The one that started it all

I have been molested by people from all walks of life. from the respectable members of society to the lowest of them. I can remember the first time vividly. I can remember it because of how it grossed me out. I remember the sticky milky wetness on my small legs. I remember it all and it is all I can do not to rush to the bathroom and vomit. I had seen sperm for the first time and I did not even know that is what it was called at the time, or what exactly it was.

It had been a bad day. I do not remember the details of the morning but I know that the afternoon had not progressed really well. I was thirsty. I needed a drink. So I left where we were playing with my sisters in the yard to collect a glass of water. I loved the good things and my dad had this fancy glass that was HIS. You were never allowed to touch it. well, unless you were bringing it over to him. So that afternoon, I felt ultra rebellious. I picked up his glass, filled it with water gulped some and went outside to show off to my sisters who shrieked in horror. If father ever found out I had as much as thought of drinking from his glass, let alone drink from it, I would be toast. And I knew one of my siblings would use it as leverage against me some time but I did not care. I was loving the thrill of rebellion. I remembered something else I had to pick from the house so I put the glass down in the doorway and proceeded to pick whatever it was. I had warned my sisters against approaching the doorway. On my way back out, I kicked the glass and before my eyes, shards of glass were flying everywhere. I had broken daddy’s glass. I was a dead girl. But that was not as bad as what was about to happen.

We had two house helps. A girl and a man. The man (James) did not sleep in the main house. He occupied one of the rooms in the boys’ quarters. So I went in hiding there all afternoon fearing for when father would return and bestow befitting punishment. I was 7 years old and my father was a very tough man. He whipped us good. Anyway, there I was hiding in James’ room scared shitless, lying on James’ bed when he enters. He proceeds to ask me what had happened and wipes tears off my eyes as I narrate the story. Before long he was stroking me and touching me in places.

It felt good. And I guess that is why molested girls never report to anybody. Because it feels good and it is embarrassing to imagine that you liked it when you were violated. So he touched my vagina, stroking it lightly and whispering in my ear not to make noise. By then, I had stopped crying. I had begun to enjoy all of it. Anyway, he pushed my hand down his pants and urged me to touch his penis. To rub him hard. Obviously I was not doing a good job of it coz he took control of my and made me rub him harder and faster while all the while he grunted like a pig. That was scary, but I saw that he was not grunting in pain and decided to stay. Besides, I was afraid of going out lest my dad discover me. Anyway, he whipped out his penis and put it on there top of my vagina and made sexual motions. Before long he let put a weird sound and collapsed on the mattress beside me. That is when I felt a sticky wetness on my legs. I wiped it off and fell asleep, oblivious to the fact that my innocence had been taken away. The second time he did something like that to me, we were on his bicycle.

Father never beat me or even shouted at me for breaking his glass…


i am a girl with a dark past

I am dedicating this blog to people who have been sexually molested, sometimes, even, by the people they trusted most. At 23, I have been violated s many times that it is hard to remember each one of them in one go. I am not alone. There is countless women/girls out there that have been sexually abused over the years and they have no voice. I am not going to be their voice, but I am hoping that by sharing my experiences, I will reach out to someone out there. I will make them feel like they are not alone. And they are not. I will never tell their stories like they want them told, but I can tell mine. And through it, hopefully I can heal somebody.

And when I am done telling my story, hopefully, even I can find some healing. Some peace. I can finally lay those old ghosts to sleep. I am plagued by these thoughts. Tormented by the memories. I need to escape. I need to release. I need for somebody to hear me. And where necessary, tell me it is okay. That it will be okay.

Finally, this blog may contain content of a very sexual nature that might offend some readers. So if you are of feeble heart, your journey ends here. For everyone else, follow my tales.