I’ve heard of horrific experiences from victims of abuse, and even if it happened once, twice, or many times, there is always one similarity between them-they will be affected. Nevertheless I’m in no way belittling it. It only happened once and I was still ignorant. Sometimes it’s a silent one, not because they are unafraid, but because they are confused, unaware, and simply just don’t know any better.
Educate your children so that their understanding of “down there” is not lacking be observant so that any changes in your child’s behaviour doesn’t go by unnoticed and do something when your child confides in you so that they know they can trust you.īecause not every case of child sexual abuse and molestation is about a child kicking and screaming. I don’t have any extraordinary lesson for you, other than the predictable ones. There’s only so much hate that you can give to a dead person because you can’t really do anything about it. It might be because it’s hard to hate someone who’s been dead for at least 10 years (I don’t keep count of the exact number). Which is a difficult task to do even after all these years. And when I finally did many years later, I hated him for it. Not because I actually understood why I should. Although I listened to my parents and avoided him, it was out of obedience and ignorance. They couldn’t have known that they should have told me from a young age to “scream for help and run if someone touches you here or here“. They couldn’t have known that they shouldn’t leave me alone downstairs while they chatted happily just several metres away. In their defence, they couldn’t have prevented it.
They simply told me not to tell anyone about it-sorry, mom and dad, for this. There wasn’t any big hoo-ha or dramatic family intervention. However, in my 10-year-old mind, it couldn’t have been that bad since they never confronted him about it. Bad enough for my parents to tell me to avoid going near him when we visit after I told them about how he touched me “down there”. Maybe it was during “girl talk” with my guy friends in school.īut even before I figured it out, I knew my grandfather did something bad. Maybe it was when I studied Chapter 4 of Science in Form 3. Maybe it was when I discovered porn by accident. I can’t remember when I realised the disturbing intentions of his action. Quick-before anyone else came into the kitchen-but long enough for me to remember his stubby beard rubbing against my neck. So when grandfather asked me to follow him into the pantry and put his hands down my panties, I just stood there like the good doll I was while he sat on a stool behind me. I knew there was a hole somewhere in my nether regions but I thought it was just for peeing. I never once asked them, “Mommy, where do babies come from?” Maybe I wasn’t quite an inquisitive child. My parents were traditional in their ways (and very strict). And yet now we have 8-year-olds using the word in grammatically correct sentences. I only understood its meaning a whole year later. I didn’t know the word ‘f*ck’ until I was 15. With about 9 other relatives on the first floor. It was in a dusty half-lit store pantry on the ground floor of my grandfather’s house.
It didn’t happen in an alleyway, or in a sleazy motel room. It was silent-mostly because I had no idea what was going on. It’s not like most stories that you might have read about there was no struggling, no screaming, no taunting or violence.
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