There are few things the human race, as a whole, agrees on. We debate about what’s happening to our planet’s ozone layer, whether or not women are capable of making their own reproductive decisions, and if Hocus Pocus or Halloweentown better personifies the month of October.
One thing most of us agree on, though, is that molesting other people is a sucky thing to do.
I was three-years old when I was molested. It was a time of watching Teletubbies on Saturday mornings, drinking apple juice out of pink sippy cups, and explaining to my mom that I heard noises of “her hurting” in the middle of the night coming from her and her boyfriend’s bedroom. Naiveté and childhood all around.
I only remember a few instances of the molestation, but what I do remember comes back in scenes like a docudrama. I’m walking to my bed that is covered in Cinderella blankets. My mom has already fallen asleep. The teenage daughter of my mom’s boyfriend comes in and tells me that she can’t sleep. The next thing I know, she is on top of me and I can’t breathe. Her tongue that tastes like the bubble gum toothpaste I also used is sliding in my mouth. Her hands are rummaging around my body as if it is a half-off shoe bin at a garage sale. She pinches me in places that weren’t meant to be pinched at three-years old. Her fingers enter places that weren’t meant to be entered at three-years old.
Now imagine all of that coming back to your mind in choppy, grainy scenes. When you can’t put an image to what you hear, the docudrama comes back with a black screen, translating the dialogue in eerie white text.
"Stop squirming! You’ll like it soon."
It was traumatic, obviously. What disturbs me the most about it is that I actually blacked it out for most of my life and didn’t remember it until a few years ago. The scenes only came back because my mom absentmindedly told me that she added the (now ex-) boyfriend’s daughter on Facebook.
Realizing this happened is kind of like being in a coma for fourteen years, waking up, and realizing that somebody invaded your personal space when you were vulnerable. It’s weird and gross but at the same time, it’s over and there’s little point in dwelling on what happened when you weren’t around to realize it.
The thing that really blows about realizing and accepting that I was molested, though, is now I have to doubt myself on everything. Is the reason I avoid Aussie shampoo due to the fact that she used it? Are my self-confidence issues linked to the possibility that my conscience hates the three-year old girl that lay there helplessly while my body was trespassed? Was my hatred for all things Lisa Frank growing up due to the fact that she and my molester shared the same first name?
I also carry a tremendous amount of guilt for not being “more scarred” from the event. There are some people who are molested and their lives become VHS tapes in comparison to their former DVD glory. Why am I so casual about what happened to me? If someone described my experience to me from the point of view of someone else, I’d probably bust out crying.
I’m nineteen-years old. I was molested sixteen years ago. The t-shirt tag that uncomfortably pokes the back of my neck from this experience is that I don’t know how the molestation impacted me. It’s ripped off the bottom of my life’s jar full of answers and they just keep pouring out. Instead of being sure that there was a direct answer for my problems, as I was before I remembered what happened, everything is now left floating in midair. Do I have an eating disorder because of environmental factors? Or is it because I was molested? I am a very sexual person. Is it because I’m a hormonal teenage girl? Or is it because I was molested?
Being molested isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you. The worst thing that can happen to you is having the truth hidden from you for most of your life, only to be revealed when things begin to make sense.