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Child Victim of a Sexual Predator

A story from a seven year old with a "happy ending."

By Amanda KareninaPublished 6 years ago 6 min read
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Cue immediate shame with self-identification: I was a victim of a child molester. I was also a witness to my sister's molestation. Our experience is a shining example of how child predators often manifest as "wolves in sheep's clothing." Though we warn our kids to avoid the creepy guy in the park, or the man driving a van who's trying to show them his puppy or offering free candy, perpetrators are more likely to be trusted friends than oddball strangers.

We must remind ourselves that these "monsters" were once humans to us, and had various childhood experiences, sometimes plagued by undiscovered abuse themselves, sometimes not. The root cause of this harmful perversion may not be a single commonality, but the disturbing truths can only be uncovered by delving into the details of such occurrences of abuse, so depraved to be cringe-inducing to those of us who lack this affliction.

Some stories are more horrific than others, and I somehow always felt in hindsight that my particular abuse story is mild compared to many. But still, it gives me some insight into why children don't always tell the responsible adults in their lives. Why they often feel shame because they're confused by the encounters. Concurrently, they're afraid of the consequences that may befall them, especially when abuse often results in symptoms of mal-adaptive behavior that give them the image of "troubled" children. Children learn dishonesty through reinforced behavior, and often lack credibility with their authority figures in scenarios that may have preceded their assault. This creates the assumption that they will get the "little boy crying wolf" treatment, especially when accusations are made against the sheep who by all appearances, had shown no outward evidence of predatory behavior.

Throughout the entire ordeal, Mike was a very nice guy. My uncle's roommate. A preferred option over my uncle/godfather whose abode was not quite child-friendly. His guestroom bunk bed's overhead displayed a page torn from a magazine - featuring two women naked together, engaging in a practice which I later understood to be called "lesbianism." It was a sin I recounted from our priest's homily a few years later, and investigating its definition led my curious mind to make the connection.

Mike's betrayal of our trust was subtle and unsettling to my sister and me. He was the only adult who seemed to understand or cared to pay attention to us for reasons other than scolding and assigning chores. Thanks to his decision to cross an intimate boundary, I was a seven year old with a dilemma. I was a mischievous kid who enjoyed charming others with my humor. I was often accused of lying, and like many, I had been guilty at times, over far less serious items in the past.

I didn't tell my grandmother. Was certain she wouldn't believe me. Instead, over the course of a week I exacted what could only be described as a child's version of vigilante justice. Attempted to flush his wallet down the toilet, trashed the guest bedroom where he stayed, put dog poop on his shoe, water-hosed him while he was lounging on a raft in the backyard above-ground swimming pool. We were only visiting Arizona for our typical summer vacation to my grandparents' house, only this was the first time my mom didn't accompany us on the excursion. There had been discourse over who would supervise us a few nights a week, since my grandparents were both still employed in jobs that required overlapping overnight shifts. I didn't want to cause further drama by revealing his dark secret, so I avoided being alone with him at all costs.

Halfway through a two month vacation, I rejoiced in the realization of escape from him as I calculated a couple more weeks and we'd be home. I never feared violent retaliation. He never once hit or spanked either of us. He was the only one who didn't. He was a very nice guy. His ploy was to disguise it as an innocent game. He didn't force the issue when I refused to play along with his exposed adult penis. I had unwittingly stumbled upon him masturbating in his room, and his offer to participate might have seemed like an innocent invitation, but my young brain computed that something was wrong about this game.

Though not because my parents had forewarned me about the child predators I might encounter. They were clueless. My dad's porn magazines were not well hidden, sometimes not at all. And my parents forgot to lock their own bedroom door enough times for me to witness adult activities firsthand. . . Their reaction usually involved screaming and shouts like "get out!" when I forgot the rule they never followed themselves about knocking on doors before entering. Lax methods of enforcing privacy accounted for much of my sexual education long before I engaged in the act myself.

Mike's m.o. was to fondle us in our sleep. I stayed up many sleepless nights to avoid his company in my room. I remember questioning him, knowing I was never a sleepwalker, just was not sure how I'd fallen asleep on the couch watching TV, but then woke up in the bedroom with no recollection...it just didn't make sense. He swore that I walked to my bed myself, but I wasn't convinced, just didn't know what alternative there was. After a few times, the pattern puzzled me - until I walked in on him in bed beside my sister who had been taking an afternoon nap...

He was fondling her exposed genitals as she slept, and this enraged me. It was one thing to do this to me, but I was infuriated to see my sister's helpless innocent sleeping body exposed and being taken advantage of like that. I knew then that something had to be done. I told my male cousin about it during a weekend visit.

We faced the inevitable questions that came from my aunt, my uncle, my grandmother, and the police. I had to show the nice police officer on a teddy bear where the mean man had been touching me. I was told I could keep the bear. I named him Twinkletoes.

My grandmother blindsided me with a confrontation with Mike in her kitchen. I remember exactly what I was wearing. A yellow t-shirt with ducks standing before a chalkboard, underwear, and no shorts. I felt violated and exposed. He accused me of lying. I cried and ran back to my room, hating my grandmother for the shame of facing him again.

My story is considered to have a happy ending. Mike would later plead guilty and went to jail. I never had to see him again. Turns out, he had a sexual predator criminal record that my grandmother and uncle never cared to check before releasing me into his care. My mother still blames herself for the loss of my innocence.

Guilt exists among adults who aren't diligent in being trustworthy sources of care and compassion for children who want only to be heard. I recognize this even as an adult who never got an apology from my grandmother, who was basically a corporal punishment abuser in my childhood herself. I remember this as a parent, and want my kids to never be ashamed to tell me anything. I never want them to feel they should have to deal with uncomfortable adult issues alone.

That is my history as a child molestation victim. I share it because I know I am not alone. The only way to stop these predators is to relieve the stigma of victims. There is no shame to be assumed because of how another assaulted you.

So here I am, submitting this story for your review, readers. Thank you for reading, and be well. If you have suffered, you are not alone.

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About the Creator

Amanda Karenina

I'm nobody.

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