As a child you spend your time playing hide and seek or climbing the trees in your local park. For the rebel kids, they would tell their mam they were at their friend’s house around the corner and went into town or played knock down ginger. The angels would sit indoors playing with their latest toy or watching tv, maybe even reading a book. Maybe you would spend all day playing footie on the closest field or playing on those circle swings that would spin around while you and your four friends were all sat on it. I had that kind of childhood. I still have the scars from all the trees, I can remember the bruises that covered my legs from playing goalie and I can still feel that rush I’d get when I sprinted away from a front door. But everyone has secrets.

As a four-year-old child, it is unimaginable that they would have any worries apart from which toy your parents were going to treat you to this time or how many sweets you could get away with putting in the trolley at the supermarket. Or ridiculous that a five-year-old could be stressed unless it was because you weren’t allowed to have a fresh baked cupcake or sugar before dinner. It’s mind-blowing that a six-year-old could be scared for any other reason than your mam finding out you pinched a packet of crisps from the cupboard or you’d smacked a kid at school. It is so fucking unfair that a seven-year-old had things that stopped them from focusing apart from picking which cute valentines to pick for the asshole kid at school or they were arguing with their best friend over who had the better Pokémon cards.

As a four-year-old… I spent my time worrying about my mam finding out. At five, I was stressed that it kept on happening. When I turned six, all I was scared about was what he would give me for a birthday present. And when I was seven, I couldn’t focus because I was petrified someone would find out and they would get hurt. That someone would find out that I was being molested and had been for the last 4 years. If they found out, he told me he would have to hurt them and that’s why I never told. I see now that he wouldn’t have done anything, it was just his way of keeping me quiet.

I can’t even remember how it started. The earliest I remember is him holding my hand and taking me to a room. I throw up when I think any further than that. It happened for over four years and it kills me now that no one noticed. No one found out. I should have told. I should tell someone now, but it would tear so many apart. Especially my mam, I can’t do that to her. So instead I just tell a bunch of strangers on a blog, not sure if that’s any better.

I have had nightmares for the last five years. Every night without fail I have a nightmare of what he did to me. Whilst he is out there living his life with a family he built. I wake up every morning sick to my stomach while wakes up without a fucking worry in the world. I honestly think that he believes I’ve forgotten. I haven’t. I spent all my life trying to forget it and once the nightmares started, I had no choice but to remember. Every day I wake up in such a horrible mood and I must try everything I can to try and smile at my two gorgeous children.

The thing that sucks? I told my ex about it. We had a toxic relationship. But the whole time he blamed it on me. Y’know, because I was four years old and running around with my top off, I was apparently asking for it. Or that because I was so close with him that I made him want it and that I seduced him. And at first I was disgusted he’d even suggest a thing but over time you start to believe what you hear. I honestly hate myself. I caused what happened to me. I’m damaged goods, I’m dirty. Nevertheless, it doesn’t make it right what he did to me.

I would love to tell someone. My mam, my family, or even the police. But I’ve learnt that some things aren’t worth the destruction they bring. A broken childhood isn’t worth ruining families.