THE PAST AND PRESENT OF A CONFUSED MIND

at 10:17 AM

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. ~Gilda Radner

I wanted to stay here until December.
I wanted to mark 1 year in so called blogville but I cant. The idea of leaving has constantly been on my mind since I took my first break in the beginning of summer.

I have decided to stop blogging permanently.

For the past 9 months or so I have held nothing back and blogged about the most challenging and possibly the most dramatic period of my life. I am still going through those challenges. I feel I have grown and evolved with this blog but I feel it is time to move on to the next phase of my life. For the past 9 months I have written simply , honestly and openly as possible.

It was always important for me to have remember exactly how I felt during these moments. I fear I will forget if I don't have some sort of written record of my memories and my life. I pulled down all of my personal posts today and laughed at some of the posts. Even the unhappy ones. I cant bear to delete them. Perhaps one day I will show my daughter my posts, so she can fully understand her mother …….excluding the wanton sex goddess post of course. We cant let her get any ideas. :)

I left the Share your story, the most important part of my blog mainly because the stories were not written by me. Share your story- was an idea that came to me one day when I realized there had to be more women like me that lived under our culture of silence. I wasn’t sure it would work but it did.

I wont start naming the bloggers I have formed attachments with and will miss more than they will ever realize. I am quite sure I will get emotional if I do so. However my not secret lover knows I will miss him the most . Don't forget what you promised me babe, in fact I now demand a tribute on your blog. J I will resist the urge to be melodramatic , I will still be reading my favorite blogs. So this isn’t really goodbye.

But I do implore you if I sometimes come across your mind , don't remember me as the girl that was abused, or the girl with the sexual abuse blog or the overly effusive blogger LOL but please do remember these stories and these unbelievably strong women. Its very important for us to remember ,for all of us and help change future generations. Don’t remember us as "those women" or "those girls" because those women are usually closer than you think they are. They could be your daughters, sisters , nieces or aunts.

I can only hope in some way telling my story has touched or helped somebody.

So I return to where I began

A silent blogger but no longer damaged.

For the very last time
Hugs and Kisses!

at 6:08 AM

This is a part of the SHare YOur STory series. I recieve e mails from individuals that have been affected in some way by abuse. They share their stories , hoping that they can help somebody or prevent the same thing from happening to your child

I am not hoping to garner a pity party for this story (I do not dwell on this a lot), but I hope that when you read to the end, you will have gained some insight into what signs to look out for in child abuse/molestation. I am also hoping that after reading this, you will see a different perspective from what other survivors have written.

I am your ‘relatively normal’ happy go lucky 27-year-old girl. I am the 1st girl, 2nd child in a family of 4 children (2 boys and 2 girls) and my parents are still together. Both my dad and mum are the 1st kids of their mothers so you know what this means in a typical naija setting … they were responsible for their siblings. We had many relatives living with us even before I was born. My mum was a high school teacher so she was supposed to be around… and be able to take care of the kids right….. wrong!!!!! Just like the others… I ve a very testy relationship with my mum bcos I cannot understand why what happened to me did.

Now to the koko (nitty gritty). My abuse started around 1985 (I was 4+). We lived in a fair sized duplex in one of the surburbs of Lagos… but all the kids - 4 of us shared one huge room with 2 double beds. My sister and I on one bed and my brothers on another. My uncles had a huge room to themselves (their numbers varied from 3 to 6) and my female cousin had a room to herself.

My 1st abuser… let’s call him Main Pedophile (MP) is my dad’s younger brother…. He is 13 years older than I am. My earliest memory that haunts me till date is him dragging me to a corner and using his dick to brush my teeth every morning before I do the normal brushing up. I knew what ‘cum’ looked like at a very early age and I knew how to give a good head and handjob by the time I was 8 (a bit of humor – all my ‘ex’s will testify to these skills.. ok it is not funny).

Many of the details are a little blurry… but I remember that he will have rubbed my ‘vajayjay’ (with his hand and dick) so hard that it hurt to pee. I cant remember him trying to penetrate me… but he touched me a lot. But he never threatened me with a knife or anything… I cant even recall him telling me to promise not to tell anyone. This abuse went on for 5+ years and I grew to enjoy the acts.… but I hated that it hurt when I peed and I could not walk properly sometimes… y’all will think my mother and the many aunties will notice – nope! My female cousin did and so did some cousins who used to spend the holidays at our house… but did anyone do anything about it?? No, which is why I am telling you about it.

The other flip side of having too many young blooded men living with you is that they have friends… and they have friends that do things. I remember a couple of orgies that took place right infront of me when I was about 7 or 8. MP’s brother would skip school, bring his classmates and their girlfriends to the house, make me and my siblings watch porn, then they would fuck in the house infront of us.. ofcourse I was a pawn in the game too (I still hate porn till date… does nothing for me). I knew too much about sex too early.

The abuse was not just in my house –the neighbors were in it too - Our house was part of a twin duplex and we had these neighbors who had a lot of males in their house (2 grown uncles, 3 lil boys and 1 lil girl). One of their uncles used to do nasty things to those young boys (he would make them stroke his long thing (yuck) and pluck the hairs on it) .. aged between 8 and12. These lil boys will lure me from my house and play touchy feely; all our games involved sex - one guy lying on top of me; cant remember penetration either; but it hurt to I pee, plus they had a househelp who like to suck my tiny breasts, and she will make me insert a key/ other objects in her vajayjay; talk about detailed anatomy lessons when u r 8

Then there was my cousin’s help too liked to suck and touch and I liked to suck and touch too. I also had this other neighbors who had a lot of girls in their house and we used to perform oral sex on each other… I must have been about 10 or 11. The abuse in my early years went on and on.. but I m sure by now you get the picture. even the mallam across the street tried to get some when I was like 11… but I was wise then and did not fall for it.

To the others who have been abused… do you believe that if you were abused as a child, you may become an abuser too? Between the ages of 13 and 16…. I found myself doing what had been done to me to some other young children. I used to touch my younger brother (to my deepest regret. I love him so much and hope he does not remember the few cursed attempts I made) and lil cousin (female) inappropriately and I would find myself aroused. I was so withdrawn at this period and those who knew me then could not figure it out cos I went from Sunny to Gloomy. I drew from an inner strength (God is good) and was able to break myself from this horrible disease.

