The Guilty Pleasure of Being Molested

~by: Jess Mei

Sometimes I hate myself so much, it is really incomprehensible. And I believe I now understand why. I remember having pleasure sometimes when I was molested, and I feel wrong for having had pleasure from it.

I remember one time getting molested and actually opening my legs more so that he could rub my clitoris better. I still feel him doing it, I still feel the pleasure I got from it, and damnit I still feel the amazing amount of guilt I have because of it. I wonder sometimes if that is why I didn’t tell until I was an adult? Is it because I enjoyed it? Wanted it? God, I was just a little kid for pity’s sake – in a home that was chaotic and confusing. But I can remember wanting him to touch me, for the attention and for the pleasure of having someone else stimulate me. But how can a child of 7,8,9,10,or 11 understand that really?

He used to expose himself to me and I’d run away. My heart would beat so fast, I was so scared. Then when I could go over to my cousin’s house to get away, I’d go – and one of my cousins there would do the same thing to me. He even put me on my back a few times and tried to penetrate me. I think I was around 9 years old or so. I would just lay there, cause I didn’t want him to hate me or hit me. I tried so hard to please everybody around me, to make sure they were okay. Nobody ever looked out for me though…and I never told anybody. Not anybody. I used to want somebody, ANYBODY to just read my mind, we’d be screaming in there – screaming for help, but no one ever did. So I had one who took it, and a few who hid everything, always hiding, hiding.

We had to pretend that everything was fine. We had to pretend that we were not screaming and scared and tired of trying to make everyone be okay. We had to pretend the fighting didn’t bother us. And so each one took a job and ran with it. One was brave and always smiled and laughed and joked; one went to school and did well – because if we didn’t – we’d get beaten; one went to church 6 days a week and pretended we understood about God; one said, ‘Yes Ma’am and no Ma’am’ and obeyed her every command; one stood very still while she blew cigarette smoke in our faces and taunted us for looking like our Father; one screamed with rage (but only inside) when we were burned with cigarettes at parties or burned with plastic by our Brother – one of the molesters; one was filled with hatred for all of them – every person who crossed our path…hatred for not helping us, hatred for beating us, molesting us, harming us, taunting us, teasing us, loving us; one who plotted revenge; and one who feels nothing at all. Such is the guilty pleasure of being molested, the rage of being punished for being alive, and the rage for being loved.

I am so angry that I have such guilt and shame. I wonder so often how anyone could love me that I’ve pushed people away who actually do. But I don’t understand WHY they could possibly love a dirty girl like me – I let them touch me. Sometimes I wanted it to happen. It was attention and it felt good, right? Such is the guilty pleasure of being molested.

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