Sexual abuse and rape are difficult topics to talk about even today. Over the past few weeks we’ve heard some inspirational stories of celebrities who have suffered some form of sexual abuse, and the #metoo hashtag has helped many other victims all over the world to open up about their experiences too. For me, it highlighted just how many people had kept quiet about their ordeals, owing to the huge stigma associated with opening up. Infuriatingly, it is often more difficult for the victims to deal with the aftermath of disclosing their stories than the perpetrators themselves. And this is what fuels the horrendous stigma, and it becomes a vicious cycle.
I thought I would also take this opportunity to tell everyone my story. I too, like many others, have always feared opening up in case I am judged or treated differently. But I don’t think that matters to me anymore.
I was sexually abused for about 2 years by a distant family member from the age of 9. He was a much elderly individual – I saw him as someone who would be my grandfather’s age at least. It started from the first time my family and I went to his house. I was wearing a cute blue T-shirt with pictures of ice-cream all over it, and of course I was wearing my faded blue jeans with gems at the pocket seams because they were my favourite. I was a bit of a chubby 9-year-old but was not yet pubescent. I was also extremely naive and innocent – I didn’t know anything about sex – I was more preoccupied with making pretty friendship bracelets and getting myself ahead in advanced algebra.
We all had some tea in the living room after which everyone but myself and this relative left the room to help prepare food in the kitchen. He called me to sit on his lap and asked me to sing a song for him. I wasn’t really comfortable doing that but I’d always been taught to be obedient so I did as he said. After I finished the song, he praised me and started squeezing and kissing my cheeks. He proceeded to start biting my cheeks which hurt and I wanted to shout for help but I was so scared that I couldn’t speak. Whilst biting me, he started groping my breasts and I was silently crying and trying to escape but he was too strong. This continued for a few minutes until we could hear footsteps coming towards the room, which is when he finally let go of me. I was still crying and felt traumatised, and when my mum came in the room asking me what happened, I just didn’t know how to answer. He was laughing and smiling, prentending as if nothing happened.
For the next two years, he kept finding opportunities where he could get me alone and abused me. A lot of people will ask – well, why didn’t you just tell someone? And believe me, I hated myself for a long time because I asked myself that. It’s a lot harder than you think. Especially when you’re a 9-year-old and you’re taught to always listen to your elders and that your elders are always right so you should never question them. I was really confused about what was happening. I knew what he was doing was not right and I was traumatised from the inside out. From that first time he abused me, I felt as if my childhood had been snatched away. I had trouble sleeping at night, I was always paranoid and scared that he would find me during the day. If I did get some sleep at night, it would be filled with nightmares. And my bad sleep started affecting my health to the point that I started getting severe migraines. I lost a lot of weight because I’d lost my appetite, and soon I started fainting due to severe low blood pressure owing to not eating.
When my parents eventually found out about this, they were devastated and they stopped going to his house and stopped him from coming to ours. My dad spoke to him in private, and I’m guessing some strong words were exchanged, but I still don’t know what he said. However, my parents never reported him to the police. Although we stopped meeting him for a while, about 5 years later everyone acted as if nothing had happened and we resumed going back to his house. By this point, I was mature enough to stand my ground and thankfully, he didn’t have the courage to abuse me again. But what no one realised was that the damage had been done.
A lot of people think that victims of abuse can completely get over their experiences with time, but unfortunately that is not true. We get better at coping, but it’s something that ends up staying with us. As of a couple of years ago, I thought I’d recovered from the trauma of the abuse, but apparently I still haven’t. Since then, I have found it very difficult to make physical contact with people, and often when I’m hugged by others, I experience a feeling of suffocation and acute anxiety. I always need people around me to be at a certain distance and if they get any closer, I start panicking. I have mild claustrophobia too, and whenever I am in a situation I don’t like (e.g. in a boring teaching session) I get panic attacks.
I am now receiving therapy to help me cope with my anxiety and I really think that it’s helping me. The point I wanted to raise by sharing my story is that it’s ok to talk and there is no shame in it. It is too often the case that victims are shamed more so than their perpetrators which discourages people from speaking out. But we can overcome this by raising awareness and telling people that it is NOT ok to shame us. We may be wounded but we are anything but weak.