Like CNG – I grew into a curvy body - I have 34D boobs, small small waist and a 44 inch ikebe on a 5 6’ frame. I curse my body sometimes and I try to tone down what I ve got by wearing decent clothes so that I do not attract too much attention.

I started having sex ‘officially’ when I was 17 (don’t know how I waited till that long because even my guardian’s son used to try his luck when I was in high school) … and my 1st partner told me I was lying to him about being a virgin because I did not bleed the 1st time. I should have dumped his crazy ass then because I let him abuse my body (had enough ‘love bites’ and sores in the 1yr of the loveless relationship). I was emotionally abused (low self esteem) and I actually thot I was frigid cos I cringed every time I had sex. I was too ashamed of my past and could not bring myself to tell anyone what had happened to me. In my 2nd yr of Uni… my roommates and I were discussing abused kids in Nigeria and 4 out of 5 of us had had a brush with pedophiles when we were kids. One of them knew a 50 yr old man who raped a 10yr old girl. I survived a couple of rape attempts in Uni – I know every knee-in-the-groin technique and invented a few new ones myself.

Some Effects of Abuse - Till date.. I ve never had an orgasm before through penetrative and oral sex….. I was always so dry until 5 years later (and 6 partners too) a special someone took time to break down all my barriers and taught me how enjoyable sex can be (thank u S). I also invested in a vibrator on my road to self-rediscovery and I feel that ‘the abuses’ have robbed me of one of the most enjoyable acts in the world. I still struggle with my sexuality… I find myself attracted to women (maybe the house help and neighbor episodes contributed to this), but it is a monster I choose not to feed.

I have told very few friends about the ‘curse’, but I will not discuss it with anyone in my family. I do not feel the need for revenge but I observe all my lil cousins closely to make sure no one is trying any nonsense with them. If you met me in person… you would never know I dealt with that kind of crap as a child and I will say I have grown to become my own person.
‘MP’ is still my family member and I think he prays that I do not remember what he did. I spend time at his house with him and his family. He has not attempted to touch me since I was 11 and I sure hope the hell that he did not lay a hand on my sister…. I tried protecting her back then but I do not want to remind her just incase he did touch her. She is happily married now. MP lived with us till 1999 when he got married (he has 2 beautiful boys who I adore)… I still don’t how I found the will power to break his perversion when I got into high school in ’91 but I knew it was wrong and I snapped … when he tried to touch me I just pushed away and told him that I would scream if he tried any funny business.

I bear no grudges in my heart towards him anymore because I have made my peace with it, but I am not having any relatives or domestic staff living in my house with my family. I have also promised that I will involve myself in every aspect of my children’s lives (Insha Allah) but I will tell whoever I marry about what happened to me because it will go a long way in helping him understand what makes me who I am today.
Please watch your wards, teach them the meaning of inappropriate touching, and show them all the love.
This is my story – it’s a long read but I hope it impacts everyone of you in some way.
Peace… LB

at 10:16 AM

Hello,

My name is Jude Dibia and I am a writer in Nigeria. A friend of mine pointed me to your blog after he read my new novel 'Unbridled', a book that tackles family constructed abuse (sexual and otherwise), spousal abuse and women issues in our society.

I think you are doing a great job enlightening people of this wrong in our society... I was doing the same in my book. I hope you can send me your mailing address so I can send you a copy of the book. I have pasted below an excrept that maybe shared on your blog.

