This post is a departure from my regular posts. I have decided to use this platform to allow rape and domestic violence survivors to tell their stories. These posts are not censored or edited, but come straight from the survivor. Some survivors need to tell their story in a safe place, and many others need to know that they are not alone, nor are they to blame. It’s important to me to provide that connection. I chose #itsourstory to spread the word for two reasons: no matter how isolated you feel, you are never alone and this is part of our culture, our society, and it belongs to all of us. If you would like to contribute, you can find more information here.
I was ten years old. In the 4th grade. It had been the best year of my life up to that point.
I still don’t like to talk about it. Or write about it. Or think about it. Even though I’ve published a memoir detailing the incident and its aftermath, the fight or flight instinct still kicks in. And the silence.
The rapist was my so-called-brother. I’m glad we don’t share genetics. It was cruel fate that placed me in a family with this monster.
He molested me once before. A prelude, although I didn’t realize it then. I was nine. I didn’t say anything to my parents even though I was scared and upset. Doing sick things was so “everyday” for him that I thought it wasn’t worth it. It would only cause more yelling and crying, and I hated drama. Continue reading