I was two years old when I was sexually molested for the first time. Shocking right? What boy would get off on molesting a toddler of that age?
How far back can you remember? I can remember back to the age of two years old. How do I know I was two? Because around my third birthday, BOTH of my grandmothers died, and I remember both of their funerals very well. I also remember various times spent with them, as well as other incidents and I had to have been two when they occurred.
You can say, boys will be boys. They pulled down my pants, checked out the difference between boys and girls, felt me up, and left me in a field. I went home crying that the boys pulled down my pants. My mother didn’t find out until I was eighteen how traumatized that had made me. I didn’t know that I had been molested and later when I realized what had been done to me, I worried how far they had gone on that day. I was nineteen when I found out they hadn’t taken my virginity. However, the trauma had been with me for a long time and it took a long time to come to grips with it, if I ever did.
You see, even though they were boys, probably curious, it doesn’t excuse the fact that they did this to a helpless little girl. It affected certain aspects of my life for decades. That is what victimization does. It affects that victim mentally, sometimes more so than the physical aspects do. Yes, they ‘probably’ only pulled down my pants, but how will I ever know? What if it had been more? They could have done so much more, and mentally, they did.
I didn’t date until I was sixteen years old. Not because I wasn’t interested, but because I felt, they weren’t. Even losing my virginity at nineteen wasn’t because I was in love, but because of low self-esteem. I thought, erroneously, that it might make me popular. It took a lot of self-introspection to realize a lot of things about myself. The first of which, it wasn’t MY fault.
Many others who have been victims go on to punish themselves in so many ways. From self-harm, to other worse decisions that affect their entire lives. I refuse to play the victim. I tell you this story because it happens, even at an early age.
From an early age I was aware of the difference between men and woman. Not just the physical differences, but the way they are treated. It was the boys against the girls in our household. Mom tried to prevent that, but Dad encouraged it and laughed at it. Girls were ‘non-persons’ and only good for ‘women’s work,’ boys were the princes and allowed to do whatever the heck they wanted. That disparity, early on, pissed me off. Fortunately, my mother was strong enough to raise a strong woman in me and, I hope, I overcame a lot of that. Dealing with my brothers these days, I just simply do not engage, refuse to do what they ‘think’ I should, and I certainly don’t stay in my place as they ‘think’ I should. As a result, they have labeled me a troublemaker, a bitch, difficult, and worse. That’s fine, they don’t pay my bills, and they certainly don’t live in my house. I’m independent and I speak my mind. God forbid I have an opinion. As a result, we rarely interact anymore and I’m happier as a result.
There are a lot of things I could say about both scenarios, from the mental abuse of my father and brothers who are chauvinistic, misogynistic, narcissists to the little boys who mentally scarred me, the point I am trying to make is it doesn’t define who I am and who I have become. I’m aware of it, I refuse to cater to it, and I raised two boys who I think are better for having an understanding mother. Let’s hear it for the survivors, the ones who didn’t let it destroy their lives!