When I was a child my family, who had moved to the UK from India, decided to leave and move to America for a couple of years. Then, once again, they decided to move back to the UK. Back to the same old town of Peterborough.
I was roughly five at the time. I only know this as it was round about the same time I started school. The rest seemed to be a sort of a blur. With random memories here and there. Some pleasant and then the rest…
Well, the rest is something that has taken me a good eighteen years to talk about. Right now I am twenty-five years old, and I am still a victim from what happened in the past.
I hate calling myself a victim, and many people say one shouldn’t. That we should call ourselves survivors. Yet at the same time I feel like I still haven’t “survived” what I experienced. To survive means to overcome, seeing as what happened back then still affects me today I really feel ‘fake’ to call myself that. So please understand if I don’t use that word to refer to myself.
That said, I feel like this is a first step in becoming a survivor and overcoming my past.
Like I said, my past is one that is a blur of memories. I don’t like being a negative person, I don’t like talking about the bad things, yet if I don’t it doesn’t mean it will go away. It will still be there, so I’m going to face that head on.
When me and my family returned to the Peterborough, my Dad took up a job as a security worker. There he met Mr. P, mister P and his wife would become the people to ruin my life.
As time went on my family became close to them, one thing I remember is they introduced us to a Chinese takeaway. I know it sounds strange, but it’s become a distinct memory of mine. Especially the moment I tried my first prawn cracker and fell in love with them. Shortly me and my sister started calling them Uncle and Aunty. I can’t remember how this first came about, if it was them instigating this or if it was us, but that is what we called them. To be exact we would call them Uncle/Aunty followed by their first name, but I will refer from using their whole first names here and just go by Uncle/Aunty P.
Before I knew it I was staying over at their place for the night. To be honest, I’m not too sure of the reason. At one point I assumed it was because my mum got a job working nights, as had my dad, so they needed someone to look after me and they opted to do so.
But a little while back I found a diary of my mother’s and in that it stated she had cancer and the time frame fell in roughly around the same time I started to stay around there.
As for where my sister was at the time? I’m not too sure, she would have been seventeen at the time, so she might have been staying at home on her own or at a friend. Why she didn’t or wasn’t looking after me I don’t know apart from assuming that my parents may have thought she was too young to do so.
Anyway, staying at Uncle P’s house became a regular thing that I looked forward to. I hate saying, admitting, that I enjoyed staying there – but at the end of the day I really did. The good times were good, even though I don’t remember much of it. We would play board games, take the dog for a walk, they would read to me at night and taught me little stuff like how to do my shoelaces. I would help Uncle P to do work around the house and Aunty P would make dinner which we would eat together. All of these are things I never did with my own family. I hate that we had all of this because now I am stuck with these happy memories which has left me confused for so many years.
Yet I still do hate them. I hate what they did to me, I hate them both. But at the end of the day I can’t hide the fact that when we did have the good times I felt like I had somewhere welcoming and safe – while my own home wasn’t like that. I will talk more about this later on.
As time went on, and I was staying over more and more things started to change.
Then there were the times they asked me to keep secret, and because I looked up to them so much I did so.
I won’t talk about what they asked me to keep quiet as yet, in time I may speak about this more, but we will see. The things they did to me where. I don’t know how to describe it if I’m honest. I was never “penetrated” I want to just get that out of the way now, I don’t think I was anyway, I think something like that I would remember, but a lot of it I really don’t.
They would sometimes tell me they were going to play games, the games would involve me either standing/lying very still or doing stuff to them.
I’m going to stop writing about that part for now. I’m actually sitting in Starbucks as I write this and I’m becoming a bit emotional.
The things they did and made me do have stuck to me to this day, for a while I didn’t realise what had happened. That something bad had actually happened to me, and I can’t remember when I started realizing this, but as I did the more life became difficult for me.
I’ve never had a real relationship, never had a real boyfriend. I took me forever to realize I am gay and I still to this day question it because of my past. The guys I have dated and been with, I have always run off as soon things seemed to get sexual as the whole idea of having sex scares me. None of my friends know this part of me, I’ve managed to lie to them all and keep up this fake identity that I have this promiscuous sex life. It’s been easier than facing the truth.
The truth being that I was sexually abused as a child and I’m still struggling to overcome this. I’m hoping to do so, I’m hoping I can find someone who will understand this part of me. I know I have a lot of baggage, but I think this is a good step for me to take and learn how to handle it better.