Anonymous Story: Our Little Secret

It started when I was four.

It was my great-grandfather.

We went to their house almost every holiday and birthday, and every time he preyed on me sexually. He asked me to sit on his lap. Said he was, “An old man, humor me.”

I did.

He would slip his hands into my pants, into my vagina, every time. And he would whisper, “It’ll be our little secret, okay?” I was young. I didn’t know better.

I do now. I asked him to stop, but he laughed and pretended not to hear me.

I was standing by the printer to print schoolwork, and he stood next to me. He put his hand around my waist and started massaging it. He went down with his hand to my private part, then up to my breasts.

I stood frozen and terrified for a minute, then pushed past him. I ran to the laundry closet. He followed me, but I was faster. I locked the door, went to the other side of the room, and cried. I cried and cried and cried my eyes out. Then I came back out and he never stopped.

He messed with me again. Whispered in my, sent chills down my back. I was forced to sit on his lap again. His fingers went in my vagina again and again, painfully, thrusting. It never ceased. I forced a smile to hide it from my family surrounding me, but whispered and begged him to stop. He kept pushing it in, again and again, Harper and farther each time. I was to the point of tears, he was causing so much pain, but I couldn’t let my family know. It was time for food, but I want hungry. I took the opportunity to run to the car and lock the doors and cry and cry and cry. Since then, every time we plan to go there, I plan something else. Or, I have suddenly become very sick, throwing up. I

I can’t stand to face him. The pain he caused was too much. I slapped a person once who whispered from behind me because it brought back memories, but I didn’t mean to. It was instinctual.

I have suffered so much since then.

I started to self harm, ceaselessly.

Then, I tried to commit suicide. Twice. The second time, the police came to my house, and my parents don’t trust me anymore. They still don’t know the full story.

I have to hide it behind a mask of smiles every day at school.

And sometimes I just can’t stand it. People complaining about how their life is they worst. If they only knew everything I had suffered, they would shut their spoiled little mouth and appreciate everything they have.

But no.

I can’t tell them my story.

No one can know.

No one who knows me, at least.

I have always blamed myself for what happened. I feel like maybe I was to ugly, or too pretty, and should be ugly. I feel like if I were ugly there would be no appeal. Or maybe I am ugly, and he raped me to put me in my place. Every time someone compliments, I can’t help but feel the self hate. It is always there.

And it will always be there.