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Back in centuries past, many families believed things that happened in a home stayed in the home. Sex wasn't something to discuss, let alone if a child was being abused were they aloud to admit to it. Now as people take this past into consideration I'll tell a story of my own. I'm 25 yrs old. I've been sexually abused since I was three years old.

It started after my parents divorced, for reasons I'm still unaware of. My mother was an alcoholic but at three I loved her more than anything, and I believed my father loved me. I remember going to my dads trailer. My room was a little bedroom in the back. My little brother was still a baby so my dad never took him. I had a bright orange bing bag on the floor of my room to the left of a small bed with horrible metal posts and a tiny blanket to cover me. I choose the bing bag. I feel asleep listening to the party going on. The music wasn't that loud, I was already afraid of not being with my mom, and her music was always loud, it was a comfort. The light in the hall brightened the darkness into my room. I fell asleep to the rhythms of odd songs I wasn't used to.

Something woke me. I couldn't tell you exactly what it was, but there wasn't anymore music. I couldn't hear my dad laughing, and the light that had helped me inch to sleep earlier was being shut out by shadows of men I didn't know.

Now at my age I couldn't tell you exact details of what happened to me that night, only what I was told to me by mother before she died. I was told I came home black and blue from head to toe, even in my ears. I'm thankful my mind has never let me relive this part. I was terrified when I came home. Mom said I wouldn't even let her touch me. My mother later found out that six men had rapped me, and I was still breathing when I was found by a neighbor in my bedroom who heard my screams. My father had been in another trailer beside his and heard me scream but never checked on me. My mother never told me much more than this. She never pressed charges. It didn't end there.

At six and seven My grandmother was my safety. I adored her, trusted her, and wanted her much more than my own mother, still loving alcohol more. Yet her house was no safety point for a small girl. An uncle my mother was very close to often visited my dear grandmother. I liked him well enough until one day he decided to take me to the shed beside my grandmothers house. He undid my pants and said we needed to test the tools in order to find out if we could use them on his

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