Warm regards,
Jude Dibia

***
Memories.
It's amazing what sensations we retain in our hearts and in our heads; it is also amazing how we recollect them. As far back as I could remember my memories had always been clouded with shame, sadness and denial.
One of my earliest memories was my mother plaiting my hair methodically, double strands woven together, under the embracing shadow of the guava tree in our village-home. Ezi was a village in every sense, tucked away in the down southern region of Bendel State, in the beautiful Igbo-speaking part of my childhood land. I still recall the red earth that reliably left its orange stains under my bare feet whenever I chose to play outside, the profusion of trees, the numerous farms, and the long treks to a cool stream to fetch water. Most of the villagers lived in identical mud houses, only a few affluent families possessing cement houses with tin roofs. And of course I remember the missionary school where I learnt all that a child needed to learn. Or so I believed once upon a time.
My mother used to love plaiting my hair because it was naturally long, unlike hers or anyone else in our family. She used to tell me that I was different. I was special, she would whisper into my ears as she plaited my hair.
"No one is as fair as you in this family," she used to say lovingly. "You can see that we are all very dark—I, your father even your brother and sister."
"Why am I different?" I would ask.
She would sigh quietly and then proceed to tell me about the heavy rain that fell the night I was born. By the time I was twelve years old, I must have heard that story over a hundred times. I never knew how much of it I believed, but she always told it with such conviction in her.
"It was a unique rain and no one had expected its ferocity, not even the village rainmakers who had all been worried about the absence of the rains and the devastating effects it was having on agriculture." she used to say while she plaited my hair.
"What is agriculture?" I would ask and she would shush me, telling me it was the farms and all the things that grew on them, like papa's cassava and yam farm.
She would go on to explain that it had been a trying period for the villagers and many had begun to worry that the land was cursed. And so that fateful night when traces of the coming rain could be smelt in the air, there had been some sort of euphoric fervour that swept across the village. This was short lived however, for as soon as the skies opened up and the first wave of the treacherous rain came lashing down, all things fell apart.
I have been told that some lives were lost that day in the flood as well as property, farm animals and hope. Till the day I left Ezi, Nne Achili still mourned her missing five-year old, Amadi, who hadn't been seen since that fateful night. Like many other children of his age, Amadi had run outside in anticipation of dancing in the rain. That was the last anyone ever heard of him. He was not the only child reported missing after the flooding, but Nne Achili always stood out in my mind because she had lived close to my father's house and I had endured a childhood of scorn from the bitter old woman, who always glared at me with an evil eye and rolled her hands over her head and snapped her fingers at me in a curse whenever I passed by.
I had also learnt that I was the only child that was born that fateful night in the entire village. This had been the reason why many believed that my birth was in a way tied to that rain. The village elders had all come to that conclusion and when my father had been summoned to their midst, they had warmed him to be careful of that daughter of his. "The gods must have been angry when she was conceived, hence the catastrophic rain," they had warned him.
I used to go to bed at night feeling guilty. I would hear the voices of the missing children screaming for help in my head and I would also hear the bleating, mooing, clucking and braying of the lost animals. I had many nightmares as a child.
It was my mother who had named me Ngozi. Technically it should have meant "Blessing" or more appropriately "God's blessing". But what that name had always meant to me was simply "God's blight."
Memories could be such lethal things.
Then there was the day my life took a drastic turn. The morning started off like many other mornings with mother waking Nnamdi, Ofunne and I for what would be several trips to the stream to fetch water. The night before I had hid some dried pepper underneath my pillow and when I heard mother shaking Nnamdi awake, I quickly retrieved the pepper and chewed a few. I knew the immediate effect would be to make my body temperature hot—someone in school had told me about this and how she used it to fool her grandmother all the time to avoid doing chores.
It worked for me for as soon as mother tried to rouse me from sleep, I complained that I was feeling sick and she was a little alarmed at how warm my body was. She allowed me go back to sleep but not before she informed me that she would be rushing off that morning to the next village, Ìsse'luku, to assist her younger sister who was to be wed the next day. I was still awake when she finally left. Elder Chibike came for her with his noisy patched up Peugeot pick-up truck, which unfortunately was the only cross-village transport service available to us. It coughed its way in and then out of our compound in a cloud of grey smoke. If that wasn't enough, I had to endure the very loud greeting between my father and elder Chibike who never failed to brag about how he was one of the very few noble ones to own a "motto". I had never liked him. He drank too much, smelt badly of putrid saliva and always seemed to be scratching his crotch area. He reminded me of my father and I hated that too.
Not long after mother departed, I was about to drift off again, with the hope of catching at least one more hour of sleep before it was time to rush off to the missionary school. Though my eyes were squeezed shut, I could not still sleep. I felt I was being watched; I could sense an eerie presence that felt like an invincible weight on me. My inner spirit stirred; disturbed. I opened my eyes and immediately noticed my father by the doorway, staring at me. His eyes were like I had never seen them before. They looked hungry. Not hungry for food, hungry for something else. There was a raw animal longing in the depth of his eyes that scared me and I quickly noticed that his loincloth stood unnaturally at attention. Was that a staff he hid beneath his cloth? I dared not ask. I sat up abruptly when he entered the room but he said nothing, just kept staring at me like I was some ripe fruit or scrumptious meal waiting to be devoured.
"Papa," I called out. "Papa can I help you with anything?"
In what seemed to be a drugged voice, my father barked: "Mecha onu I—Shut your mouth. I'm not your father. You are a spirit child. You are not my daughter."
His tone scared me. His words carried no meaning to me. There was a claustrophobic sense of violence that seemed to hang around the little room and I was aware that there was nowhere to run to.
"You cannot be my daughter," my father kept saying. "No one in my family is light like you are. No one is yellow in my family neither is anyone in your mother's. We are all black… You are yellow."
"Papa, what do you want?" I asked as I made an attempt to rise and escape from him.
I was too late. He pounced on me and before I knew it, he had ripped off my wrapper and pinned me to the raffia mat on the floor. I screamed once. It was loud. It was piercing. It was animal. It was terror. He shoved one of his hands into my mouth to suppress my scream and I bit hard, drawing blood, which tasted salty and metallic. He withdrew his bleeding hand and hit me several times across the face until I stopped screaming and was reduced to subdued subs.
I didn't know what was happening. All my senses were filled with the acrid stench of my unwashed father and the heat emanating from him. I was also aware of my nakedness and of his rough hands on my young forming breast mounds and the roving thick finger that played rudely with the opening of my womanhood. Was this the same man, who when I was younger would carry me on his laps and play with my fingers? His thick black fingers that tickled me once now violated me.
He muttered something as he took one nipple in his mouth and sucked hungrily.
"Papa no… Papa… Noooo!" I cried.
The tears ran freely down my cheeks as I went into some kind of shock. Momentarily it felt like I had somehow floated out of my body and was watching this terrible thing happen to a person that was once me. He suckled my breasts, biting hard on the nipples before discarding his wrapper and roguishly parting my tiny legs, stinging his way inside me. The pain tore into me, taking me to that far away place that seemed better than death. All I could see were the cracks on the roof with the big cobwebs and red mud cocoons made by black wasps with the unusual maroon markings. I felt my father fully inside me and the pain brought visions of one particular wasp that always made its way into my room through the opened window. It was some sort of evil spirit, I believed. A wicked spirit that stole the souls of children when they played outside and hurriedly imprisoned them in the cocoons it built in the various corners of my room. I was always scared of this wasp. I felt another sharp, deep pain and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying hard not to scream. I had kept my eyes open an entire night before when that wasp had buzzed its way round and round my room with no hint of going away. I had been afraid. I had cried loudly and had begged my brother to chase the wasp away but he had laughed at me. Thus I had kept my eyes wide awake that night, crouching underneath my cover cloth and sneaking peeks through the little hole I created for my eyes. Through this hole I watched the wasp to make sure it made no attempt to come close enough to sting me through my sleeping cloth or steal my soul.
"Ku ni!" Get up. He ordered.
It seemed like no time had passed after all and at the same time it felt like an entire lifetime had washed itself over me while my body was defiled. It was over like it never happened and the only memento of the deed was the faint trace of blood that matted my pubic area and the obvious signs of struggle on the mat. I lay still while he walked away after tossing my stained cover cloth on my roughened frame.

at 11:59 AM

This is a part of the SHare YOur STory series. I recieve e mails from individuals that have been affected in some way by abuse. They share their stories , hoping that they can help somebody or prevent the same thing from happening to your child

.....never in my wildest dreams, i cant believe i am writing this, oh well here it goes.my mum is a single parent back home in naija, and i grew up in ibadan, but my dad's rich family finally pressured my mum to allow my sister and i to spend our holidays in Lagos with my dad.it was kinda cool,i finally get to meet my dad and have a relationship with him.i was ecstatic!.i have a daddy now, later that day, he said i should come and sleep in his bed, that he wants to get to know me better, i was excited, finally my dad wants to talk to me.........i was in the land of dreams, dreaming about how i have a dad, and we are goin to do cool things together, and i would be proud to show him off to my friends in skool and all

....then i felt the fingers, going thru my underwear, felt the fingers, push my panties to the side, then it felt all cold inside of me. i refused to open my eyes, scared to death to look at the face behind the fingers, kept my mouth squeezed shut, i think i was 12yrs old. and finally, a couple of minutes later i felt the trust...it hurt sooooooooooo bad. i wanted to cry. i couldnt scream, who would believe me. my step mum was on the other side of the bed. i am sure she felt the bed move...cuz i could feel her legs twitching, she did not look back.i dozed off, i woke up and ran to the bathroom, my pee hurt so much, i had to clench my inner thigh muscles to hold my pee, the pain was excruciating. i pondered what just happened. i did not even know about sex yet.this continued for the whole holiday, my sister was envious and mad,i was sleeping in daddy's bed she wanted to come and sleep in the bed too.

