"Carlos, what did it feel like to be sexually molested?"
I hated that question. "What was it like to be sexually molested?" I thought it was rude and insensitive. It was like asking a Brazilian, "What is it like to be Mexican?"
What does that mean anyway -- what is it like to be sexually molested?
What is it like to be male? What is it like to be poor? What is it like to be short instead of tall? What is it like to be dumb instead of smart?
What is it like to be male? What is it like to be poor? What is it like to be short instead of tall? What is it like to be dumb instead of smart?
These are all questions that make absolutely no sense. However, when you remove the emotional component of the question one can understand the reason for someone asking the question.
The questioner is asking because he or she genuinely wants to know; to understand that which they themselves had never experienced.
When I first came out of the post-abuse closet, asking what it felt like to be molested was a question that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up for two reasons:
1) It would take me back to the actual experiences (in my mind), and,
2) It was asked too often.
1) It would take me back to the actual experiences (in my mind), and,
2) It was asked too often.
At first I would become angry with the inquirer because I believed the question was one of those type of questions you just didn't ask someone who had been sexually molested.
"How can you even ask that question?" I would sharply fire back. "Why do you need to know?"
I suppose it is for the same reason why one individual asked President Bill Clinton which underwear did he prefer, "Boxers or briefs?"
Not a question I would have asked the president of the United States.
However, in my mind I came to accept that the individual asking the question, for whatever reason, genuinely wanted to know.
Not a question I would have asked the president of the United States.
However, in my mind I came to accept that the individual asking the question, for whatever reason, genuinely wanted to know.
Still, asking that particular question made absolutely no sense to me in my mind?
Neither does sexually abusing children.
On page 30 of my book, Baltimore Monday: A Celebration of Life Beyond Sexual Abuse (Signature Book Printing, Inc., 2006), I attempted to answer that very question using an image of a haunted house to emphasize what being sexually molested was like for me.
I called it ...
The House on Haunted Hill
What did it feel like to be sexually molested?
It was cold and disgusting.
The aftermath of the experience often left me feeling dirty, used, violated, ashamed and helpless. I often felt angry, lost and alone. I was always on the run -- or so it seemed that way.
No matter how fast I ran or where I would hide it seemed that he (the Boogie Man) would always find me!
The aftermath of the experience often left me feeling dirty, used, violated, ashamed and helpless. I often felt angry, lost and alone. I was always on the run -- or so it seemed that way.
No matter how fast I ran or where I would hide it seemed that he (the Boogie Man) would always find me!
He would take me to a place that frightened me the most. A dark, haunting place. A place that gave birth to the creatures of my nightmares.
It was a lonely, dank, dark broken down place.
It stood alone in shadows that had long been forgotten. Everything around it appeared dead or dying. I could not help but feel that through it's boarded windows it was watching me; waiting for me to come home!
It stood alone in shadows that had long been forgotten. Everything around it appeared dead or dying. I could not help but feel that through it's boarded windows it was watching me; waiting for me to come home!
It had no heart and sheltered no soul; at least not a soul unto itself.
The walls were tattered and torn. They bore the images of victim's past. If you listened long enough you could hear the faint cries of those victims echoing through its walls, "Help me! Please help me!"
An eerie slow moving fog covered the ground and a musty stench permeated every inch of the house. It was a smell not unfamiliar to my young nose. A smell no child should ever recognize.
Like it's victims, the tree's were barren and naked, projecting finger-like branches in every direction.
The moon was always full.
Its light would clash constantly with the cloudy night sky draping an eerie purple luminescence over the entire hillside. The clouds, thick and violent had clasps of thunderous anger crashing from their centers.
My heart would beat faster than I could process my thoughts. There was not a single place in that house for me to hide.
I was scared. I was very scared.
His favorite area to play was the front porch. It heightened his sense of excitement. "The thrill of the catch!" he would say. "I am the hunter and you are my prey!"
The idea of getting caught added an adrenaline rush to his warped state of mind.
That is what it felt like to be sexually molested -- at least for me!
