Early
Childhood Sexual Abuse, Infancy, Toddler to 5 years of age
A
Survivors Point of View
My earliest
memories are of being sexually abused by my father. This was a daily event that
happened at least once, often twice ever since I could remember. An adult male
using me was completely normal. Until the time I was seven or eight, having an
adult male molesting me was not so much emotionally disturbing as it was physically
painful. Small child body parts are not intended to being handled roughly and
so often. It did not startle or worry me when these regular assaults happened.
They were always just a normal occurrence that took place between my dad and
me.
I don’t feel like I was traumatized in those early
years. Dad and his friends he shared me with, all made it seem like a
light-hearted yet odd kind of game to be played. Being used sexually on a
regular basis normalized a highly abnormal and egregiously cruel event. My body
hurt but my mind, not so much. Even when I would be prostituted at the
Christian Men’s Thursday Bible Study and a half dozen men or more required sexual
favors, it wasn’t really a problem because they were nice and kind as they were
being serviced. There was no force, no yelling, no threats of violence, so I
did not mind my job. I actually looked forward to it as some of the men said
kind words and were nice to me.
The only times I recall feeling fear and great
distress are when the sexual abuses became violent at the hands of unfamiliar
perpetrators. My dad could rape me all he wanted, no big deal. But when he
handed me off to a stranger and that strange, sick man was less than gentle, it
definitely registered in my brain as traumatic and harmful.
Thus, when both my dad and grandmother took it upon
themselves to have me work as a child prostitute and service strange men, the
tides turned. My father took me to public rest areas and this is where my
childhood sexual abuse became more harmful to me emotionally. These were often
complete strangers that would take me into secluded, vile-smelling restrooms
and use varying degrees of force or violence if they saw fit to. Each man, each
criminal pedophile was an unpredictable variable. It turned “turning tricks”
into a scary and much feared event with possible serious repercussions to little
me. I hated the reststop sex selling. There was a great difference between blow
jobs and handjobs for dirty, old Christian men in a nice and clean church
basement as opposed to the filth and grime of a guy getting off from work to
stop and molest a child on the way home to the wife and kids. The strangers had
no reason to be nice. They didn’t have to. No one was watching them, even if
dad read them the commonsense “do no physical harm” rules, there was no one to
stop them when they were forcing me, grabbing me and being violent. And that
restroom trauma happened almost every time I worked the rest areas. It's like a
man could appear to be this normal, everyday kindof guy who works hard at his
job and loves his wife and kids but once in a while, he likes to get down and
dirty and make a child be submissive and overpowered and forced into
unspeakable acts. I saw two sides to men. I saw the ugly side that they hide
from most.
My dad had gotten me so used to everyday sexual abuse
that I didn’t think anything of it. It wasn’t an awful, terrible thing just
another day in my life. I expected it because it happened every single day.
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