i would have none of it. i did not want her to go thru the same thing, I wanted to protect her with my life. she is my only sister, i would never allow her to go thru that, i would sacrifice myself.then one night, i met my sister in the toilet, and was wondering why it took her so long to pee, typical me, i was shouting on her, and she started crying, that peeing hurts too much, it dawned on me, he was doing it to both of us.the next morning, i ran away to my grandmothers house , it was a 2 hour walk, but i could endure i have gone thru worse.

my mum finally came to pick us up, and was taking us right back to my dad's house, i couldn’t believe it. she drove us up right back to the house, and demanded we get out of the car, and stop acting like spoiled brats, i started crying all i could say was he touched us, he touched us. Over and over again.my mum said i was lying, my sister refused to remember anything, she had blocked it all out, there was no one to support me, but i kept on shouting he touched me he touched me....my mum's face changed, i think she realized what happened , but our naija culture is so double sided. all she said was "it is enough, you wont remember this again, lets go get suya"and that was it, she drove us back home, never mentioned it again, and anytime my dads family rained abuses on her that she was hiding us, she would never say a word...but i always remembered, especially when i pee. i promised myself. Never again!

Fast forward I am 17ten now, just finished my SSCE , waiting for my jamb result, ready for the university, typical Lagos style there were so many unsupervised parties out there.i was at one party, my classmates older brother, said he wanted to talk to me, in his car, so i went...and i realized the dangers of central lock on a car. he locked all the doors and i was inside with him, he came at me. All eager and all...i flipped the script....i fought so hard, i scratched, screamed, punched him, tore his shirt, damaged the interior of his car....he was fucking scared. He open the door and said i should leave.i walked proudly back to the party, my hair all messed up, and told everyone that i just finished fighting off a rapist, nobody was proud of me, they all said i should keep quiet.

I was baffled. generally if you catch a thief, you talk about it, why then shouldn’t you talk about an attempted rape,.and i realized...in naija , "YOU NEVER TALK ABOUT A RAPE" , not even an attempted rape, that you fought back.i am very proud about this blog, that gives so many people the opportunity to express this repressed hurt, because it all part of the healing process, talking is always the beginning. i am so proud of you. Thank you...i am 26 now i am happy i have moved on from the hurt...funny thing is that anytime a guy tries to hold me down, or even pin my hands down during sex, my karate moves comes out, and i do my world renowned Jet Li kick, which usually throws the guy off the bed 99.95% of the time......hahahahah..lol.

at 7:02 AM

This is a part of the SHare YOur STory series. I recieve e mails from individuals that have been affected in some way by abuse. They share their stories , hoping that they can help somebody or prevent the same thing from happening to your child

It was left as a comment on SHare Your Story survivors edition.

I am so happy for you too sweetie..I know exactly how you feel..I had been toying with the idea of posting something up here but I wasnt ready until now.It hurts, especially when you have younger sisters, to know that there's always predators out there..I went through some shit growing up that I always felt like I had to "chest" cos I was the oldest and it was my duty to experience these things in silence so I could learn enough to protect my younger sisters....but who was protecting me?

My earliest memory of abuse was from my music teacher in Pri 1, yes, I had to have been what? 5yrs old??I was at an all girl catholic school [supposedly for the morals, go figure] and I was a bright bubbly little girl, full of promise and very pleasant and because of my apparent love for music[ still love it] I was made the class prefect for music. It was my responsibility to take the workbooks to the music lab and stuff like that, everything was ok until the music teacher pulled me onto his lap one day and got a woody! he kept caressing my thighs and ass crack and telling me not scream or say anything cos I was squirming to get away..I dont remember all the details but I know I eventually got away and started to dread music class..I would be physically sick on the day before the class and I couldnt tell anyone..damn..I think my mum noticed my fear or something but I know I got transferred and I had never felt so much relief in my life!

Then there was my aunty's [my mum's sis] boyf when I was 8 or so[ and she must have been in her mid 20s] who would come visit her often cos she stayed with us for a couple of years..he was friendly, used to play with us kids and we liked him until one day. We had sprayed the house with insecticide [which we did every evening] and had gone outside to let it work its magic. But I had homework to do and had left my book in the house, I told my aunt who got mad saying I should have taken it sooner and there was no way she was going in the house with me to get it, her boyf laughed and volunteered to go with me inside.I went in 1st with him behind me and when I got into the kids' bedroom, he all of a sudden pushed me onto the bed on my tummy and started dry humping me! I couldnt scream cos my face was pushed into the mattress and his full weight, the weight of a full grown man! was on me..I really really thought I was going to die..I guess when it was taking too long [and because of the Grace of God] my aunt started hollering for us and he jumped off.I really feel he would have raped me cos he was bunching my skirt up.I hated him from then and avoided him like the plaugue.They broke up soon after..there is a God.

Then there was our househelp, Elizabeth. I was a very fast developer, so by my 10th birthday I was already wearing a bra and this used to fascinate her I guess, the sight of my budding beautiful breasts..bitch..She would call me into the ironing room to suckle on them, threatening to tell my mum that I had been a bad bad girl, didnt I know this was all my fault? I was sooooo miserable.When I started to refuse her, she got mad and one day poured boiling hot water on my belly, I have the scar still.Of course she had to go.Then we moved and everything was ok for a few years, even though I had chronic self esteem issues[which I've only been able to work through as a grown woman] I could never see myself as beautiful and believe me I am very very beautiful and I'm not just saying that.I wasnt ever good enough, or thin enough, or pretty enough..but I got better, I went to an all girl high school, made friends, got my bubbly personality back, became a prefect and I even had my first baby boyf who was the cutest thing.

