Just within this past week’s local news, either a current court case is ongoing, or there was another new report of a similar occurrence. This time, it was a 7-year old and two 10-year olds who had been sexually assaulted and raped.
The number of reports is noticeably growing more frequently within the past few years. I believe that sexual crimes against children may have been occurring much more back in the past, though.
Because statistics can never know how often these cases from decades ago had occurred, because many of those children had never told another soul about their assaults, molestations, and rapes.
I know this, because I had been one of them.
Sexually assaulted and molested, can’t count how many times. By different men, known and unknown.
Sexually abused, for about a year. Maybe over a year. I don’t remember, because I had been under 12 years old.
As I’ve often said, I have a crappy memory. I usually say it in a humorous manner, but it is such a thing that I wish so much was not the case.
Because having a good memory is priceless. It’s absolutely necessary in life.
To be able to survive, you need to recall the know-hows. If recalling important information is often a struggle, especially in regards to one’s occupation, then that person pretty much sucks in just about everything.
I believe that my poor memory may be due to 2 possible reasons:
(1) Because I had needed to constantly shut out those past moments, minutes, and occurrences from my head.
(2) Because of my father’s punching and slapping my head for many years of my life – until I was finally able to defend myself, and had fought back.
How strange it is that I can easily share about this part of my life to others. To strangers.
But I will never tell the family.
Years ago, one of my past co-workers whom I had decided to share about this with (to give an example of how God has given me victory in my life), had said to me in big surprise, “Why didn’t you tell your family?! I don’t understand why you didn’t tell your family!”
My reason is simple: Because nothing will happen.
What is the point of there being this thick, deafening silence after I have told them? And knowing them, I would most likely be asked what I had said or done, or how I had acted, that such occurrences had happened to me.
Therefore, I will continue to keep this secret from them. Because telling them will accomplish nothing. And will only become wasted words upon my wasted life.
A few years ago, I had seen on the TV news, grown men who had stood up to speak, and who could not hold back their tears as they spoke. They had all revealed about how their lives had been changed when they were young because they had been sexually abused, molested, or raped by a Catholic priest.
They were in their elementary school years then. Now, they were in their 40s to 60s.
As I watched my television set, I thought, I hear ya. I know exactly how you feel, buddy. I know exactly how you feel…
In my area, there are now over 200 cases of child sexual abuse by Catholic priests (and school teachers) in court. The Catholic church has filed for bankruptcy.
Years ago, I went to a home Bible study with a friend. One of the women there had talked on for quite a bit. Pretty soon, it seemed like she was saying to the rest of the folks present there, that she had gone through a much harder life than we all did.
(It felt like hearing people who’d say, “My parents didn’t have much money when I was young…”, somehow assuming that everyone else around them had all grown up rich.)
Then she told us about how she had been sexually abused when she was a child. That’s when I had said, “So have I”.
Later that evening, she asked me who it was who had sexually abused me. I answered her that the person was my father’s friend. To which she said, “Mine was worse. Because my abuser was my uncle. At least yours wasn’t part of your family.”
Besides having a bad memory, I don’t know much about anything either. But I do know this: I do not believe that if the man who had sexually abused me for about a whole year had been a family member, it would not have made those occurrences much worse or better.
Unwanted sexual actions are just that: unwanted. We are in fear, shame, and anger, as the seconds tick by.
Except for one, the molestors and I will most likely never see each other again. And my sexual abuser is now most likely dead.
But their disgusting actions and control over me then, will always remain with me, like a permanent stain.