Molested

I was molested when I was 4...or 6. That’s the thing, the mind blocks things such as dates and times out when a situation too devastating to handle occurs. But it doesn't block out enough to stop it from killing a person inside. I wasn't "asking for it". And I sure as hell didn't enjoy it. Statistics are true when they say that most victims know their predators previous to the abuse. The pervert that molested me was a member of my family; not that I would ever consider them family. I remember the little things: like the furniture; the time of year; what I said; where I was. But I haven't a clue my age. My parents never learned of the molestation, nor did anyone really. But the hell of it was: EVERY CHRISTMAS AND EASTER TO THIS DAY, I AM FORCED TO GO TO THEIR HOUSE AND ACT LIKE NOTHING EVER HAPPENED. Not to mention the occasional forced hug. Which is something so revolting, infuriating, and emotionally damaging, that only a victim could understand it. When I was seven I started cutting myself. This lasted until I was twelve. I did it because I felt as though I had no other escape. Molestation is shameful like no other. People told me it wasn't my fault, and hear them, but I don’t believe it myself. I know that "it wasn't my fault", but I can’t help but blame myself. It’s illogical, but it’s how I remain for the time being. Not a day goes by that I don't think about it. Not a single day out of the three hundred and sixty-five in a year that it doesn't cross my mind, how my life might be different, if only I weren't molested as a child. Not a month goes by that I don't cry myself to sleep about it, and years have passed. Depression has plagued my life off and on for years, and anxiety for a short time as well. I tried therapy, it didn't help for me. Not to say that it could not help others. Victimization has affected every single relationship I have been in. Every doctor’s appointment I go to. All the clothes I buy. The sex I choose to have relationships with. The way I dress myself. My identity as a whole. To end on a hopeful note, I found relief in sharing my distress with a few close and trustworthy friends. Also, I went to the Internet, and found support groups. Even through myspace, they exist. Fake names, real stories--real help. I am not alone.