I’m not sure how to write this. I’ve never put this is writing before. I wonder how this is going to go. I wonder if this will make me feel better. I wonder if this won’t do anything but make me sad while I write it, then I go back to being comfortably numb.**

When people ask me about my childhood, I always respond that it was great. And it was. I had all the toys and games I could ever want. I had books galore. I had two younger sisters that I adored and played with all the time. Sure we struggled financially, but we never knew that. We didn’t know how much our parents lived without until we were older and they told us.

But the truth? The truth is much darker.

I was young when Jacob Wetterling was abducted and disappeared. Kindergarten, in fact. That’s when we were all taught about Stranger Danger. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t get into a stranger’s car. If a stranger asks me to pull down my pants, run into the house and tell an adult.

I knew it wasn’t OK for strangers to take advantage of me. But I didn’t know that it wasn’t OK for someone I knew to take advantage of me.

It started innocently enough. Back rubs. I called them “chillies” because it caused goose-bumps on my arms. I was young. Five, maybe.

The change was so gradual I didn’t even notice it. The back rubs migrated south. Slowly. To my behind. Then, as I got a little older, they went down the front. To my private area.

I knew it wasn’t OK for strangers to do this. But for a father? Was it normal? I didn’t know. So I didn’t say anything.

It continued as I started to enter puberty. I was learning sex education in school. Discussing the changes that girls go through. Discussing that soon I would be starting my period. At night, before bed, he would come in, give me “chillies,” then go back to his bedroom. I thought he was checking me. Making sure my puberty changes were going along normally. I thought he was going back to report to my mother that I was normally progressing and that I would be getting my period soon.

Then it got weird. He would come in after school, when I was getting changed. He’d do it without me asking. I asked him to please stop.

“You know you like it.”

That’s when I knew it was wrong.

Eight years. It took me eight years to realize that what was going on was wrong. Eight long years.

You all know about stranger danger. Were you EVER taught about friendly danger?

How am I going to teach my son about stranger/friendly danger? Others have said that I could use the swimsuit approach. Tell my children that no one other than a doctor or a parent can see or touch them in the areas that are covered by swim suits.

That wouldn’t have worked for me. It was a parent that was doing it. Not even a step-parent. A full-blooded parent.

What the hell? How do you prepare a child for that? How do you tell them not to trust anyone without making them paranoid?

I thank God everyday for giving me a son instead of a daughter. Not that I wouldn’t love the stuffing out of a little girl, don’t get me wrong. But I see having a son as a reward for the shit I went through. I see it as God’s way if saying “It’s OK, you don’t have to worry so much about him.”

I wonder what it would be like if I had a daughter. I wonder if I’d be able to trust my husband being alone with her. He knows what happened to me, and he knows that I’ll likely have issues if/when we have a daughter. But I’m scared.

For the record, when I finally told my mom, she didn’t leave him. She stayed with him for another year before he walked out on us. He left her. Not the other way around. And she still talks about the fact that if she had her way, she would have stayed with him unless he had hurt one of us kids. I guess what I went through doesn’t count.

But that’s a story for another day.

**Well, that was an interesting experience getting all that out. It actually makes me want to tell more of the story. The aftermath, how my relationships changed, how it may have triggered my PPD. Maybe I’ll have to write more some day.

(Ed. Note: Please write more soon!)