But then I finished high school and went back home when I met this guy who was 10 yrs my senior. I was 16/17...and very very shy..I was such an easy target..He was my friend's boyf and used to call me to talk to me about her all the time.It was cool with me; I wasnt the hot one, I was the agony aunt..that was fine by me & she was my best friend, she was the worldly one & I was the sheltered good girl..maybe that was the appeal..He then started to make like it was me he liked and not my friend, this was uncomfortable for me and I said as much, but I was trying to be sensitive and let him down easy..he backed off..He came over to my house one day and asked for me to accompany him to his friend's place [his friend sold perfumes]nearby to get something for my friend,this was not an odd thing to happen as he'd done this once or 2ce esp when he was going out of town and I mean I was convinced we would be back soon, I was even in shorts..I was so naive..We get there and I meet his friend and we sit while he goes into one of the bedrooms..then he comes out and asks me to come with him because he wanted my opinion on something for his gf, my friend, when we got into the bedroom I didnt know when he had locked the door. He then pushed me down on the bed and I started to struggle, I kept saying no no no no, dont do this please no no..he ripped my denim shorts and raped me.I felt nauseous afterwards and I bled so much and all I could keep thinking was "Father let me just get home, let me just get home"He dropped me off at home, oddly happy that now he had made me "his girl"..asswipe..I just smiled and tried to make small talk with the man who had just stolen my virginity.I got home and scrubbed myself with scalding water, I was physically ill at the scent of his perfume for many years..I later found out that he had done that to so many people..raped so many girls..I tried to move on, I withdrew into myself, didnt tell anyone, cried a lot and became moody and temperamental.When I went off to uni, I had boyf in my 1st yr..I coudnt have sex cos..I just coudnt..and, bless him, he wasnt equipped for my issues..lol..I dated someone else, someone older but still in uni a couple of years later and he was the 1st one I told.

He showed me that God is alive..He loved me and his family was perfect to me..they drew me out of my shell with warmth and patience..I'm tearing up just remembering the peace they gave me..It also felt like I got a 2nd chance cos the 1st time we had sex [1st out of 3 times in 18 months!] he told me that if I hadnt told him of my experience he could have sworn I was still a virgin!But we broke up and I lost that stability..But I stayed on my own for a few years..getting to know me and God better and working through my hurt and guilt, I learned how to be with me and not feel alone..but I was still very withdrawn which to some people came across as being standoffish..thank God for good friends..But I still had [and have] the bad habit of blanking things and people which was how I got thru all that shit..

When I met my husband he was the 1st person ever who wasn’t afraid of what was beneath the surface, the hurt and anger bottled up inside..he helped me work through my issues; self esteem and spiritual..he made me face them and absorbed and stood firm in the face of my cruel lashing out episodes..I read somewhere that God made marriage so we can each other's hurts from life..I absolutely agree..I am a strong grown woman..happy, successful, beautiful, blessed and called by God..in love with a wonderful man..with a bright and beautiful future ahead of me..there's no looking back now..
I am FREE!

at 4:20 PM

This is a part of the SHare YOur STory series. I recieve e mails from individuals that have been affected in some way by abuse. They share their stories , hoping that they can help somebody or prevent the same thing from happening to your child

It was my first week at boarding school. The second or third day maybe- I can't remember. We were all sitting in class and it was breaktime- something like 11 o'clock. The teachers had all gone off to the staff room and the coast was clear- so the senior boys poured into our class- flexing their new found seniority, sending us on errands, asking us all kinds of questions- who were we, where did we come from, did we have sisters. A favourite question was "what's my name?" We had been told that we were expected to learn the names of all the senior boys within the first few weeks. How we were supposed to do this no one made clear. I was sitting at my desk, my head on the desktop trying not to attract any attention. It was my first time away from home and I wasn't coping very well. I'd spent most of the previous night crying- and then cried myself to sleep.

As I lay down , my head on the desk, this boy walked up to me, he was wearing thick-framed glasses and had a really big nose. He pulled me by the ear- "What's my name? " he bellowed. I stammered that I did not know his name. Follow me he barked and I did, sheepishly. After a few days of having orders barked at us, we had learned to obey without question. I followed him as he walked away to an isolated part of the school compound. Then he led me behind a secluded enclosure "take off your shorts and suck your penis" he said. That's your punishment for not knowing my name. I took off my shorts and tried to contort my self into the position where I could suck my own dick. Of course I failed. I was only ten and did not know any better. He watched me for a while and then he said, "The alternative is to suck mine" I begged him, I cried, I asked him to forgive me for not knowing his name. He insisted that by the school rules, I had to be punished. By this time he had asked me to kneel down and he thrust his penis into my mouth. I gagged. He kept thrusting. I kept crying. After a while he stopped and then asked me if anything had come out. I did not answer. He asked me to run back to my class, showed me a small knife and promised to kill me if I told anyone what had happened. I believed him and ran back to class where I collapsed into a flood of tears. My mouth tasted funny. I went to the tap and gargled several times, then went back to my desk. One of my new classmates noticed me crying and asked if I was fine. I lied that I had a headache. He offered me a Trebor peppermint- I can still see the green and black paper of the roll. I sucked hard at the mint, trying to get rid of the taste. I did not succeed. I told no one.

A few years later, this same boy came up to me and said do you remember when you were in Class One and a senior boy took you to the back of the dormitories? What if he asked you to go there again. I said loudly "I would report him to the Housemaster" He melted away.

I've never told anyone this story and have always regarded myself as well adjusted, but who knows what effect it might have had?

If I had been told clearly what was appropriate or not appropriate, perhaps I would not have fallen prey.

For days, weeks and months afterwards I wondered why he'd picked me. Had he somehow sensed my hidden secret- that I was attracted to boys? Had I somehow brought this upon myself?

We really must start talking about these issues and taking action.

Thanks for providing the platform and for your personal bravery

My THoughts: we must indeed. Fagging ( the practice that stems from the British School system , this has no reference to homosexuals) in schools is wrong. Sexual Abuse is a crime. This culture of silence must be broken. I am sad to say I have heard stories like this about guys that attended all boys schools and I never really took it seriously. I always thought there were rumors. I know everyone must have heard the "senior throwing soap on the bathroom floor " joke /story. He is brave indeed because its so much harder for men to open up.

at 10:42 AM

This is a part of the SHare YOur STory series. I recieve e mails from individuals that have been affected in some way by abuse. They share their stories , hoping that they can help somebody or prevent the same thing from happening to your child.

Dear Confused, thank you for creating such a wonderful avenue for people to share their stories. I have found it very therapeutic and oddly comforting to know that not only am I not alone, but that in comparison to the stories I've read, what happened to me now doesn't seem so horrific.

