Michelle’s Story

The sexual abuse started when I was 3 years old.

It continued on for a further seven years, and only ended when I got my period, and the perpetrator told me “it was now too dangerous, I might get pregnant.”

The abuse was so imprinted on to my soul, that I blocked it out until I started my recovery from bulimia at age 35 and was under-going hypnotherapy.

Then the visions started. Graphic visions. Horrible visions. Visions I just couldn’t comprehend. These visions were not of a movie, they were of real life. My real life.

I was three years old and was playing doctors and nurses with the next door neighbour’s son who was a year older.

We were naked, lying under his bed, touching each other. We were three and four years old. Innocent.

Then his dad walked in, saw us, told us we were naughty and that if anybody found out, we would be in big trouble.

But if we did what he asked, he wouldn’t tell anybody.

He said he just wanted to take some photos of us playing doctors and nurses. So that’s what we did. Except, he directed us to play a much different version of doctors and nurses. He directed his son to touch me very differently, including touching me inside. All whilst he kept taking photos.

He set up an area in his wardrobe which was surrounded by black sheets so it was private and hidden from his wife.

This level of abuse continued for two years, and as I grew up, his son was removed from playing doctors and nurses, and his dad instead took his place and started touching me instead. Taking photos of himself touching me. Having me touch him, stroke him, whilst he took photos of me doing that.

Not long after, the penetration started. First, he would insert fingers inside of me and I remember him licking his fingers afterwards. I just didn’t understand what was happening.

But I knew what was happening wasn’t right but didn’t know why, or who to tell. So I started eating. Eating ALOT. I tried to build a fat suit so that somebody would notice something was wrong. But they didn’t.

I tried to build a fat suit so he would stop touching me. Instead, he gave me gifts. He owned a jewellery business so would make jewellery for me. Not my brother or sister, just me. But nobody ever asked why.

It didn’t take long for the finger penetration to move to full penetration with his penis. I have really vivid clear memories of him bending me over a table in his bedroom, in the dining room, and doing whatever he pleased, and reminding me to not scream because I would get into trouble if anybody found out.

His son was always sent across to the neighbours’ house when it was taking place. His son went to the same primary school as me and would walk me home. To his dad. He would carry my books and we were always teased that “x” had a crush on me because he would follow me everywhere. If only they knew the truth.

Nobody noticed the abuse. Nobody questioned my constant tears. Nobody questioned the gifts. Nobody questioned why I hid in my bedroom when I was home. Nobody saw anything.

To this day, I have never shared my story with my family. But in sharing it here, I know I have to share it with them.

My soul still feels the trauma and pain of that abuse. The innocence that was lost needs to be healed. It it time.

I am 1 in 3.

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