How a child's innocence is corrupted by the wickedness of pedophilia

2017, Flooding with memories dissociation and fragmentation:

She understood by that age her parents intention was to wean her out of the habit of cowering on her parents’ bedroom floor whenever the creatures would crawl from the shadows and out of the walls. 
 
They didn’t know her only refuge was when they played with her, or read her stories, or gave her affection. She loved when they would answer her questions. But two babies came along. The eldest child was quickly shunned, for their second and third sons were much easier to raise. 
 
They were peaceful babies, without any night-terrors or yelling into the early morning for their parents attention. They never screamed, rarely had tantrums, and abided by rules. Her parents invested all their energy, on their sons, who they felt were less damaged, their hypersensitive daughter could sense they had love for her siblings that they couldn’t give to her, and over her school years, as her behaviour became more bizarre, their disfigured daughter was forgotten, swept under the rug. 
 
Not only did she feel alone at home, but she was shunned by her peers and they called her ‘weird”. She would wander the playground alone, looking for someone who didn’t slice a knife through her chest when she asked them if she could play with them that day, another no, and she was afraid tears would roll down her face; “crybaby, crybaby, what a baby!” and leer, the boys in her class would tease her, so she hid her face in disgrace. The out of bounds toilets and library a refuge, an escape. 
Books were her friend, her final solution. She remembers a girl calling her a “grub”, for dropping a spoonful of yoghurt down her school jacket. 
This deemed her unworthy of being allowed to play with these girls. Again. Alone. It was painful, and she cried all lunch, and could not get past it. 
 
On her school worksheets she would call herself “Emily”, and her teachers called her parents to ask why their daughter didn’t write her real name. Her parents perplexed at why their child was deviating from what they had taught her at home. The inner shame endured before age 5 was to blame for her inner pain. 
Never wanting to write it down on pieces of paper or books. She hated her name, because she felt she was to blame for hands creeping into areas where it gave her shame so virulent, it would make her retch and heavy. Her heart was heavy, full of trepidation and fear. 
 
She would lie, mislead, and could not comprehend the instructions given.  So she’d spend class head in hands, sobbing in her books because she felt stupid, for being unable to craft a woollen pom-pom, or finger-knit, or do cross-stitch. She would be unable to even loop a needle through a thread, and apparently this made her stupid, ill-equipped and unfit for normality. Rejected by society, she retreated in rebellion and secrecy. Breaking rules was always something that made her happy, because she gave up following them as she couldn’t get it right. It just seemed easier for everyone if she lived up to her “stupid” “bad” “naughty” “dirty” girl mentality. 
She was really good at stealing at school, and made it a habit to take books from her teachers, once she hit second grade she learnt to remove the barcode from library books and sneak them into her library bag to smuggle home. Slowly collecting a collaboration of free things, her self-esteem had grown for each successful gain.
 She would steal from kids bags who had been mean, and when the teacher confronted the class about it she would sit there silent, refusing to confess, letting other kids get the blame. Why should she suffer when they caused her pain? She would never be accused, because she had never been known to be one of the disruptive ones. She slipped by quietly in the back ground, until grade 4. 
This was the beginning of a life of being outside, looking in, trying to disguise her true self and fit in with the rest of the kids. She never managed to get a grip, on her place in her peer group. 
Kids can be cruel, but their words stung like hell. She had no sense of self to comfort her when she was laying in the dark, at night alone. All she knew was to imagine zooming out, imaging zooming above her house, above her neighbourhood, city, state, country and earth. 
Into the universe she rose, trying to escape the evil on earth. She understood weather, clouds, planets, and the human body. She loved her computer when she got it, and learnt how to play sim city from scratch aged 7. She read books every night, and loved learning new facts. But she couldn’t get the knack of being like the rest of the pack. 
 
Her first year of school, they said she was stupid because she couldn’t hold her pencil like the rest of the students. She learnt to read age 3, but never had the chance in school to read books for longer than 10 minutes, what happened at school, she will never actually know.  She only liked reading, and when she had friends. 
 
Sometimes her friends would ignore her for weeks on end and she would have to pretend she didn’t wander the playground without a companion. 
 
She only remembers menial craft, sewing, barn-dancing, and repetitive songs in the quadrangle, boy girl dancing, and two straight lines holding hands. She also remembers inappropriate sexual conversations with the boy she sat next too, and her sleepovers with female friends always turned into orgies. 

Scrapbooking helped me integrate through flooding 

She thought it was normal, it was only after these parties, when her friends disappeared, she became overwhelmed with shame, and blamed herself for their departure. 

Carnal knowledge was her only friend, the only companion from beginning to end. 
 
Where is the peace, where is the security? 

The carefree bliss of childhood? 

Flashbacks

As a child I would wish for the shadows shrouded by darkness to swallow my corpse.

I hoped if I lay still enough 
For long enough 
I would disappear 
Or cease 
Slip away into the void 
Vanish
Simply cease existence 
Fade into darkness. 

