Your UnSlut Project

Submitted by Anonymous

I didn't know who I should tell. I was molested at the age of six. By my biological father and a male babysitter thereafter. I was depressed. I knew it was wrong. Deep down. Never said anything about it. My therapist says I have PTSD and that is why I don't remember my father.

I remember my babysitter though. He would always say, "If you don't want to, tell me. We don't have to." But what six year old understands what that is supposed to mean? He would pick me up. I was the only kid left after hours. My mum had to work late. He put me on his shoulders like anybody does with young people. Then he would spin me around so that my private area would be facing his face. I still had my pants on. But that didn't mean it was any better. He would kiss it. Walk around the home like I was some sexual trophy. I don't think my mum really knows what all happened. I was too scared to go into detail. I know the man later confessed. He wasn't evil. I remember liking him. Except for at night.

The only reason I told anyone was because when we were living in the homeless shelter, my biological father (his name is going to be "Dirk") was addicted to drugs and always had a warrant for his arrest. We were always moving, or we didn't have the money. He said, "I want you to know you can tell us anything." He and my mum were lying on the provided bed in our room. My older brother was in the bunk. My younger brother was sleeping peacefully below. I told them about my babysitter. I said it made me feel weird. Then I just kept going. I think. That's how I told mum.

I don't remember anything to do with Dirk after that. I remember the trial. Telling a child psychologist what happened. I remember my Grandma telling me to never tell another soul. I didn't. I remember he got six years in prison or something. That's it. I am afraid. I know my molester is somewhere out there, living his life, maybe hurting another child and it sickens me.

I'm fifteen now. I am in a beautiful relationship with a girl. I am primarily a lesbian. I used to think, because my brain has blocked the painful memory, that it didn't happen. I pretend like it doesn't bother me.

Now that you've heard my story. I want to tell you a new one. The very last day of ninth grade, a boy, I'll use his real name. It's not like he is cultured enough to use this site, and not like it's an uncommon name, Zach, was saying mean things. One of them happened to be, "I bet you kiss your daddy with that mouth." I will never forget that terrible comment. I pretended it was nothing. The teacher pretended not to hear. That hurt worse than anything. He was an old family friend. On my stepfather's side. I cried when I got home. Told my mom. I'm crying now. Nothing has ever hurt me so bad.

My point on all this is, words can really hurt someone. You don't know their story, so how could you possibly judge them? Really. Zach hasn't a clue or a slight glimpse of my past. He couldn't have known better. And I pity him. I know I should be angry. I'm not. Because like me, he has a story. Maybe he doesn't get enough attention at home. Maybe he doesn't have parents. Maybe he is just a jerk. Maybe. But I don't know. I never will.