1. My first memories..

 What are your first memories? Think back as far as you can to as far back as you can go. Do you remember being a happy child? Running and playing with other kids and enjoying life, skipping rope, and hopscotch and those fun child activities.

   I have a few memories like that. Those glimpses of pure happiness that you can almost feel when you think about them.

   But I wouldn’t say they are my first memories.

  Those first glimpses of happiness I had stolen from me. Replaced with nightmares that now haunt me. And then enrage me, like throwing water on a grease fire.   

 Suppressed for decades and then one day something triggered them out.

  I was around the age of four. From the details I have placed together. We were at a family friends house. People who were practically concidered family. People who should have been watching their fucking kids. 

  Boys.

   3 of them.

  They don’t really need names right now. But the youngest was my friend. And he was sweet. We would play and eat the craziest things together, like peanut butter on cheese ..hahaha…but this friend didn’t matter. He was just a small child like me. Not like he could/would have stopped them.

   Them being his older brothers. They were average kids I think. We all had played together all the time. Our parents would sit around getting high together (don’t quite know what at that point in time, it’s been different things at all different times in my life) and us kids would play. 

  What do kids play today?

   We use to play jump rope, freeze tag, Legos, house…

   House…that’s the one I now remember the most. I’m sure you all know how to play house. Someone plays mommy, someone plays daddy, you have kids and baby dolls and pretend to cook food and do average household tasks. That’s what I thought at least. That’s how four year olds play house.

   But no..if you want to play the mommy then you have to do things that mommies do. Secret things. Secret things that you can’t tell anyone, because a good Mommy listens to Daddy.

  Really fucked up isn’t it..I’ve never spoke this words to anyone. Still to this day. I just can’t say it. Who would care? Who wants to hear how a young teenage boy made a little girl grab and touch on him. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I was afraid. Afraid of him, afraid of them. 

  Still to this day afraid. That’s why I cower and hide behind a screen. Where 99% chance they will never even know these words were set fire. 

   So I remained silent.

   Never told a soul. 

   How eventually each time we “played together” he got worse and worse in his doings. Going from making me touch him, to him touching me when I asked him why we did this. 

   He said he was going to show me how good it felt. And that’s what he did. He put his hands down there and touched me.

   Four year olds don’t know what it means to be molested. Especially if said four year olds parents don’t care enough to realize it was happening right in front of them.

   On the couch under blankets.

   In bedrooms behind closed doors.

   Living room floors in the dark.

If these are the first memories I can remember..can you imagine how fucked up the rest get.