The first time it happened I was 4. four. four. It still shocks me when I say it out loud. Luckily it is a memory that was blocked from my mind until I was nearly 20. I think that helped protect me from the chaos. It meant that I led a rather normal childhood. It still pains me that my parents kept it from me. Lied to me about it. Made up some ridiculous alternative story as to what really happened that day. What really happened to me. Their little girl. Their miracle baby. Me.
It was my fourth birthday. We were having a party. I had a house cake with people outside, the roof was made of smarties, it had windows and a door. the fence was made from chocolate fingers. it even had a letterbox – although I don’t remember what that was made of.
I was sexually abused on my fourth birthday. By a 17 year old boy who lived across the street. A 17 year old boy who was friends with my 14 year old sister. A 17 year old boy that I trusted. He found me a little lost and confused after my older cousin had taken me into the bush out the back of our house for a game of hide and seek before we had cake. I had wandered a little too far while looking for the other kids and gotten a little lost. S (i will call ‘him’ S) found me and told me that I shouldn’t be alone on my birthday and that he would take me home. He didn’t.
He took me to a room and sat me on an office chair where he proceeded to play with my hair, then he began to touch me. I kept telling him I wanted to go home. That I wanted my parents. That they would be waiting for me to have cake. He kept telling me I was meant to be having fun with him. He took off my underpants and touched me; it was at this point that I started to cry.
He called me stupid and told me that I shouldn’t be crying on my birthday.
He violated me with his fingers, and after a while he made me suck on his penis. After several attempts to stop me from crying he told me to put on my underwear and that he would take me home. He didn’t take me home. He abandoned me in the local school playground where I was later found by our next door neighbour and returned home.
I finally had cake.
Later that evening I went up to my dad and told him what had happened; in my four year old very matter of fact way I said “Daddy, S made me suck his…..” – The last image I have of that day was my dad grabbing his hunting rifle and heading out across the street.
I have never again felt so much like Daddy’s little girl. Still to this day my heart melts somewhat to think that he did that. For me.
Because I matter. Because I mattered to him. Because I am someone. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s princess.