institutionalized sex abuse

This morning I read the story of a father whose kids were abused in the catholic church. Anthony Foster had died today after tirelessly fighting against Catholic sex abuse –

Having lost his daughter from a drug overdose and the other daughter from an accident caused by a drunk driver, I can’t help but think of the pain he went through.

Child abuse by institutions supposedly to keep them safe and protected happens all the time. We just never get to know when it happens because we are sometimes too busy to pay attention to our children. Some people obviously so blinded by religion that they do not seem to believe when their child has been molested.

I looked back today at my childhood years in church. I am disgusted to the core because noone would ever believe me that I was abused in many ways. Maybe I was a little lucky not to have been extremely sexually abused because my chest was so flat. I understand you must be asking why I am even ranking sexual abuse. Of course all forms of sexual abuse is bad. But for me, all I know is there were those that were slightly okay and others were really awful. Yes, I do still rank and categorize them. 

I saw the other kids being abused too. I don’t remember much because somehow my brain decided to shut the other horrible parts out, but for sure some youth pastor had touched my private parts during those nights that we would gather to pray for some sort of miracle for my sick father.

Even now, I know there are plenty of kids who are being abused and their parents do not know or have the slightest idea. They blindly send them to church or religious gatherings. They do not explain to them what sexual abuse is and how to protect themselves. Those kind of parents make me wonder until now how cold they can be. My father was one of those kind of parents. 

I guess he never really believed that a man of God would do such stuff to young kids. Even after telling him what he did to me and other kids, he never did anything. When Sunday came, we all marched to church. 

Yet he did it again. That ugly fucking bastard. He did it again and again and again. And nobody stopped him. Nobody talked about it. Nobody brought him to justice. Because nobody saw it. Only kids saw it and noone believed the kids.

Now that I am older, I still remember these little instances. If my father had believed me, if he only wasn’t blinded by religion, he would have fought for me and put that evil pastor in jail.

I hope someday these institutions will start talking about these things openly. I would suggest a bill that requires these religious institutions to talk about abuse of all forms and sorts. And for those sexual offenders to be hunted down and jailed.

May you rest in peace. Anthony. 

Molested childhood

Well, someone once wrote that I am not to blame for something that happened to me as a child. I was four, young, talkative and jumpy creature. My father was proud to take me with him for little safaris and trips from the village to the big city. I loved to see big buildings and for once see running tap water. I wasn’t used to this because I was brought up in a tiny village, no electricity, no running water and as crazy as it may sound, we did not have a toilet. I would use a plastic bag and throw it to the bushes close by.

I remember vividly as if it happened yesterday. I remember my cousin’s big fat fingers getting inside my vagina. My father had taken us to visit his sister in the city and this is where it happened. I remember my other female cousin too, also four, being molested by our big male cousin. He put his hand and something very itchy called ‘Robb’ into our pussies that we screamed with pain and started crying. Robb would be used oftenly to soothe muscle pain, just like deep heat, and cannot be used on open wounds or even vagina. I remember telling my father about it, trying to form words to explain what really happened to me. He never got it as  he never understood! And even if he did understand, what would he do about it? My father was not the kind of person who would think that I was being  molested. If he knew, my guess was he could never lay his finger on his sister’s son, or even raise the issue with his sister. Not that I support physical abuse, but that was the only way my father would punish someone. I still remember this ordeal vividly.

Then, I was 10 when my 32 year old uncle forced his manhood inside my mouth. I looked up to him and he was such a good person. I never knew he would do that to me. He relieved his pleasures inside my mouth and I remember choking and crying so much that I refused to eat for three days. My aunt never knew what was going on with me. I always knew somehow noone would believe me. I felt like it was a normal thing that adults do to children.

I talked to my mother about it later in life and she was sorry I had to go through that and she never knew. Of course, she wouldn’t have known. She had her own issues that she had to go through. Horrible situations and past. I never wanted to burden her with my issues. That’s where I went wrong. Of course, she told me, I am your mother! What did you think? I never told her about my uncle though. That would hurt her deeply.

Why do I bring this up? I remind myself that each of us have a past. Some are awful and we want to forget them, while some are beautiful and we always want to remember. I wish I could forget my past and completely and enjoy some things that I now despise. Those that would take me back to those moments.

Maybe I was blinded so much by abusive behaviour that I felt it was somehow normal for my partner to say abusive words. It was almost certain that I wanted him to despise me, to send me to hell, to call me a bitch. Because I never really did heal from the past. Somehow, I wanted that feeling, where I would feel worthless. I would give him a pass because I had already been through all that, worse than his abusive words.

Now, I lay down my bed after a bath and look at my body carefully and in detail. How did I get to that point? When I felt so worn out? I promise myself that I would never look down on myself, ever again. What happened in my childhood was not my fault. What happened in my marriage was not my fault. I did not have a choice as a child, but I had a choice as a young, married woman. I have a choice now as a young, intelligent and visionary woman. To heal, to love without borders, to enjoy my freedom and sexuality, to experience new loves and excitements and to be hopeful of a good future. I hope that any child would never go through any form of sexual abuse. It really does traumatize and by sharing my story and writing this, I hope that I can put this past behind.

Talking to a friend who listens and doesn’t judge is always a good move. Often, I think people have already their own problems to deal with and so I do not speak out. But one good friend of mine told me, always speak up. Talk to one good friend who will listen to you. I did do it. It was helpful. Its the reason I am writing and sharing today.

My story is not unique. Have you or someone you know gone through such a trauma? Do share how you got to heal or how you dealt with it.