Recently I had someone find out some of my very personal information. This information was privately shared with someone I trusted. The person who found this information did so by hacking into an e-mail account and reading my private conversations. These conversations discussed things from my past, things that were horrible. Secrets I have carried around with me for a very long time. She brought some of these things to light as insults. Terrible insults.

Growing up I had a lot of people in and out of my life. Babysitters, friends, my brother’s and sister’s friends and my parents’ friends. In their own way, each one of them had an impact on my life.

****DISCLAIMER**** Some of the things you are about to read are horrible. They are all true, but names, dates, and identifying information have been changed to protect my own privacy. If you are easily offended, easily disgusted or overly emotional, you may want to turn back now.

The first time I was ever molested is hard to remember. I know I was little. It’s one of my first memories. My father was giving me a bath and touched me. Back then, I didn’t have the people to tell me what a bad touch was. I wasn’t in school and sex talk was a no-no in our home. My dad didn’t make a big deal about it, so I didn’t know it was wrong. I still remember the bathtub, the wallpaper, the touch. I don’t remember if he ever molested me again. I do remember my father always wanting to cuddle with me; even when I was ten he wanted my body flush against him on the couch. He always wanted me near him, at least when he could be bothered to play the role of father.

When my mother and I weren’t living with my father in a different state, we were living in my home state. My mom had a few different jobs and so “Amelia” came to babysit. I hated her then and I still do. I hate the memory of her. Whenever I acted up, she would lock me in a small, dark closet. If the closet was otherwise inaccessible, she would beat me. If there was someone around to witness, then she would make me empty her husband’s handicap toilet as punishment. It was one of those contraptions with the handrails and the toilet seat connected to a bucket. It measured urine and feces and at five years old, it was mine to empty and clean.

When “Amelia” was at our home watching me, I was not allowed out of my room except to eat and use the bathroom. I enjoyed being in my room while she was around. I tried my hardest to not make a peep to disturb her. Her husband “George” would come with her, and on his crutches he would check on me. If my step-sisters were home, his observation was less. Sometimes he would take Amelia’s place and babysit by himself. He was fun and didn’t abuse me.

One day it was just me at home. Amelia had other business to attend to, so George came in her stead. He came into my room and asked if he could play games with me. George’s game was far different than anything I had played before. He wanted to play horsey. I didn’t understand because he couldn’t crawl around; how was I supposed to play this game? He laid down on the floor and had me ride him while he lay on his back. I didn’t like it, but this was supposed to be a trusted adult, so I did as he asked. It was better than the fear of him beating me for being a bad girl.

Amelia had a stroke sometime after that. I never saw her or her husband again. Those awful events were hidden away in a locked part of my brain for a very long time. So long, in fact, when those gates opened, I cried for days.

One of my older brothers had a lot of friends over when I was younger. One, in particular, he still considers his best friend. He was so nice to me. He would let me sit on his lap and watch movies. He would stay and hang out with me instead of going places with my brother. He was fifteen, maybe sixteen at the time, making me seven or eight. I thought “Greg” was my friend, too. He made me feel important and like I was a cool little kid. He’d wrap me up in a blanket and gently rub his fingers up and down the outside of my underwear. Back then I didn’t know it, but basically he was stroking me from clitoris to the opening of my vagina. It was on the outside of my underwear, so it made it better, right? I don’t remember what happened or why it stopped; I only remember not seeing him around much anymore. I think my brother had moved in with his girlfriend, and that’s where “Greg” hung out from then on.

My grandmother liked to have one of my older brothers and me stay with her during the summer. We loved going there because she lived on a lake and we got to go swimming and go out on the pontoon. We always had fun. She only had one extra bedroom, so my brother and I were forced to share a full-size bed. During one visit my brother decided for some reason to touch me and force me to touch him. At this time I knew it was a bad touch. I was so afraid to say anything. All of these people who were supposed to be trusted adults and siblings were doing these bad things to me; why would I be able to trust anyone to tell them what had been happening to me?

My horrid past led me down a path of drugs. At eleven I had started cutting myself because of my father’s physical and mental abuse. At twelve I discovered pills. I had a “dealer,” and he made regular visits. One night he came to deliver, and instead of payment, he wanted sex from me. I thought he was joking and tried to laugh it off. He insisted and I refused. That night was my first penetration rape. I had to face him at school every day. I told a friend what had happened, but he had already been bragging about us having sex so she didn’t believe he had raped me. It was my word against his. So I kept my mouth shut.

I have walked through life carrying these secrets. Holding onto them because when I did try to tell, people didn’t believe me.

During the same year my “dealer” raped me, I met my son’s father. At first he made me feel safe, loved and protected. Somewhere in our relationship he felt the need to begin to abuse me. First it was little things: Telling me who I could and could not hang out with. Keeping me away from my family members. Making me feel like he was the only person who was ever going to love me. Then big things started happening. Slapping me for making him look stupid during a harmless joke. Burning me with lighters because he thought the scars would look cool. Carving his name in my arm so I was branded.

For five years, I endured torture. I was not allowed to leave his home for his fear of me leaving him. He didn’t realize how ingrained in my mind it was that I was his. When I was fourteen, he and two of his friends were hanging out and getting drunk and decided I was hot enough to share. I tried to refuse, I tried to scream, I tried to run. They took turns holding me down for one of them to rape me. They made sure my mouth was covered so I couldn’t scream or bite. When they were finished raping me, my son’s father said he was disgusted with how much of a whore I was. He took a razor blade to my vagina lips and cut chunks out of them. I tried like hell to get away from him, but his friends helped, laughing at the whore being punished.

My son’s father still forced me to be in a relationship with him even though he told me daily how disgusting I was down there. He would cheat on me and tell me, saying he just couldn’t enjoy himself during sex with me because I was so disfigured. I wound up pregnant at fifteen. He tried to kill my unborn child. Thank God it didn’t work. I was beaten for allowing myself to get pregnant. Punched in the face, knocked to the ground and kicked. Finally, when he met his now wife, he left me. Yes, after all of the abuse, he had to leave me. Stockholm Syndrome at its finest.

When I met my soon-to-be ex-husband, he was a breath of fresh air at first. His mental and emotional abuse was far better than being tortured. Until I found my strength. Then we had to go our separate ways. He couldn’t handle me fighting back against his words.

Now I have met a guy and we have been getting to know one another. One of his children’s mothers decided to get into the conversations I had with this guy, and I had told him some of the things I have been through. She decided to contact my brother, though I don’t know what she said to him. She also decided to use the fact I have a disfigured vagina as a joke.

I wrote most of this piece a while ago but have been too afraid to share it with the world. Now, as my past is being brought to light, I might as well let it all out so it cannot be used against me. If the world knows, then it won’t be a surprise if someone sends me a message she has written to try and torture me by making me relive my past.

What do I want out of this horror story? I want women to have the courage to speak up. I want women to understand how children can be made to feel as if nobody can be trusted. Educate your children about good and bad touches. Make sure they know they can ALWAYS trust you with the most private information.

And don’t forget to hug your children. In this day and age, any child is at risk.