experiences early in life shape what sort of person you become - fighter, winner, loser, martyr, victim. That's partly why this topic is so close to my heart - because I believe that experiences early in my life, when I was abused in various forms, helped set me up for what was to come later on - rape.

From the start, my father - a man who always was and always will be a very manipulative and controlling person - emotionally and psychologically abused me. We've never had a very close relationship, and I doubt we ever will, as for me there's still an element of, "You hurt me. You fucked me up. You had me believing that all men are as evil as you. And you set me up for this." Around the age of three, although I can't remember precisely, I was abused by a woman who was entrusted to care for me when my mother when back to work as a teacher. I don't remember much of this. I doubt I ever will. And, frankly, I'm not really sure I want to either. What I do remember is enough.

I remember being hit around - not just smacked, although that happened a lot - but hit on other parts of the body as well. She also abused me emotionally, verbally, psychologically and spiritually. I was always made to believe I was a bad girl, a very bad girl. Everything I did was wrong. I was just terrible full stop. And did I ever buy into it. Everything I did became wrong.

Eventually, I was saved from this. My mother arrived early and unexpectedly to pick me up one day. My nappy was wet. This wasn't unusual - I was still toilet training. But the urine was cold. It had been some time since I had wet myself. This was not the first time this exact thing had happened. It was bad to wet my pants, therefore I must be punished in this way for doing it. My mother confronted this woman. She denied mistreating me. My mother didn't believe her. I got a new babysitter. This one, thankfully, was and still is a wonderful, wonderful woman whom I still remember very fondly.

But the scars remain. I blocked out what happened to me. Years later, I started having flashbacks. Being hit. Being yelled at. Bad for wetting my nappy. There was another little girl. She was a good girl, and was treated as such. I was a bad girl, and was also treated as such. I had no idea where these memories were coming from. I attributed the hitting to my dad, who had occasionally smacked me when I was young in addition to the emotional abuse. I couldn't see that it could be anything or anyone else. Who else was there?

Some time after that - I was about 13 or so - mother and I visited a friend of hers who was living in the town we'd lived in when I was little, not far at all from our old house. When we were ready to leave, mum's friend walked us out to the car. The house was on a corner. For the first time, I looked at the house on the opposite side of the street. I started in surprise, feeling a chill of dread. I knew it. It was a horrible house. A two-storey brick dungeon, with a mangy front garden. Built out of dull grey-brown bricks. My mum's friend commented, something about the house. I forget what. It's not important. Mum mildly, staying controlled, said, "Oh, that's the house (Mercutia) had some bad experiences in as a child." Our eyes met. And I knew. We haven't talked of it much since, but mum was the one who told of finding me in my soiled nappy and confronting the babysitter.

I think the reason we don't talk about it is because she blames herself for what happened to me. She has no reason to. I wrote before about buying into the myth that I was bad. Looking back on my life, all 16 years so far, it has certainly shown itself.

By age 12, I had sexually experimented with 3 girls and at least 7 boys - usually at the other person's request or demand. I was still a virgin, but only technically. And only just. I nearly lost my virginity at 11 to a boy I didn't even like, because he wanted to, he was stronger than me, and because I somehow felt that I could get closer to his best friend while doing so. This boy, we'll call him Chris because I don't believe in protecting the guilty, was a recurring abuser. And he did abuse me. He took what he wanted, when he wanted it, all in the name of "fun", a "game". He was 10 or 11 the last time these things happened. I shudder to think what he might be doing now. I still don't know what exactly stopped him when I was 11. But all I was, was a toy, and was always treated as such.

At 13, I was flirting with nearly every boy I knew. I wanted to be accepted. I didn't want any of them. Although I wanted them to want me.

I was raped at 15 years of age in the front garden at the house of one of my friends, during a party. The first sexual contact from the rapist - a kiss - was unwanted, but I consented to it. Why? I didn't have the right to say no - I was "bad". I was also, that night, very vulnerable and confused, and alone in a secluded area when he ambushed me and "asked" for a kiss. He didn't "ask" for anything else. And I never gave it to him.

I think I'm reaching the point where I'm healing from all this. I don't feel "bad" when I kiss my boyfriend. I don't feel like I have to give him anything I don't want to. I know he isn't with me for the purpose of getting pussy and no other reason. And I don't feel like a slut when he touches me. But I'm still angry about what happened. I'm angry that a woman with so much trust placed in her would abuse it in such a way. I'm angry that something she probably hardly remembers doing has had such an effect on my life. And I'm angry that child abuse happens to other people. That it still happens at all.
I'm not writing this for the sympathy of the masses, I'm writing it for exorcism. For me. To reclaim the child taken from me, countless times and by many people over the years. To reclaim the child that was never fully born, never allowed to grow, never given a proper childhood.

It is through my abuses, sexual and otherwise, that I connect to people, am able to help them in some small way with dealing with their own experiences. I am grateful to have that gift, although not grateful as to how I received it.

But reliving this and writing it down has made something shine out to me. I am a survivor. I can take whatever contemptible horrors they throw at me, and change them, twist them around into strength of spirit, into the song of the survivor.

And if this proves that I'm "bad", I wish only that the whole world could be bad with me.


Links

Hope In Healing

Pandora's Box

Childhelp USA

I Have Survived

Dancing The Tides