My family victim blamed me into disbelief
You knew me and I couldn’t scream to stop any of you. #metoo
It’s strange most of my friends in my life now are men. Because I was actually terrified of the male species most of my life. I dealt with this terror by being the aggressor. I would tell them if they tried anything with me, I’d hurt them. This would be punctuated with a well aimed hit against their shoulder.
An older brother taught me how to defend myself. He and I fought up until my late teens. There’s a part of me that wishes he’d be my protector. Or my father would. But I had to be my own.
Being the aggressor didn’t save me from things happening to me.
My abusers were always my favorite people in my family. My cousins were the first to start it. I was five years old. I remember one stole me away and I knew it was wrong. I never received any attention so somehow I craved it.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
My family knew.
They also acted like they didn’t know about it. There was my favorite grandparent. A man that I breathed easier when there was thousands of miles between him and I. It disgusts me to say he was my favorite because he molested me. This happened throughout my early teens and into my twenties. I went to my mother about my grandfather. She didn’t believe me or listen to me when I told her what was happening.
So, I defended myself, always. In my life now as my sexuality relights I find I’m aware of needs to defend myself. Those who get me, alone, who get me as their friend I try to drop down guards. My vulnerability is something to be protected constantly. I don’t know how to be soft. I don’t know how to not be strong, hard, showing that I can and will defend myself.
How old are you? You can’t be that
There were riding instructors that tried to grope me as a young teen. I was taught to defend myself on my own. My family would turn a blind eye every time.
My mother said to me as long as they hadn’t raped me then it wasn’t a big deal. Being assaulted and attacked wasn’t a big deal. I should enjoy their attention.
Enjoy male attention, MD, because no one will want you until you lose fifty pounds.
I was sexually assaulted by someone my father set me up with. I told my family the next day about it. My family kept asking me what I was wearing which was a T-shirt and jeans. My father kept reiterating that the guy ‘smiled a lot.’
It makes me physically ill. That what happened to me was told that it didn’t. Or, that it really wasn’t that bad.
Marry me to protect me
Maybe that’s part of the reason why I married at a young age. This older man I married would keep me safe. Being married would be a reason to be safe.
It was when I was married that I finally decided what I’ve always known… I get along with guys well. I fostered friendships with a very select few. More wanted to be collected to ‘hang out.’ I always called bullshit on that.
My fear of being touched comes from those who forced their touch on me. There were also riding instructors and stable hands when I was ten years old. Or, even younger than that. I had literal fights pushing, shoving, fighting back once they broke my rules.
Don’t touch me there. Don’t grope me. Stop it. Stop it now or else.
Their hands crawled over my skin. Like disgusting tendrils seeking my warmth. Fondling what they couldn’t see, but what they knew was there, under my baggy clothing.
I was accused of looking like I was in my twenties while I was only in my young teens. As if it was my fault. What was the reasoning behind when I was a little girl? How did you fucking justify it?
The accusation of what I was wearing couldn’t be used against me. My pictures back in that time my jeans didn’t even fit my ass. My shirts were so oversized I was swimming in them.
Never random abusers
It was never random men on the street that tried to touch me or catcall me. It was men I knew in these environments and who had earned my trust. Horseback riding was one of my few pleasures in life. It was my only escape from the emotional and psychological abuse back home.
But, this environment was the most common for the sexual abuse to happen.
I was surprised when a man didn’t try anything with me. There was one riding instructor, MK, that he was just good. He never once came at me, and so it was during this time I felt more comfortable. You can see I’m not hiding under oversized clothes.
There’s photos where I’m beaming with a smile, a top and tight breeches clinging to my figure. My horse rubs her head affectionately against me. Smearing slobber all over my good clothes. I don’t mind because it’s how she says she owns me, which she did.
Growing into myself
My sexuality is like a fire that nearly burnt out with my last relationship. It’s set ablaze even brighter than before. Like a beacon I can’t possibly turn off. I’m aware that it sizzles beneath the surface of my skin, behind my pores. It’s the air I breathe, the confidence I exude now.
But I was never this confident. I collapsed my shoulders, haunching them in to hide my substantial chest. My thick, tree trunk thighs were hidden by oversized jeans. The same could be said for my round ass was never gripped by fabric. I just wanted to protect myself. I hated the looks I got, they made my skin crawl.
Now if I get them I confront the man on the street. It’s a rarity, since I do think that I have resting bitch face and body language.
“Yeah, I know, fucking amazing, right?” I say with a laugh.
They back away from me. Very few, if any, bother me when I’m alone by myself. And there’s none that bother me in my career. But, I’m always that little girl that she wanted desperately to be kept safe. And her family kept feeding her to her abusers even after she confided what was happening.
Even when you fight back it keeps happening. Even when you’re the scary one they still push you. Their touch is like a slithering, slimy tentacle seeking you out.
I’m that woman now embracing her sexuality. Choosing carefully the men she trusts and lets in. That are allowed to hug, embrace, be with me in a way that they’d never guess what I am.
My past experiences will never be shed from this violated skin.
I wish I could shed them. Like a snake revealing a beautiful, shiny untouched layer. Where none of this happened and I was safe. All I can do is hide my scars and protect myself now. If you have a little girl keep her from this bullshit. Protect her as well as you can from this world, like I couldn’t and never was.
