Frumpologist's Journal

"Let's play a game." It's like another language. And it directly translates into: "You're going to take off your clothes and I'm going to stare at you. If you move, you lose."

I had no shame in my body when I was younger, well, all the way until I was ten, anyway. I was the little girl who would run down the street butt naked if she could get away from her parents long enough to do so. A request for me to remove my clothes (ie: for a bath, to change clothes...) was like a reward. There were times, though, that I knew it was wrong. And in those times, I didn't want to be naked, I didn't want to be looked at.

I remember the different games he would play. A fake camera in one hand. He would pretend to take my pictures while I laid naked on the bed. Or on the sofa. Or on the floor. Or he would imagine me naked while I rode my bike down the street... I remember him telling me these things. Things about being pretty. Things about being perfect. Maybe that's the reason I didn't care that I gained weight when I grew up. Who wants to be looked at in that way - the way that says "if it wasn't broad daylight, I'd have you even if you refused."

It's different - being even more ashamed clothed as you are naked. Feeling just as vulnerable and scared. I'd leave my house in the morning for school and wonder if he'd try anything... I'd be at school and know that I was just a little safe... until recess. Recess. Recess still haunts me. He was caught once. By a teacher. I thought it would be over. But nothing happened. The teacher did nothing. No reprimand. No telling our parents. Nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe if she would have done, things would have been different from Kindergarden onwards. Six years worth of sexual abuse would have been stopped. The worst of it would have never happened. I might be a little more normal. I might be able to cope with things better. But no. She did nothing.

No one ever did anything. Ever. Anyone who knew... they never spoke. The first friend I ever told taunted me about it. The second blamed me. And the third was his friend. The third joined in.

Why didn't I say anything. I think about it now and I wonder why no one else said anything... were they waiting for me? Did they think I was lying? Were they as afraid as I was? Or did they think, for some ungodly reason, that I deserved what was happening? I wonder what went through friend #1's mind when she told me that she wished he would do that to her... did she think it was a real game... a game I wanted to play? And friend #2... did she think that I was enticing him? That I was mature enough to comprehend what was happening to me, to my body? And friend #3... the one I, myself had a long-standing crush on... why did he join in? It felt so wrong... I fancied him... but when he added to the abuse, I was disgusted with myself... I can't remember everything, but I remember some things. And the things I remember are humiliating.

It's hardly fair in any game to use the 'two against one' rule. But when you're backed into a corner and have no choice, it's worse. I remember being in a room with both of them. We were all friends once - they were closer than I was to either of them. Especially after the beginning of the abuse. I remember being forced to kiss them. I remember receiving my first hickey... I remember feeling two pairs of hands touching me. I remember thinking up a lie about having to leave. I remember trying to move from the bunk bed. I remember being forced to lay back down. I remember friend #3's insistance as to where my hands should go. I remember where his hands went. I remember where the other set of hands went. I remember being sandwiched. I remember closing my eyes and praying to god that someone walked in the room.

I remember wondering if I should like what they were doing. I remember thinking that I at least had a likeness for friend #3. I knew that what they were doing was wrong... and the way they made me feel was discomforting and fearful for what would come next. But I wondered at that age, if I should like it when friend #3 touched me like he was. I knew quickly, though, that I shouldn't... not when he made it hurt. It hurt. I remember being hit. I remember being abused in sensitive places. I remember being chastised, taunted, threatened. I didn't like what they were doing. I thought I would never again like what they were doing.

Months later, friend #3 rode his bike past my house. He waved, just as if nothing had ever happened for those few weeks that he and my regular abuser had used me. To this day, I still don't know why I waved back at him. I hate him now. I truly hate them both. But the abuse of my trust causes me to hate him more. He was my friend. He was my first crush. He broke my heart... he broke me.

It was a game to them. Maybe they were seeing who could break me first. Maybe they wanted to see if I would play along. I'm not sure what the point of the game was... but I know that there were no winners. Only one survivor.