I was at first very hesitant about doing this, and deliberated over it for weeks because I was scared that the person in question might read this and immediately identify me. But I now feel that I don't care whether or not she reads this - I want her to know how much she hurt me.

I am a young woman in my twenties. I have an older and younger sister. My older sister is 4 years older than I am and my younger sister about 3 years younger. I can't remember precise ages but I think she was about 16/17 and I would have been about 12/13. We had travelled from one part of Nigeria to another, on a trip during our holidays. She and I were in the same boarding school together abroad and were home for the holidays.

We had to stop over for the night so that my dad could rest from driving and booked into a hotel whose name I will never forget. My younger sister stayed in a room with my parents while I had to sleep in a bed with my older sister in a separate room. I was already nervous about this because she was something of a bully, to both myself and my little sis but mainly towards me. I was scared of her. I always felt that she hated me for some reason - even at school, people would always be surprised whenever I mentioned that she was my sister or that I even had a sister at the same school because she never spoke to me unless she had a message to pass on or to ''borrow'' money from me (it was never paid back). She made me feel I was ugly and for years I covered my mouth with my hand whenever I smiled or laughed because of things she said to me that made me feel insecure.

So on this night, I reluctantly got into bed and turned my back towards her and shut my eyes, praying that morning would come quickly. I noticed that she was fidgety and kept shifting in the bed. She turned towards me and asked me if I wanted to play a game with her. I became immediately suspicious - this is someone who couldn't stand my guts and never gave me the time of day. I didn't immediately relate this 'game' to anything sexual but I just knew that I didn't want to have any dealings with her there and then so I replied that I was tired and wanted to sleep.

But she persisted and told me it would be a fun game and that I would enjoy it. So, I turned around and asked what the game was. She then proceeded to grope my breasts and rub me 'down there', grabbed my hand, place it on her breasts and tried to force me to do the same to her, asking if I was enjoying it. I yanked my hand back and told her that I wanted to stop, that what she was doing was bad. She carried on for a few more seconds until I asked her to stop again and turned back over and tried so hard to go to sleep - I didn't succeed though because I was kept awake worrying that she might start on me again. I recall her calling my name a couple of times during the night but I pretended to sleep.

I've never felt so scared, ashamed and disgusted as I did that night and it effectively ruined what was left of our practically non-existent relationship. After that night, I always made every effort not to sit next to her or speak to her unless I really had to. I felt physically sick everytime I looked at her or thought about her. All that happened years ago and even till this day I still avoid close contact with her and don't trust her. There was also a time when I remember her calling my younger sister into her bedroom and telling her to lie on the bed. Then she closed and locked the door - afterwards I asked my younger sister what happened in there but she wouldn't talk about it, hence I don't know what happened and don't wish to imagine it but it sickens me to think that my younger sister may have gone through the same thing. In retrospect I should have run to my parents immediately and told them what happened but I didn't partly due to being scared and feeling ashamed. I also felt that they might not take it seriously - the same parents who let a lodger remain with us for weeks despite the fact that we had caught him masturbating naked in the middle of the night while looking into our window.

We live in different continents now and I think the distance may have helped in rebuilding...something. I can't say it helped to rebuild a relationship as such because we're far from close but I make a conscious effort to maintain some contact. Why? I don't know, maybe because I feel I have to as she's my sister. I hate her sometimes for what happened but I've forgiven her, despite the fact that we've never spoken about it and she has never apologized.

I was not penetrated like the women in previous stories but I still feel like I was violated - I didn't know anything about sex or boys at that age. I don't think it has affected my relationships to any great extent, only the way I relate with her which is unfortunate.
I agree with a previous comment that one should not blame difficulties in one's life to past experiences but that's quite a difficult thing to do. Abuse in any form - sexual, emotional or physical - can leave you scarred for life and it takes enormous strength to overcome it. For me, gaining some sort of closure would involve asking her why she felt the need to do what she did and have her show remorse. Realistically I don't think it will ever happen.

Thanks again - this is the first time I've ever spoken about this and it will probably be the last. My heart goes out to any man, woman, child who is a victim of abuse. Stay strong

My THoughts/Lessons LEarned : Her story really disturbed me . Women are percieved to be caring nuturing people . I wonder if some people are just born with a screw loose. That a sisiter would do that is certainly disturbing. If there is a lesson it is the need for us to open the lines of communication with children. Your children should feel they can tell you anything no matter what.

at 2:33 PM

This is a part of the SHare YOur STory series. I recieve e mails from individuals that have been affected in some way by abuse. They share their stories , hoping that they can help somebody or prevent the same thing from happening to your child.

Hi everyone,

My name is share story. I am female and I was a victim of child abuse. This is the first time I’m sharing my story.

When I was seven, we had a driver. I don't remember his face or anything. Only that he used to call me his wife. I guess everyone thought it was a joke. Everyone but him. One night, I went to the laundry, which was near the garage. He was there. He put his hand up my long nightgown. I had no idea what he was doing. He asked me if I liked it. I shook my head. Then he stopped. I was 7 years old. He shouldn't have done that. I remember lying on the couch afterwards, feeling very dirty. He never touched me again. I didn't tell.

When I was 8, we had this maid. She used to have me touch her breasts. She was probably in her late twenties or thirties. I can't remember. She didn't touch me though, so I guess I have something to be grateful for after all.

When I was 11, my uncle came to live with us. He was my mother's brother. We all loved him. He'd come to the house and play with us and buy us stuff. He was a good uncle. Until he started touching me. In my father's house. For years. He would lie next to me or sit next to me and cover us up. Then his hand would be up my top. I was a kid. He was family. That was wrong in so many ways. One time, he tried to put his hands down my pants. I stopped it all then. I told him i'd tell if he touched me again. I remember one night after that, I woke up in bed, and he was in my room, he had undone my bra, and he was touching me. I calmly walked him out of my room. I think he touched my sister too. We never talked about it. I never told.

I'm over it all. True, none of these people actually had sex with me, but do not underestimate the power of abuse, no matter the extent. You have no idea how dirty it can make you feel. How it can numb you. It's not easy being a kid with a secret. God has helped heal my heart, and I can honestly say I’ve gone on with my life. But I don't believe that talking about it just might be the way to enlighten people so they keep their eyes open and see what's happening around them. I just hope my telling this helps someone.

