There are many reasons a child does not 'tell on' their abusers.
The following contains an account of sexual abuse of a child. Although not told in detail, please be forewarned if you are sensitive to stories of abuse...
I was sexually abused by two much older boys shortly after I turned six. They knew what they were doing was wrong. After luring me into the woods with candy and sexualizing me (affecting me terribly for the rest of my life), they threatened me. If I told, our house would burn down! I couldn't go anywhere for many years to visit relatives or for sleepovers because I was terrified our house would be set on fire (even though I kept my dirty secret stuffed down into my guts). I had to BE THERE to save my family.
They also made me feel like I was 'dirty', a natural born slut who deserved what I got. They told me I was 'asking for it' after all. Asking for it at SIX?! I carried the shame of this abuse being my own fault like a brand all my life. That because of who or what I was intrinsically, an irresistible little sexpot, this abuse was ALL MY FAULT! I had brought it all on myself.
Believing them, that they were unable to control themselves because of what I was (my fault because I was so damn alluring at six) combined with the threats shut me up but good.
My mother knew something was wrong but couldn't get me to talk about it ever. While we were alone on her nineteenth birthday, she had one of the lucid moments that shone through her dementia. She turned to me and said, "What happened when Jay and Eddie brought you home saying you were lost in the woods?" She had known their story was complete BS because I knew the woods like the back of my hand but I STILL couldn't tell her OVER FIFTY YEARS LATER. I couldn't even tell MYSELF.
That knowledge was stuffed into files in my gut that I was too terrified to open - too terrified to remember those details. But it was always there. The buried abuse affected me and every relationship I had for my entire life.
I don't know why, perhaps it was a Hundredth Monkey effect, but about a month before the Weinstein horrors hit the news and helped start the MeToo movement, I began to have flashbacks. My once tightly closed files began leaking and turned into a flood. Memories so long suppressed... I freaked out so badly I chugged almost an entire bottle of vodka and nearly died. My husband was like a rock, listening to the disgusting, soul-shattering, never-before-told tale of what had happened pouring out of me in a frenzy, getting me on my feet, cleaning up the vomit. Unfortunately for me, I have what is sometimes referred to as hyperthymesia and remember too vividly things best forgotten (most likely due to my autism diagnosed very late in life). Also unfortunately, I now only have Medicare which doesn’t provide the therapy I need for the challenges and difficulties of my late diagnosis, especially after recalling this abuse.
This is the first time I have opened up about this publicly. Most of my friends and family don't know. Unbelievably, when I briefly touched on the subject in a session when I could still afford therapy, it was brushed aside! I must say, after 40 years of seeing multiple therapists for my extreme depression and anxiety I feel like I deserve multiple refunds. Not a one of them caught that I am ASD and profoundly so. To be fair, my high IQ made me an excellent masker.
Although I live in a different state now, I found out not long ago that one of my abusers lives near me. I can't decide what to do. I feel as if he should be told how his abuse effed up my life so completely and even more importantly, I fear he may possibly still be an abuser! I am afraid I might run into him. People have told me that I should just leave it alone. One formally close 'friend' even said, "What about HIS family?!" What?!! It's hard to even think about confronting him but at least my wonderful (albeit flawed and readily admits so) husband is behind me 100%. Just the thought of doing this is making me sick to my stomach right now. However, both of these men should not be allowed to think of themselves as upstanding, fine individuals who merely 'played doctor' with a little girl as if she was just an object, setting her up for a life of sexual abuse as being something natural and acceptable for one 'such as her'.
What I read in my 1st grade report card, written after the abuse especially haunts me. Where I lived there was no kindergarten but when I entered 1st grade I had already learned to read. In the first semester my teacher often had me tutor some of the other kids who were struggling to learn their ABCs.
After the abuse, she wrote, "Tana used to be so engaged with school and the other children. Now she just stares out the window..."
Expand full comment
ncG1vNJzZmikqa97tMHBrKuam5tjsLC5jqlmm6epYsCku9StqmaZkqrApnnCmqqeq1%2BYvK65xKerrA%3D%3D