March 11, 2010
Sexually Abused as a Child ... and I Liked It
Being molested as a child was not too traumatic an experience.
Growing up in a house devoid of affection was.
When molestation, varying in gravity, adds warmth to a boy's cold existence, the deed's immorality becomes virtually insignificant.
Sadly for some, molestation was the only affection source.
Whether the molested child lets it happen voluntarily and goes back for more, because he gets "used" to the pleasurable part, is debatable.
After 27 years of internal turmoil, and the suffocating secret's burden, my precocious introduction to sexuality is becoming less of an issue.
Mother battered and devalorized me cruelly at home. At least, my molesters used no violence or awfully-crude language. In fact, the thought of getting non-violent, feel-good affection reduced the immorality of the act to ashes.
My experience with sexual abuse is relatively benign.
I was sexually touched more than anything, with anal intercourse never proving fruitful. That's why, to this day, I still can't call the culprits 'abusers'.
Is "my source of illicit physical closeness" a better appellation?
Most culprits were teens from our poverty-, delinquency- and illiteracy-stricken ghetto. Many came from large families cramped in one-room apartments. In the absence of room, the street was where their sexual frustration found a way out.
Except for my nanny's teenage son. His plaything lived right next door.
Mom caught he and I right after the act, one afternoon. But, since she tremendously respected his father, she said nothing. Instead, she cowardly had me break the embarrassing news to the guy's sister -- my then-best friend.
Am I wrong for hurting more over mom's inaction than anything else?
I see no problem brushing off outside trauma if I can go back to a loving home. But, when you are abused, find nobody home to console you, you're lost. It's worse when you find an absentee parent in whom you can't confide.
But, the incident that scarred me the most was courtesy of a male babysitter.
He was the assistant of one of mom's "friends." I was often left alone with him while everybody partied until the wee hours of the morning. Knowing his intentions, I'd watch cartoons to resist falling asleep.
Being only 5, I always dozed off to open my eyes and find myself on his lap, his tobacco-stinking mouth devouring my face and his loins frantically rubbing against my body.
One evening, I complained about that in graphic detail to mom. I begged not to be taken there. She promised to have him replaced. Countless nights after, I found myself alone with him again, sleepily succumbing to his urges.
Face to face. Buttocks to loins. Childhood innocence to adult lust. A feeling of betrayal to a feeling of lucking out. A justified grudge to bestial insensitivity.
To this day, she swears I never told her about it ...