Let's not think this is a girl's issue. Most of my friends are guys, and I am quite open with them. I've asked at least 25 guys, all Nigerian, about their first sexual encounters, and there were two recurring characters in all these cases: a house maid and an aunt. I've talked to a guy who was forced to have sex with a 30 year old aunt at the age of 6. I gagged at that thought. Then a 5 year old who was made to polish the maid's breasts. Then the one who was taught to give oral sex. Then the one who was told to sleep with a 7 year old girl. Then the one that.................... You know what; I could go on and on.

I worked in a hospital, and I can't tell you how many times a little girl was brought in, raped by some supposedly human being. There was a 5 year old raped by a 17 year old, her mum was screaming at her for going to his house. He was the neighbor. And no, he wasn't arrested. There was the 7 year old who was rushed in, in shock. Someone noticed she wouldn't keep her legs closed. She was examined and it was determined it was rape. My theory, I think it was her father. He came with her though. She wouldn't talk. There was the one kid whose mum caught the teenage cousin feeding her his dick. Countless cases of STD's in kids. It hurts me just to type this.

I grew up in Nigeria, a land where all things sexual are hush, hush. I have no problem with keeping sexual relations between two consenting adults secret. But I believe there is a problem when society looks down on and sometimes even blames the victims of abuse. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth. That's why I'm telling this story now. I think it's important that people know what goes on in their homes, who their kids hang with, where they go to. Parents need to talk to their kids about sex and abuse, so they know when something is wrong, and can fight against it.

My Thoughts/Lessons Learned : She has already said everything that needs to be said. Kudos to her.

at 4:46 AM

This is a part of the SHare YOur STory series. I recieve e mails from individuals that have been affected in some way by abuse. They share their stories , hoping that they can help somebody or prevent the same thing from happening to your child.

Not like I love to relieve it but I'll try.

My first thoughts of abuse were as a kid of barely 5. Some cousins of mine had probably just watched a porn flick and were trying to re-act the scenes and being the youngest at home, I was easy target.

First, I was clueless as to what was happening. They just asked the girls to take off their clothes and lie on each other making some wriggling motions. Very icky and disgusting but we couldn't resist it as they were much older.

Fast forward to some years down the line when you are in a place where you are not meant to be and .....you are attacked by unknown men of the night.
I am pulled away to a desolate place. The man lies me on my back tearing away at my panties while I'm all tears. Crying, begging, pleading to no avail. Blackmailing, calling on God, asking him to remember he has sisters. And he indeed proved that all that meant nothing to a man with a gun. He forced himself into me and had the guts to mutter in my ears with his not fresh breath to move with him so he can be done quickly before people look for him. I curse, rant, cry out but yes...he had his way and left me there. In a damaged heap.

A few years ahead, a distant uncle who we go to spend weekends with, starts by touching my breasts mistakenly a couple of times while I'm on the internet in his study. Then, I run off. At night while trying to sleep, I wake up to him putting his fingers inside me. I want to scream but my sister is right there and I'm scared of what she'll think. So I hit him off. A year later, I am unlucky to spend the night at his alone on a journey. And the idiot actually does he sexual moves again, this time actually coming on me. Then he asks me to pray with him as he is a pastor in his church - the Irony.

The final straw, a popular figure in the society I had just become friends with takes me out and on our way home to drop me off, he diverts to his place to "pick something up" and then pushes me into the room and forces his huge frame on me and does his thing. Once again a Victim.But of course the whole concept of date rape is not understood in Nigeria. It'll be a case of "Why did you go out with him?".

After the last experience and several issues of depression and low self esteem and anger at myself for not reacting properly in every situation, I have resolved that I would be used as an object of lust for anyone ever even if I have to fight with my last breath.

My Thoughts/Lessons Learned : I don’t even know if there’s a lesson here. In the Nigerian society boys who will become men are brought up with a sense of entitlement. I am not man bashing buts its simply a fact. It seems like if you havent suffered from attempted date rape or date rape as a nigerian woman you are in the minority. It is so rampant and at the end of the day it’s the woman that’s blamed.

at 8:03 PM

I am in need for clarity and direction in my life. I constantly feel inadequate and unfulfilled. I am searching for something and I cant find it . I need to recharge. I need some sanity. I am constantly in a state of frustration and internal turmoil. Its all internal it has nothing to do with S and MD. I need to rediscover myself. Rediscover myself and break my addiction to blogspot and certain blogs LOL. I need a break from blogging. It’s paradoxical. Blogging has facilitated the expression of my sometimes locked emotions however I am at a crossroads in my life . Blogging has become a major distraction and hindrance to me. Although I can now express myself, it has provided me with unrealistic escapism.. I am not facing certain realities of my life.

You don’t know how many times it has crossed my mind to delete this blog . I know I cant because of the share your story series , those are not my words, I have no right to delete those stories.

Maybe its just a phase I am going through I don’t know.

I will be back when I am ready.

For anyone who sent me a share your story I will share it when I return.

Good bye blog fam .

will miss you!!!!!

hugs and kisses !!!

at 6:56 AM

sorry for the late update guys! blogger was acting up!

Have a happy easter and great weekend.

And to everyone who has sent me a story we are all survivors !!
enjoy this festive time!!

share your story 8 is below

at 6:52 AM

This is a part of the SHare YOur STory series. I recieve e mails from individuals that have been affected in some way by abuse. They share their stories , hoping that they can help somebody or prevent the same thing from happening to your child.

Part 1 is in the share your story column

Mum came back after a few years in the US an UK one bright day in October. Wait a min, It was my birthday, I just turned 15. I remember that day now, I saw the taxi drive into the drive way, I was outside reading my mills and boons, wishing I could be "Camille" who was madly in love with an Arabian prince who loved her so much yadi yadi ya!!

I look up for a min and there is this tall pretty woman standing over me saying my name in the tiniest voice. I recognise that voice as the voice that comforted me after the fight and festival of slaps or punches; this was the same voice that said I would be back right? No my brain said, she is gone for good remember!

My mum was back yes, mummy came back, she came back for me, for her rotten daughter, she came back yes yes yes!!! wait a minute, mummy still had a good one, the one I would give my life for if anyone touched her.. so mummy came for her instead....

