No, I Don’t Regret My Childhood Abuse

”I’m sorry,” is the common response I hear if I happen to disclose my childhood sexual abuse history to a person. They deem it more uncomfortable when they discover the man who was supposed to be my father, was the perperator.

And, I get it, I guess. That natural uncomfortable shifty feeling gets to us all when we hear of unfortunate and painful circumstances. Some people, naturally, are more quick to leave at the sight of past traumas. Or, they frankly, chose to abuse, too. Whatever works for them the most.

I was just 8 when I came forward to deaf ears, only to be returned by policemen back into the hands of the man who was abusing me. I actually hugged him, too, while being led back into his arms. It was a sign of—regret. Of submission for what I had confessed. My small town hispanic Mother thought a good scare from a sign of the police and DCFS, with stern personal calls would be enough. It wasn’t. Then again, at 14 I spoke up again. Hoping, at least in my naivety that I wouldn’t ever have to see the man portrayed as my Father, ever again.

At least thats what I was told frequently, by the same police station that denied me my first time, and by my Mother. Those would have been the last months I’d ever “see” my Father again. They were wrong, obviously.

The situation went to court, and, those almost three years became a guilty verdict. We won, though still currently are waiting for scentencing to begin.

I was constantly told in between that era that this trial took place upon that it was all up to me. My siblings couldn’t manage the pain in testifying, so, it was I against the man that had tortured us all for years. A cutthroat, thin looking ghoul with no mercy whatsoever and willing to throw anyone under the bus if it meant his own personal freedom.

I stumbled out of the courtroom, a day after testfying, arm in arm with my Mother after hearing the guilty verdict handed out personally by the judge himself. Not elated. Not glad. Just, rather empty. I didn’t hate my Dad, and I still stand by that statement today. I don’t love him either. I feel indifferance and disgust, rather.

I was then 16. Now, I am 17.

I didn’t know what I was expecting. I didn’t think I’d make it that far, to victory after my abuse being ignored by so many people for so long. Often, I hear people discussing their childhood traumas, in disgust and confusion, blingsighted emptiness from the internal pains within. They regret the abuse, wondering how it all could have happened. And the one thing I have learned in all of this—this whole, fiasco, is that pain does not discriminate no matter who you think you are. Pangs like that—they change you as a person.

In the beginning of my journey I told those friends closest to me. I thought, for the most part I could trust them. And in those mistakes I learned meaningful lessons no one warented a warning to me beforehand:

1. You don’t have to tell everyone about your past.

2. Not everyone will understand.

3. “Trauma bonding“ is a thing.

4. It’s okay to let go.

In my situation, many, many mistakes were made. In my sisters situation. With my brothers, my Mother. The family friends (a large amount, mind you) that also lived through intense childhood sexual abuse but never before me dared to mention a word about it to a soul.

And that’s okay. As long as we somehow, someway, tell our stories even though it may not be through spoken word to people. Poetry, art, singing—just helping other people is how we, the people, tell our stories. Frankly, it’s beautiful.

So, I don’t regret my abuse.

No, I’m not saying ”I’m glad it happened.” It was painful, during and all these years after. I’m just glad that in my own way, I stopped the vcious cycle of intergenerational abuse, and learned how to manage it against the odds. It made me into a better, and more compassionate human being.

It has been my longest, and most influencial relationship to come, besides the art of literature and writing itself. It has taught me that sometimes you find that you just have yourself at the end of the day, and that’s okay. My Sister, a survivor of abuse, now dedicates her life to her children and her career. She found her voice. The comminalities continue to defy all the odds, no matter the extremeties or the difficulty that may persist inside. There is no point in dwelling so eagerly on every single twist and turn and mistake of your own personal abuse, and romanizing it. Sometimes the best thing we can do is continue to move forward in the fight for a better, and more freeing life.

This abuse, taught me so much. In a painful way, of course. I now value my privacy and if I straight up don’t have to disclose anything to new people, I don’t. It teaches you how and who to trust. But, all those parts made me into the girl I am today—a hardheaded kid who writes and chooses to express herself through the art of storytelling. I’ll continue therapy, I’ll continue school, and I know the abuse inflicted didn’t destroy me. It changed me, but it, in it’s own way, made me stronger. The amount of growth I reached in 3 years—from that long haired, squeamish 14 year old freshman with not a clue of what was to come to a 17 year old simply finding her way. I have discovered now that, we remain.