Back when I did the posts 100 things about me, I divided it in four different posts and one of those was called ‘Sexual Me’. I had quite some comments on number 93:
I’ve been sexually abused as a child, but have no trauma because of it.
No, indeed, I do not have any trauma because of it. Hearing about things that other people have gone through and which left them with a post-traumatic stress syndrome (PTSD) has made me think about what I went through as a child. I know that there are people out there who do not understand or maybe even believe that I do not have a trauma because of what happened. And maybe they are right – maybe I do have a trauma, but it manifested itself differently in me than it did in others.
*** Please note that by writing this piece I am not in any way playing down the trauma that anyone else might have suffered from something similar. I am thankful that I did not get traumatized by what happened. ***
So what exactly happened when I was 9 years old?
As I can recall this man was the son of friends of my parents. These friends were older than my parents and their son was roundabout 20 years old. Maybe 21 or even 22. My parents frequently went to visit them and I always had to go with them. The young man frequently came to visit my parents. When it was bedtime he always offered to read me a story. Put a young man in his early twenties and a girl of 9 years old together in a room with no parental supervision and you might have yourself a recipe for sexual abuse.
I remember that I sat on his lap and the book was on my lap. His hand was under the book and always ended up between my legs, fondling me. I cannot remember how I reacted when he did this the first time. I can also not clearly remember whether he told me that I should not tell my parents. Whether he threatened me. Or whether I instinctively knew that I should not talk about it. Sometimes he pulled my pajama bottoms down in the front, under the book, pushed my panties aside and touched my sex. This happened almost every night that he was there when I went to bed.
Then he took it to another level. Maybe this happened only once, maybe more than once. I just don’t remember anymore. But I can still remember what happened. When we sat on my bed, we could look right into the hallway. On the other end of the hallway was the living room where my parents would be watching television. Behind my door was my built-in closet. It had three doors. He always asked me to open the double doors, which was where my clothing hung and where my shoes stood on the floor inside the closet. I had to stand in front of the closet and drop my pajama bottoms and panties so he could look at me. This is all that he did. He just looked at me. For the first couple of times…
The next step for him was to hand me two match sticks. I had to drop my pajama pants and my panties. The first time he kneeled in front of me, pulled my lips apart and put the match sticks between my lips so they would stay open. The couple of times that the match sticks were between my pussy lips again he told me to insert them while he watched. The sticks stung a bit, but I remember that it felt good too. I even remember that I played with the sticks when he was not around, putting them between my pussy lips and trying to walk with them. And yes, he once passed his tongue between my pussy lips. This fascinated me so much that when a friend of mine came to stay with me for a week during school holidays, I told her to lie still. I moved in under the blankets, pulled her pajama bottoms and panties down and licked her.
What I cannot remember is whether he ever threatened me not to tell my parents anything or whether I just instinctively knew I should not tell them. My feeling says the latter, but as I said, I cannot remember. He stopped coming around after we went to visit his parents one Sunday afternoon. He was getting bolder by the day and on that particular day he pushed me up against a wall in the back of their garden and he kissed me. It was when he pushed his tongue into my mouth that I screamed and ran away from him. As a 9-year old I must have found that so very disgusting that I wanted to throw up. I remember going to my parents telling them that I did not feel well. We left soon after. He never visited us again.
I never felt as if I was abused. Now, in my adult life, of course I know what happened back then was not good. Not good at all. But I never had a trauma because of it. I had a deep interest in sexual things. I loved to touch myself. I tried to lick my friend, but did it a couple of times and did not know what should follow so I stopped. I touched another girl once, feeling her wetness. I was familiar with wetness by then, because I noticed that when I touched myself I got wet too. Still, when I felt her wetness, I had no idea what I should do about it.
I was very interested in sexy for the most part of my younger teenage years. I eventually grew up to be an exhibitionist, a bisexual woman and I submit to my Husband. If that is the result of what happened to me when I was 9, then I guess I should consider myself to be one of the lucky ones.
So indeed, I will say it again: I’ve been sexually abused as a child, but have no trauma because of it.
PS: This week’s prompt for Wank Wednesday was #recipe.
© Rebel’s Notes