2 in 4 and 1 in 5

The statistics seem “not so bad” at first. They say “Well at least there is half of girls that are okay.” And they say, “Well look, most boys are safe.” However, if you fall into these 2 in 4 and 1 in 5 categories, numbers will never speak to what has really been done.

It has been known for many years now that these numbers are probably under reported and that children are molested and raped at much higher rates. Of all my female friends, only two were not molested or raped. Utah is the worst for pedophilia because everyone in Mormon neighborhoods trust each other, so children run from one house to the next. Often with very little actual supervision. Just like any church, the Mormons hide their abusers in the fold and blame the victim more often than not. This means that abuse in Utah goes unchecked for many children, and it is passed down in families spreading trauma and disfunction to multiple generations.

I am not a Mormon, I have nothing to blame for my hurt except my father, and my sister. Yes, I was molested by my sister. Sibling molestation goes unreported, because it is so shameful. It makes you feel like a filthy creature. I still feel that way sometimes. There are certain smells and sounds that bring back a wave of revulsion so big I have literally become sick and vomited. The smell of Chloe perfume, or Lutece perfume can spike my anxiety to the point of panic still. I am sure she was molested too, and that is why she acted out on me. I feel bad for her, but it changes nothing about the trauma it caused me. The smell of chili, bean and bacon soup makes my skin crawl. I can’t stand nightlights. The list goes on.

When I started maturing and breasts began to develop, I literally had no idea what was going on. Despite the fact that I had been molested and raped at this point, I still was completely uneducated about maturation. My mother kept me home from any program at school, and I was told it was dirty to even talk about it. All I knew is that my chest hurt and I was red and swollen. I thought it was because they were touching me, like maybe I had an infection. How was I to know? I did not realize I was going to be getting breasts, like my sister. I just thought I would be this tiny, thin creature forever. I hoped to move out one day and get away from everyone, but had no real concept of maturing. There was no internet then. I went to the library to figure out what was happening.

I became terrified of my own body. I hated it even as a child, because it made them hurt me. On one occasion, I remember being very small maybe 8, and being ripped open. I was not afraid of the blood, but of being caught. It burned for days. I ached from the inside. I learned very early to say nothing to anyone, because everyone would know how dirty and disgusting I was. After all, every time we came home from Mass, I was reminded how I was a sinner, and how Jesus saw everything and He would know how horrible I was. My sister made me kneel in front of the crucifix she had hanging in her room and promise Jesus that we would not “Be those kind of people ever again.” Somehow she thought I was complicit. One of my earliest memories is of her inserting outlet covers between my labia. I had no way of knowing this was wrong. I know this is graphic. But child molestation is graphic and its violent even in its most gentle touch. This violence is the worst because if your body betrays you, you of course are guilty of the worst thing. Liking being touched of course was the worst thing ever, (I still do not like being touched.) Because somewhere in your tiny little mind, this registers as wrong. Something screams in your brain that you are not safe. That screaming never stops.

My little body was bruised and battered and my mind had created new pathways. I was coping in ways no little girl should ever have to cope. I started cutting when I in 5th grade. I am not who I should have been. Neither are the other half of the population who have been soul murdered.

I guess the worst part for me is never knowing the potential I had and who I would have been if I had not been molested. Knowing I would have not made the same choices, knowing I would have had choices in some situations. Knowing I would have been a whole person, not forever sweeping up pieces is gut wrenching. Wondering what not being anxious all the time, literally, every day would feel like. I will forever feel like there is something wrong with me, from birth, that predators find and exploit. I will forever feel like I am not good enough. I sit with that much better than I used to. This is not a matter of therapy. This is a matter of neuro pathways being damaged and under developed. I have found ways to work around things for the most part. But the damage done is permanent.

Now multiply this by millions of little boys and girls, all being shattered every hour of every day. Think of all the things you have read about me that I have posted and imagine how many more souls have had to suffer through things like this, because someone’s orgasm was more important than another person’s life. I went through this thousands of times. How many times will the next child be bleeding and terrified before we care enough to actually stop these people? How many more times will a child vomit because a penis was shoved down their throats? How many more little girls will grow up hating their developing bodies and carry these thoughts to adulthood? How many children will try to drown out the memories with alcohol and drugs? How many more adults will be incarcerated because of sexual trauma and the effect it had on them? How many more injured children will go unreported and unloved? Many of these questions are not answerable, but what would your answer be, if you could answer any of them? What about one, could you answer just one?

I am in bits and pieces that reflect the light and glint from the corners. I could have been more. I could have been whole. I was deemed unimportant. I was deemed as used tissue, a bloody washcloth dropped into the wash. Something to scrub off the hands. But that has not stopped the light from getting in, even if its into the small bits stuffed into the corners.

2 in 4 and 1 in 5.