Damaged Child – Lisa’s Story

I am almost 50 and am just recently learning how to deal with my abuse and how to be a survivor I was abused by my brother at a young age. He is 10 years older than me so my parents would let him babysit me. I’m not really sure of the time frame but I do know that it was before I was 10. We (he) did get caught by my mother and that was what put an end to it. To the best of my knowledge he never received any help, and I know that I didn’t. It was never even discussed. My parents died when I was 14/15, so I never had the chance to learn anything about it after I began acknowledging it. I had a hard time, did some bad things; drugs, drinking, and subsequently was disowned by the rest of my surviving family. That includes my brother, his wife, my aunt and uncle who finished “raising” me, and my grandmother. My brother went on to sexually abuse his daughter and to behave in all kinds if deviant sexual behavior. Luckily she did get help at 17 and now, at 34, is much better adjusted than myself. My point in my story is that it is of the utmost importance to talk and educate about this. It should not be a silent secret. So much potential damage to the child my be avoided if help is sought quickly. Lawmakers need to address this issue and change laws. Don’t be afraid to speak out. Read more survivor’s stories… Read our Commenting...

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Abused by Robinson

The following post is graciously shared by Geoff Smith, a survivor, whose testimony in the 2010 trial of Father James Robinson helped convict and sentence the priest to 21 years in jail for molestation. It is the first post from his own blog, www.abusedbyrobinson.com, which he began after the trial in an effort to tell his story and reach out to other Survivors.   Having been abused as a child I’ve spent all my life looking over my shoulder, searching for the reasons for what happened to me. I’m now 61 and have had a wonderful life. I’m married to Jill, I have three step children and three grandchildren. I am so proud of them all. I’ve made many mistakes, said many things that I can’t take back and hurt some of the closest people in my life. I have had a life of anger and I now realise I’ve got a big mouth. But, the most important thing that I’ve learned over many years is that I am not as hard as I thought I was. All my life I have been wearing armour to protect myself from other people. Yet through these last two years I have had to come to terms with my past, my relationship with my brothers and my mother. My father is dead. He died never being proud of anything that I ever did and I couldn’t do anything to make him proud. Over the last three years I’ve done, in my opinion, two of the proudest things that I could have ever done as a man and a son. But my dad is dead and I can’t tell him. I saved a life and I went to court for justice; not only for me, but for the other five “victims.” I have spent months awake; worrying, crying, traumatized by events beyond my control. I got through it, coming out of the darkness a better person. The aim of this blog is to tell the world what happened to me; the truth, not just a piece of fiction. I am determined to fight for the abuse to stop. Today, child abuse is at a greater level than ever. Ok, the TV and the internet help to get the message out, but they are also the vehicle of its distribution. I believe that it is getting worse. I hope that my story will help people come to terms with what happened to them, give them strength to come forward. You are not alone. I know, take it from someone who knows; you are not alone. I have never had one day counselling, enough people have tried to get me to. But to me that...

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We Can’t Change Our Past

We Can’t Change Our Past

My name is Boriana Todorova. I live in Bulgaria, and I am a survivor of child sexual abuse. Perhaps I should start with the fact that my father was an abusive alcoholic. He was the reason that my mother was in hospital several times to recover from severe beatings when I was still a baby. Eventually one day in his drunken delirium he grabbed a knife and went to my baby bed saying now he is going to kill me – the baby he believed it wasn’t his. Then my mother ran away with me and finally decided to leave him and get a divorce. My mother moved to another town with me. A few years later my father died of liver cancer, which followed naturally after many years of alcoholism. The new town is where my sad story began. I was safe when I was still in kindergarten. But later when I was six years old I went to school, which was two minutes away from our block. So when I finished school about noon every day I was supposed to walk home alone. I had a key to our apartment on a necklace. And then home I was alone till my mother comes back from work. Every day. This is when the abuse took place. We had this wonderful neighbors family in the apartment next door. The parents were my mother’s colleagues. They had two teenage kids, a boy and a girl. They were supposed to check on me in the afternoon if I needed something, help with my homework or else. The boy, I believe by then he was 15-16 years old. He usually invited me to their apartment or stayed in ours to make his deviant fantasies come true. By then I didn’t realize what was going on. And somehow I even agreed to all these “doctor-patient games.” I don’t remember much of the abuse or many details. I have been trying so hard to forget about it all. I blocked the memories so deep in my mind that sometimes I wonder if it ever happened. But then a scene of it surfaces and I realize that nobody would make this up. Nobody would lie that this horrible things happened to him. Nobody wants to be a victim. And I was. I learned a lot about child molestation recently and I know there should have been a grooming process when the molester wins your trust. But the truth is that I believed and trusted this guy because I’ve been told not to trust strangers, not to speak to strangers, not to take candies from strangers. So I never expected that the boogeyman is the guy...

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The Boy Who Tried To Help

The Boy Who Tried To Help

When I was 12 years old, I was accosted by a group of teenage boys. It was a beautiful day and I was riding my bike with a friend on a country road, in my hometown, just outside of Montreal, Quebec. My friend sensed danger and got away. I did not. The boys formed an arc with their bikes across the road, blocking my path. The ringleader was a cocky kid who laughed and carried on as he instructed his friends to hold my hands behind my back. I was bewildered – not sure what was happening. I laughed with them, until I realized this wasn’t a joke. I tried to pull away and started screaming and crying but the boys held me while the others shoved their hands up my shirt. I remember there was a boy who tried to help. He yelled at his friends to stop and he tried to push them off me but he couldn’t.  He locked eyes with my crying eyes -and it was as if he was saying to me silently – this is wrong, I am sorry. I don’t know how long it lasted – 15-20 minutes. When I got home, my friend was there and my mother was frantic, on the phone with the police. My mother loaded us both into the station wagon and barreled down the road, the police car in hot pursuit. I have an image seared into my memory like a movie in slow-motion – our screams as we spot the boys, spitting gravel as our station wagon careens up their driveway, the piercing burst of the police siren, and the look of shock on the boys’ faces as they turn – slowly – to see their fate drive into view. I remember being red with tears and shame as the Police Chief asked me what had happened and clutching my mother’s hand tightly. I remember making a very clear request: There was a boy who tried to help. Please don’t let anything happen to him.  Even then, I sensed the importance of that boy’s actions. He had tried to help me. I wanted to be sure I did my part to help him. In the years since that event, I have thought many times about those boys and why they did what they did. I have wondered if they suffered anything stronger than a stern warning from the police. I wondered if they got married and had children – and if in having children, they ever reflected on their actions. I have hoped that their crime began and ended with me – that they didn’t go on to repeat those actions or do anything worse. I have wanted most of...

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