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I was either 6 or 7 years old the first time I was sexually abused. It's kind of funny how I don't remember how old I was but I remember exactly what I was wearing, what was going through my mind at the time and how terrified I was. He was family. It was summer time and he came over to spend a few days like he always did. He was one of those cool relatives. Always playing with me, buying me sweets and stuff. We were sitting on the stairs behind the house when he pulled me on his lap. I noticed his zipper was down but I was too embarrassed to tell him that. He started tickling me, and I was giggling so much I couldn't breathe. I felt one of his hands going under me and heard his jeans being unbuttoned. I remember being confused but felt too paralyzed to move. He bunched the dress up to my waist and I could feel him against me. He kept moving me, and himself and I can remember feeling that whatever was happening felt wrong but I didn't say anything. After a while he pulled me off his lap and there was this wet spot in front of his jeans and my thighs were wet. I thought I had peed myself, I was so embarrassed I ran inside and changed my clothes. I never mentioned it to anyone.

Second time it happened it was in the guest room at the house. He was supposed to be babysitting me and at one point I wanted to play with my dolls so I went in there to get them. I was sitting on the bed, brushing Didi's hair when he walked in and sat next to me. I didn't know why but as soon as he walked in a shiver of fear ran down my spine. He put his hand on my leg and started sliding it further and further up. I was just sitting there shaking at that point. He pushed me onto my back and the doll fell on the floor. He pulled my dress up and got on top of me. He pulled my panties down to my ankles and he sat on his knees to unbutton and unzip his pants. I just laid there, my little fists balled up, just looking at him. I didn't scream, I didn't fight and until this day I don't know why. He lined himself up with my private part and was rubbing himself against me. He just kept doing it, I remember how he was looking straight into my eyes the whole time, the room was dark and stuffy, sweat was running on his forehead, and I felt like I was being choked because I was too terrified to breathe. When he was done, he came on my stomach. He got up, pulled his pants up. He pulled my panties up , wiped my stomach, pulled my dress down and walked out of the room. And as he shut the door behind him I let the first tear fall. I don't know why I was crying, it didn't hurt. But I remember feeling so disgusted and used after that and for some reason I just wanted to hide. I wanted to stay in that room alone and never come out. I laid there for I don't know how long before grabbing Didi on the floor and cuddled up with her still crying. He had me showered and redressed before my mom got back. I remember trying to think how to tell her what happened and I just didn't know how. I was afraid I'd get in trouble, besides I didn't tell him no. Maybe he didn't mean it I remember thinking. And even though I hated what he did, I didn't want him to get in trouble. I was just a confused mess. So I didn't say anything..again. Molestation, abuse, those are taboo words in my culture, so I never knew what they were. I learned what rape was at one point but I wasn't raped and I never learned the word for what had happened to me. Finally I just blocked those memories and at one point I couldn't even tell if it really had happened. 

Right before I turned 13 I moved to the States and I was living with my a family friend and her sons. After a few months, the nicest one of them started getting weird with me. Nothing too alarming at first, just touches. And I'd find an excuse for them every time because I refused to believe to was happening again. Until one day we were watching a movie and his hand went up my skirt. That same feeling of fear creeped into me and I wanted to cry. I pulled my skirt back down and asked him what he was doing. He looked at me like I was crazy and said nothing. We got back to the movie and I tried to forget about it. A couple days later I was cleaning the bathroom he sneaked up on me and started tickling me, I was laughing but stopped when his hands went up to my chest. I barely had breasts but it felt weird and wrong for him to touch me there. I told him to stop and he did but he got mad at me, saying he was just playing and that I was overreacting. A few incidents happened after and I started searching the internet for answers to what the hell was happening to me again. I read so many stories about rape, sexual abuse but most of them had one thing in common, the victim screamed for help, told someone, tried to fight the person off. So I finally figured out what had happened to me all those years ago but I started blaming myself. I didn't do any of those things that those people did, so it was my fault, I let it happen. At some point I wished he had actually raped me, maybe then someone would've noticed something, maybe then I would've known what to tell my mom. It's a strange thing to wish for I know, but people tend to minimize molestation. I minimized it. I'd feel weak for crying about being touched inappropriately when there were 'real' rape victims out there. I cried myself to sleep almost daily. And although I had never had nightmares about it when it happened, I started having them. I was terrified to go to sleep because every night, as soon as I closed my eyes I'd be back in that room again with him on top of me. I could smell him, feel how heavy he was , and I'd wake up screaming. I started cutting myself, the guilt was killing me. I felt disgusting and dirty all the time. I just wanted to forget but I also wanted to tell someone. I couldn't keep it a secret anymore but I didn't know how to tell anyone. We had to keep a journal for a class so one day I spilled it all out, even the part where I wanted to die because of how guilty I felt. Well not all of it, just about what had happened when I was 6 or 7. I was too scared to say anything about my second monster. I was scared his mom wouldn't believe me. And even though the first questions I was asked when I told them what happened was"How come the neighbors didn't hear you scream? Wasn't there blood? How come your mom didn't suspect anything?" I don't regret telling them. Maybe one day they'll understand why I didn't do any of these things victims are supposed to do.

Maybe one day I'll be able to tell them everything. Maybe I'll stop feeling guily for letting it happen.

I know this is a jumbled mess, but this is the first time I'm really sharing all of it.

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