Like so many other stories I’ve read about here before, I find myself questioning whether or not I have the right to tell this story. What I have been though is nothing compared to some. I think back on my childhood and remember the days and nights my molestation took place, and it pales in comparison to other horror stories I’ve read. I’m thankful that it was never that bad for me. but still yet, this is the story of my situation, as small and insignificant as it may seem to me, and I believe others deserve the right to be heard and validated, just like me.

Whenever I think about what happened, my mind is incoherent. I play it over and over again, my brain fighting with my heart – each part of my body trying to figure out how and why it happened. I never get a clear picture, a moment of clarity. I struggle constantly to find peace in a storm that will not fade away.

I was a child the first time he ever touched me. Maybe five. Maybe six. He is my first cousin, close to me like a brother. He is only two years older than me, and I have always used that fact to reason with my mind that he didn’t know any better either. I tell myself that we were both children, both innocent kids who just got caught up in something bigger than we could have ever imagined.

At first it was just kissing. Then it became touching. He would touch me. He would force me to touch him. There was rubbing and moaning and all sorts of “grown up” things that happened between us.

It went on for years. I think the last time it happened, I was fifteen. He always initiated the moments. I never refused.

I still blame myself for not putting an end to it, for not telling my Mom.

I see him all the time, at family dinners and birthday parties. We laugh and joke and hug and talk and act as if nothing ever happened between us when we were children. I always wonder if he thinks about it, if he thinks about what he did to me.

I blame myself. I should’ve spoken out a long time ago. I think about whether or not I should tell my Mom now. What good would it do? He’s had a hard life, harder than my own. He’s the product of an abusive father and a broken home. I pity him. I love him. He is my family, my kin and blood relative.

But I’m angry with him. He hurt me in a way I can never get back. He took a huge piece of my childhood and smeared it forever. For the rest of my life, I will have to think about what happened between us. And I’ll never be able to get it that back. I want to talk to him about it, but the words always escape me. I don’t want to hurt him or my Mom or anyone in my family. sometimes, maybe leaving things in the past is the right thing to do, buried down deep where they lie waiting. They can’t hurt anyone else if I never talk about them again, right?

Today I am married. I have a beautiful daughter. I have a loving and supportive and close-knit family surrounding me. I don’t know if I’ll ever tell my daughter what happened. I’ve never told my husband. but I do know that I want to prepare my daughter for what’s out there in the world and what’s right here at home. I want her to be stronger than I was. I want her to be able to say “no” and to feel comfortable enough to tell me anything.

And I want to say thank you to all the women and men who share their stories here at Violence UnSilenced. It’s taken a year, but I finally feel ready to tell someone about what happened to me. you are the first people I’ve ever told, and you may be the last. but I want you to know that bad things happen to good people every day. And it is within all of us to choose to let that good overcome the bad. We are all capable of support and affection and trust and above all, love.

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