No hay Banda, silencio.

Devoured by the cloaked rhythm and silent whispers of nocturnal prowess. 

Lights ruptured the panic attacks and dissassocation attacks I would endure at night as I grew older.

Light solidified the demons circling my mind and made them real.

Proving this wasn’t all in my head, this was in fact a very real experience. But I was determined to flee my body at all costs. 

If I was caught up in an episode, pacing beneath moonlight as a war waged inside my mind, dread and fear and an array of complete panic and raw anxiety throbbing through my soul. The light would bring my awareness back into semilucidity.

But the truth was always too hard to stomach.
The constast and switch to abrubt light would bring me back to reality. 

Dazed. In a stupor. In a trance. Sleepwalking. But awake. Disassociating, often I would wander the streets in my pajamas barefoot, and be seen by neighbours who called my parents who were oblivious to my nightly roadside adventures. This started when I was around ten years old.

Light transports me to being split open and having my insides pried apart. Since I was unable to form words. The lightbulb has haunted me.

My legs spread. 

The lightbulb. 

That unrelenting flash bestowed by the lightbulb? 

If you stare at the lightbulb long enough it will make an imprint in your vision, and then if you blink really quickly you can make the lightbulb move around the room.

The light was blinding. It stained and stung my vision. But It resonated. 
That flashing halo was a welcome distraction to the unrelenting prying between legs spread, painstaking and through examination and violation of a toddlers genitalia is not exactly a normal practice little girls should endure. But I thought I was evil for feeling a perverse sense of pleasure from those silent and bewildering examinations. I liked the attention. Maybe. But in my heart and beyond it made my soul feel filthy and sticky. It was a chunky maggot of sick and guilt to swallow but I couldn’t resist because the pleasure was immense. It felt good and I was too young to know it was wrong so I complied. Maybe I wanted to. Or Maybe I didn’t know better. In retrospect the subsequent degradation following a ruptured hymen and the abuse of sexual pleasure by a trusted adult almost a decade before the onset of puberty was a violation of a basic human right. 

Such a minor violation of my orifice has fucked me up profoundly into my adult life. 

But how does a child know any better ? The child is trusting. Gullible. And susceptible to predatory adults who want to fondle the genitals of the cute, pure and untainted, innocent, sexually oblivious toddler. The toddler is confused because obviously this can feel pleasurable. But the toddler knows instinctively there is something full of revulsion and fear beneath these transient moments of pleasure. It made the bile burn the back of my throat. Sick with perversion and pleasure and pain..It felt so good but so wrong. It hurt. It felt pleasant. It was confusing. But now I see I was exploited. Used. By a trusted adult who was delegated by my parents to protect me. Not fondle me.

Why *anyone* can find pleasure in such a predatory and demoralizing act is beyond my comprehension. This question will plague my psyche for the remainder of days.

To take advantage of an innocent creature. 
To corrupt it into a world of sex and violence long before puberty hits? Why? It’s illogical. How selfish must one be to even begin to entertain such nauseating notions, let alone to actually inflict them. 
Child sex offenders and paedophiles are the epitome of damaged and defunct humans. The gene must be eradicated. 
Child sexual abuse is truly an evil deed for one human to commit upon another. To exploit a biologically immature and unprepared minor is horrific. How can you? How could you?

I could never bring myself to inflict an unwanted sex act on another adult. Let alone a child who is curious but vulnerable and ultimately INNOCENT. How do these people think? How does it even get to the stage of occupying a sexual urge for something that is not sexually mature? It makes no sense scientifically. Children exploring sexuality with other children of their own age is one thing. When an adult uses a child for sexual gratification, this is truly an atrocious act of exploitation and a hideous abuse of power. 

It hurt to use the bathroom for many years, the stinging of urinating was akin to a nefarious tentacle wound from a venomous sea creature. Bath time and shower time became dreaded events bestowed by fear of undressing. 

I thought it was normal for a four year old to never let herself be seen without clothes. For a seven year old to lock the door when she showered and scream and sob loudly and hysterically if anyone accidentally opened the door as I showered. Or even tried. 

I guess it was normal for me. My genitals always hurt. They itched. They burnt. I would cry in agony from the pain. Trying to hide it. Nauseous and sick and full of self hate and regret. Never reminding myself of its origin. I was long gone by this time.

Instead of using a toilet normally I would hold on and avoid using the toilet for days and days. I would tell myself intricate stories to urinate. 
The pain of urinating was too immense for full awareness. I’d rather my bladder burst. Or die. 

When it was dark it went away. Sometimes. Sometimes it just made the sick secret carried like a stone in my stomach easier to swallow. 

When it was dark, at least we could fabricate a comfortable illusion. Fantasize, imagine another world desperate to avoid the painful and confusing truth instilled by sexual abuse. 

Thus the inclination towards darkness. My love of night and shadows.