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What doesn't kill you ~ makes you stronger. This is the legacy of childhood sexual abuse. Except that childhood sexual abuse DID kill me. It killed the innocent child I was before I understood what was happening. Before I could comprehend words like sexual abuse, or lust or pornography.

Sexual abuse is the most despicable of all crimes. Even the name of the crime ~ does not fit the crime. On the streets it is more accurately called baby raping. The offender not only sexually violates a child, he often grooms the child for an extended period, gaining the victims trust and friendship. Only to then use that trust as a way to violate the child and make the child believe it is their own fault. And the victim truly does believe this, and will punish themselves for this in some way. Some victims will commit self mutilation, drug use, quite possibly suicide attempts and other extremely reckless behavior. In an attempt to punish myself or drown the pain, I partied way too hard and put myself into many a horrible situation that allowed me to be further victimized by men other than my father. I did believe my father then when he said I was only good for one thing. I made sure of it for awhile. He called me a whore so much, I thought it must be true.

A lot of the things my abuser, told me, warned me would happen ~ did. He said no one would believe me. No one in my family believed me. And the abuse did become worse after I betrayed him. But I ~ also became stronger. Colder. I learned how to put up walls. How to keep people out. I learned how to fly away from the pain in my body to a place where he couldn't touch me, my soul. Thats what he was really there to steal.

For so many years he stole my innocence. And along with it, my voice. But I didn't leave until I was 16 years old. I didn't wanna end up homeless or a crack head, or a prostitute. I knew that was statistically the reality of my options. I didn't wanna end up in the same situation with a different man.

The abuse I endured from my biological father began as early as I can remember. But I can only remember bits and pieces. It continued until the day I left home at 16. The day when he stood over me taking off his belt, screaming at me that he would show me a child molester. I lie curled in a fetal position below him taking the blows of a 6 foot tall 200 pound man. This fit of rage brought on by my calling him a child molester for the first time ever to his face. The first time I said those words to anyone I was 12, telling

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