Painful. My Childhood. Raw and Angry

 

⚠️⚠️⚠️TW: SEXUAL ASSAULT⚠️⚠️⚠️ A survivor's truth, finally spoken out loud.

⚠️⚠️⚠️TW: SEXUAL ASSAULT⚠️⚠️⚠️

I’ve been carrying this story for a long time. Longer than I should have had to. And I’ve decided that today, it stops living only inside me.

This is not easy to write. But easy was never the point.

Every weekend, my brothers and I would make our way to our half-brother’s aunt’s house. My brothers and I are all half-siblings (all six of us), we all have different fathers, but we were family in the way that matters. Or so I thought.

She had three older boys. almost in their twenties. And the two younger ones, they had decided something about me that I wouldn’t understand.

They would come to me in my sleep.

For a long time, I didn’t know. I would wake up with what I thought was drool on my face. Sometimes it was crusted. Sometimes it was fresh. I was a child(a teen, but still a child). I didn’t understand what was happening to my body in the night.

Then came the night I found out.

The middle one, Marquin, held my nose while he used my mouth. I only woke up because I couldn’t breathe. And when he saw I was awake, when he saw me panicking, confused, and terrified, he didn’t stop: he continued and finished anyway. In my mouth, while I looked at him with horror in my eyes.

I want you to sit with that for a moment. Because I had to.

And the thing that made it worse was that it wasn’t only at night.

They would drag me to the bathroom to kiss me. touch me. Kiss me whenever no one else is around. And the moment someone walked in, nothing. Smiles. Normal conversation. Like it never happened.

Like I never happened.

That erasure might be the part that cut the deepest. The abuse was one kind of wound. But watching them look right through what they had just done to me, that taught me something damaging about my own worth. It taught me that what happened to my body didn’t matter. That I didn’t matter enough to even be acknowledged.

I never told anyone. Not really.

I already knew their mother wouldn’t believe me. And my brother didn’t believe me either. So I folded it up and put it somewhere deep, the way children do when they have no other choice.

But the body keeps score. The mind holds what the mouth won’t say.

Years later, when I began to understand my own desires and patterns: the submission, the BDSM, I started to see the shape of where some of it came from. My body had learned things before my mind could process them. It had been conditioned in the dark, without my consent, before I even had the words for any of it.

That’s not a confession. That’s not shame. That’s just the truth of how trauma works. It doesn’t disappear. It becomes part of your wiring. And understanding that had been one of the most painful and necessary parts of my healing.

I was a CHILD. What was done to me was abuse, repeated, deliberate, and protected by silence. Not one person in that house protected me.

I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m writing this because the silence has weight, and I’m done carrying mine alone. I’m writing this because somewhere out there is someone else who woke up confused, who watched their abuser act normal minutes later, who folded their story up small and buried it deep.

To that person: Your story is real. What happened to you was real. You’re allowed to be angry. You are allowed to take up space with your truth.

YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

And neither am I, not anymore.

If this resonated with you, feel free to share it with someone who needs to read it. Healing is not linear, but it begins with truth.