When I was five, I was molested, except I didn't know what that meant. I had misunderstood what had happened to me for years because I had forgotten the worst part of it all -- the graphic, gory details. Almost 20 years later, I know what it means, yet I'm still at odds with myself over whether or not I was molested. I was, but I wasn't. The world would prefer if I wasn't; I don't tell my story because it makes people uncomfortable. People would rather forget that these things happen. I understand where they're coming from, but because of this I've felt like the criminal. I've felt like if I ever told my story I would become a repulsive human being. That I would be "a soiled youth." That whenever someone would look at me they'd imagine a pair of baby-pink, stained panties, and that I would be condemned to the image of a broken little girl. That people would see me as an easy target. That people would think I'm pitiful and useless. That I am something to be used and thrown away -- trash.

Here's the thing though, if anyone else, even if it's just a single person out there, thinks these things about themselves because of what someone else has done to them, then it's not fair for me to keep quiet. It's not fair for me to perpetuate the idea that "the broken" shouldn't/don't have a voice. It's not fair for me to knowingly leave those who are hurt alone to suffer for themselves. It may be uncomfortable to hear about, but for those reasons, here's my story.

I grew up being told that I was molested. I had the word. I had a few memories. My young mind made the wrong connections and forgot the physical aspects of what I had been through. I had two strong memories: being told to get naked in front of the fireplace and him taking pictures of me on the pullout bed. For ten years I thought that's what my mom meant when she said that I was molested. For ten years I thought, "I was molested, but I wasn't." I knew what rape was, so even at age five I thought that I had it easy -- that my molestation didn't count. It wasn't until I thought I was going to lose my virginity that I learned the real story. My mom told me to talk to her if I thought I was going to have sex so that we could discuss birth control amongst other things. I wanted to be safe, so I went to her. I told her I thought I was uncomfortable being naked because of the pictures, but she didn't know anything about the pictures. That's when I asked how she knew I was molested.

She told me that she was asking me questions prior to a doctor's appointment: "Does your tummy hurt?", "Does you head hurt?", etc.

My response: "My 'gina' hurts."

She then asked questions along the lines of, "Does it burn when you pee?"

My answer: "It only hurts when Kevin puts his fingers there."

For ten years, I had been playing my molestation off as a joke, because I thought I was lucky that he hadn't actually touched me. Once I found out he had, I berated myself for being so stupid. So stupid for forgetting. So stupid for not knowing. So stupid for not telling anyone about the pictures -- the pictures that could have been proof of what happened. I feel guilty because I feel like I should be thinking that I'm lucky that I don't remember, but I've become obsessed with finding the answers. I crave knowledge a hundred times more than justice, and it's tinged my life ever since.

9/29/10

"I wish I could remember what he did to me. How many times. What did he say to keep me from telling? He couldn't have threatened me, because I liked him so much. He must have blinded me with praises to make me think nothing was wrong. But it had to have hurt. Did I cry out? Did he try to stop me? I remember feeling awkward when he told me to take my clothes off by the fireplace. Five-year-olds don't understand the meaning of nakedness. I shouldn't have been scared. What had he done to me to make me wary of my body at such a young age?"

"What if they did find those pictures? Would I be the only one they'd find? Was it just that one time even with me? What about what happened after my vivid memory ends? I don't even remember how my underwear came off in the first place. When do you think I put them back on? I haven't a clue. And what about what happened to those pictures? What was the purpose? I can't even imagine what use those could serve. It makes my stomach churn."

"I just want to know. But how the hell am I ever going to find out? No one can tell me what happened to me besides me, and maybe him. Him who I have no recollection of. No face. No name. And even if his presence was in my reach, do you really think he'd tell me? Of course not. So how does one go about pulling memories out of remission? It's the most frustrating thing not knowing what's happened to you. No one can ever tell you."

11/9/10

"I see it all in my head, and I hate that I can't draw it out. Maybe if I could make other people see it would help me to believe. I'd know for sure that what happened was real and not just made up in my head. Unfortunately, all I can convey is a picture of a living room. Maybe if I could draw it, see it, then I could remember everything else I've forgotten. I walk in the front door. To the left is a hallway, I can see the bathroom door. To the right is a small kitchen. Straight ahead is the living room down two steps that I used to practice backward somersaults on. There's a door to the balcony straight ahead. In the living room to the left the TV is in the corner. On the right wall is a couch with a pull-out bed. On the left side of the couch is a fireplace in the corner. Once I was on the pullout bed watching TV. Once I was in a sleeping bag between the couch and fireplace. I see these in my head and I want to know if I'm right, but where or who do I go to? I can't accept never knowing."

I was molested, but I wasn't because I have no one around who can ever validate what happened. A few years ago, he tried to get a hold of me on Facebook; his most recent attempt was less than a month ago. What he says doesn't make sense more than half of the time, but there are instances in which he says things that strike a chord -- that reaffirm the vague memories I have in my head.

3/5/14 Via Facebook Messenger:

"Nothing ever happened to you Erica. I watched you, you never said nothing to me I was entrusted care and I know I took good care of you. I'm sorry you feel this way. I remember Erica... Holding you -- you whispered in my ear I know that wasn't you that hurt me I know that."

"I have eternal pictures of you when you're like 4-5 years old."

That last message was sent less than a month ago -- almost twenty years after the incident(s). I still don't remember much, and what I do remember I'll spare you the details. I may be considered lucky, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. I still get a little nauseous when I try to look at myself naked. I can't go an hour without wearing a bra, because I feel like I constantly need to be covered. Sex will always scare me, and it will always be an obstacle in my relationships. Just because I don't remember the details doesn't mean my molestation doesn't matter.

I was molested, but I "wasn't."

I'm fine with what happened... but I'm not.