I remember the first time she touched me, I was 5 then. Too young to know my right from my left. I couldn’t even tell the time at this age😭 but I remember quite clearly that day, we stood side by side in my mothers bedroom “acting drama” There were no boys at the time so it was understandable why we both had to do Mummy and Daddy. She undressed me and spoke about how pretty my body was, how it was nothing like hers and who would have known then that nothing about that compliment was harmless?
I remember the first time she kissed me, I remember it almost quite clearly because I remember thinking at that time that her lips were cold and hard. I was 6 at the time, well 6 and a half if we’re being accurate. Nothing about it seemed wrong because we were family, it was okay to show affection but everything about it felt wrong. Was it supposed to feel this right?
I remember the last time it happened. This was the day I found out about lesbianism. Nobody ever told me not to let any girl touch me. It was always “Don’t let any boy touch you” We were taught that rape was only done when a man touched you. It was wrong and you should tell Mummy but nobody said anything about being touched and kissed by a girl. Nobody said it was wrong and so in my head, it was okay. I remember telling her at the time that she could not do that to me anymore and it was wrong. I remember the anger in her eyes, the desperation as she tried convincing me that I was too far gone. I remember, almost too clearly, the disappointment as she walked angrily out of the door, as I realized that subconsciously, I had become used to it. To her doing “things” to me, to the feeling that came with it, I had almost come to like it and that was the first time I realized that I had a problem.
Fast forward a couple of years down the line and I remember struggling with guilt? Why didn’t I tell anybody when I could? Seeing that she didn’t use force or violence, could I even term it as abuse? But I was too young to know anything, she played on my innocence and took advantage of me. But… The thoughts kept playing back and forth in my head like that. I would often sit and wonder what people would think of me if I told them of my inner struggle.
Speaking about struggles, did I mention of how I struggled with the thought that maybe I was a lesbian? If not, how could I have remotely even liked it. How I was convinced that I was evil and probably possessed with a demonic spirit. How I scrubbed myself to bleeding sores in my bath tub trying to wash my filth away. The guilt I carried for years thinking that something was wrong with me. Feeling less than I was, like trash like garbage. How for years, I struggled with taking pictures because I thought I was ugly. How the first time I liked a boy I wasn’t sure what to do because I didn’t think I was likeable. I remember crying for hours telling God to fix me because I believed I was broken. I remember hating body contact and nightmares that left me weeping in their wake. I remember not feeling worthy, not being able to speak, being a hero, a safe space, everybody’s role model. Who would have known I was fighting battles and dealing with scars from something that happened so long ago. She left but the wounds never went away.
Finally, I almost don’t remember the day it happened (I’m speaking of my healing here) I can’t point my finger at the exact day I became free. This is because it didn’t happen in a day. Over time, I found freedom when I wasn’t even looking for it. I remember the first time he touched my heart, causing an eruption on my inside. Unlike hers, his came with peace and healing. I remember the names he called me – Precious, beautiful, redeemed, worthy. He called out to the gold within and I remember blossoming like a flower, falling in love with myself every step of the way. I remember him setting me free by the truth from his lips. All my shame gone, my tears, wiped, my guilt, forgotten. He thought the absolute best of me and that’s all that mattered. Everything else happened after. Jesus changed my life from the inside out and for that, I’m forever grateful.
It’s funny how a single touch can change your life. (Hers and his)
“So how dare you threaten my sanity by treating me like the trash that I’m not? How dare you try to drag me back into the pit of unworthiness and low self esteem that I’ve been set free from? How dare you pick at my scars and try to open up wounds that have well since been sealed?”
I realize that I’m screaming now but I don’t even care.
I feel someone touching me, more like successive slaps on my thighs
“You’re screaming wake up! It’s a dream”
I open my eyes sluggishly, sweat cascading down my forehead. What kind of dream was that? How long was I asleep for?
It’s funny how a single touch can change your life. This one rescued me from my worst nightmare.
To you who is struggling with internalized hurts and secrets and thoughts that you dare not voice out. To you who has been abused or is struggling with conflicting thoughts and emotions from the internal battle you’re fighting. You who is struggling with shame and guilt and fear and inexpressible heartache, you who feels unworthy, today’s post is for you. I do not pretend to understand exactly how you’re feeling but I know someone who does and his message for you is this
You are not alone, you’re never alone. I know you feel lonely and overwhelmed, I know you feel like nobody understands but I do. I know you have so many questions but I am the answer. You are not ugly or unwanted or unworthy. You are beautiful, loved and beyond worthy. You are precious, come let me whisper sweet truths into your ears like how the sound of your laughter makes my day. Or how I love the way your eyes twinkle when you smile. Yeah, I take note of every single detail, you are special to me and in case you’re wondering how I could let these things happen to you, please remember, that your hurt is my hurt and although I do not cause this things to happen, I make them work for your good. You are a testimony waiting to happen. I am the master surgeon – Bring your scars to me, i promise I won’t leave a trace