I take her bags from her, never saying a word not even a "welcome" and I go upstairs with my mills and boons in my face wishing i could get to the love scene fast and feel that warm tingling sensation I had come to love... As we approach the steps of the house, My grandma calls my sister who is at the foot of the steps looking at my mum then like the good child she is rushes down and throws her self at her. They kiss and hug and cry. I drop her bags in the guest room and continue with my novel... yes I am getting to the love scene, the part where they find each other at last and "he takes her breasts into his mouth and suckles each nipples slowly tracing small circles with his fingers, her heart skips a beat, he draws her close and inhales her sweet perfume , he sees the pulse on her neck and kisses it......... "omo" I hear my mum scream... "What" I say in a tone I have never heard myself before! then everyone looks at me... My grandparents make excuses on my behalf; I hiss and got to find a quiet spot to finish my book.....

Mum takes us out of my grandparent’s house to her boyfriends place when my grandpa tells her of Ladi's night time blues (LOL).

She tells most of the story from the point of view of her alter ego Sassy

Sassy - I hate this man... (Step father ) or step boyfriend like omo and her sister called him... I just hate the way he looks at me when I walk in, I hate the way he looks at my behind when I go past him. I am not comfortable here. I hate this place. I miss Omo's grandparents house, it was warm and cozy. I didn’t have to protect omo from anything even Ladi was a piece of cake, he didn’t do anything Seyi had not done before..

Omo was in the shower one weekend when her mum had gone to PH and her sister was in boarding school, she had just met her first boy friend. He was very sweet and didnt pressure her into having sex with him. Omo calls it making love I say having sex... he had come to the house numerous times to pick her up so they could go out and have fun and the "step boy friend" did not approve. He would lie sometimes to omo's BF that she was not home when infact omo was waiting for him to pick her up... oh!!! I still hate him.. Anyway the night before this day, Omo and BF went out and ended up in his place where they kissed and almost went all the way then I (sassy) reminded her to take it easy.. so omo and BF talked about her coming over for the weekend and getting it on..

Omo was very excited, now she would do this her way, not forced, no muddy musky smell, no pinching grabbing man nothing just bliss and happiness... I should have known, Omo;s happiness is always short lived..... As omo prepares to go to BF for the weekend, she gets a phone call from him and he speaks to her "step dad" who is furious when he learns that she wants to spend the weekend with him so he tells her BF that they (step dad and omo) had previous plans, they were going to Ibadan to see his mum.. Omo is in the shower beaming from ear to ear, she has shaved and is ready for the weekend when her step dad enters the bathroom; she doesn’t hear him come in so she pushes back the shower curtain and is shocked to see her step dad standing there so she pushes back the curtain and tells him she would scream if he touches her. He goes on and on about how promiscuous she is and how she is such a bad example to her baby sister who looks up to her yadi yadi ya... then he walks out...

Omo rushes into her bedroom and hurridly tries to put on some clothes when he bursts in.. omo knew what was coming next, this was a familiar pattern she summoned me and I came, she just could not handle it anymore, she wanted the BF, she kept her self for him, he was to be first not him.. This was sassy's turf... he beat me and raped me he didn’t say a word, he pushed hard every thrust was painful, every thrust reminded me of the pain omo went through then he left. I looked down and I was bleeding ... "not again" I could hear omo say.. "not again". I curled up on the floor, wept, cursed, yelled but no one came .. I was too shaken to get up so I lay there wondering who omo had hurt in her previous existence then he comes in again... "is it late?" omo asks and I tell her yes he has his way with me, omo tried to push him off but I had to protect her, I didnt want her to go through this again so I let him... I was filthy in a pool of my own blood.. yes.... blood , pain and lots of semen was the menu of the night.. He was done, he looked at me and spat in my face and called me a whore...

Saturday morning - I couldnt sleep the night before because I was scared he was going to come in and have his way over and over again, I had to be alert, I had to be on the watch for omo. I could hear her screaming , she wanted out, she was tired an desperate, she was not strong, she told me many ways I could end this, "there is a bottle of valium" was her favorite line but I resisted.. She was in love with BF and I wanted them to be happy, she deserved to be happy even if for just a little while... I get up and go to the shower, clean myself up, cut up all omo;s hair ... omo had very long black hair her BF loved her hair but I hated the hair, I hated the way step dad tugged at it, I hated his breath on her hair, I hated his hands on her hair, the hair had to go.... I step out the shower and step dad is in my bedroom he looks at me and licks his dirty lips, I stare at him and he says "wont you assume your positon whore" I obey and he has his way with me this time was not quiet, he abuses omo's BF , calls him names,he says I am the only one who understands him then he cries... today, words, tears and semen is on the menu...

Sunday morning - I let omo come out as she has had enough, she goes into the shower and reaches for the bottle of valium, she looks at her self in the mirror and she tells me " who is going to love me now, BF wont love me, what am I living for?" she gets dresses and leaves... We walk for a long time around Lagos thinking about nothing in particular then we find ourselves at grandparents place.. Grandma knows, she feels it.. she scoops omo into her arms as usual and ask what the problem is Omo says she just broke up with her BF and it hurts... Grandma doesn’t buy it but she nods her head and takes her in.....

Monday - Mum is back, I tell mum what her man did and mum tells me I imagined the whole thing. Mum says she knew Omo had a BF and she knew they were sexually active because step dad had told her, mum also said she knew Omo didn’t stay at home all weekend as she was in BF's place.. I let Omo out and she hugs her mum... I go upstairs, pack our bags and leave... we have had enough......

Omo - I turn 25 soon, I am scared of trusting people especially men, I hate my body, I do not enjoy sex (amazing as all the guys I have dated dont know), I hate relationships , I hide in my shell if members of the opposite sex is getting to close for comfort. I am lonely and I wish to be loved, I see lovers in the streets holding hands and cringe at the idea of me doing the same. I tried the love thing before and the ex-flame blamed me for not speaking up, he couldn’t stand the fact that I had been "impure" even as a child, he indirectly called me a tart. I told him I was reaching out by telling him and I didn’t want any secrets between us but he wont budge so we went our separate ways..

I am taking it one step at a time, I am on my healing path, it is a long road to travel but I am determined to get back on my own two feet. Sassy has been of great help but it is time I let her go and face my fears!

This is my story

Thoughts/ Lessons Learned : Good riddance to the boyfriend she parted with. That is why most women will continue to remain silent !! Men that would rather blame a powerless child rather than a monster.

yes, you have to let go of your alter ego and grow. None of my words can adequately comfort you but it will be well .

at 5:52 AM

sorry for the late update guys! blogger was acting up!

Have a happy easter and great weekend.

And to everyone who has sent me a story we are all survivors !!
enjoy this festive time!!

share your story 8 is below

at 9:24 AM