The Beginning of My Story

Posted: November 4, 2012 in You're Not Alone!

Hello, again! I’m Elise, a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and adolescent sexual assault and this is the beginning of my story.

I was approximately three years old when I was first abused (to my recollection). Both of my parents worked full-time; therefore, I was subject to childcare as millions of other children are these days. My mother was not an irresponsible parent, as she fully researched who would care for me and their credentials and references. I was her first-born child, and it was important that whomever cared for me in her stead would treat me well and care for me as she would.

My mother met Hazel, a small-framed, mulatto woman that lived about 20 minutes from our home. Hazel had years of experience as a childcare provider, several community references and a nice home where I would go during the days. Mom carefully interviewed Hazel, inspected her home, and performed an unscheduled visit to ensure that Hazel was on the up-and-up, so to speak. Hazel was all that she seemed, and my mother decided that this was a very good place for me.

As young as I was, I remember Hazel’s house to a tee! I remember that when you walked in the door you were standing in the family room, as Hazel didn’t have a formal living room. The family room had an old-style, box television, a missionary style, rectangular coffee table, and a psychedelic, floral couch covered in plastic as many African-American homes did back in the 70’s. Once you went through the living room, you reached the dining room, which held Hazel’s kitchen table due to her kitchen being very small. The house, in general, was small by comparison. Hazel had three bedrooms and one bath. One of the three bedrooms was for Hazel’s father who was bedridden. A hospital-style bed and many machines were in the room, but the smell alone kept my toddler curiosity at bay. The other two bedrooms were for Hazel and then for her son, who was a teenager at the time, if I recall. Hazel’s son, name unknown, kept to himself and often remained in his dark room with the door shut during the day.

I don’t remember the specific day…the specific time…the specific season, that I was raped. I don’t even remember what Hazel’s son looked like, which is strange when I think about it due to the fact that I remember EVERYTHING else, including the smell of the old man’s room. I look back now, and Hazel’s ‘no-name’ son is just a large, black silhouette…not due to his skin complexion, but just a blocked image in an already over-crowded mind, I assume. What I remember is that Hazel’s ‘no-name’ son took my hand guiding me into his room, shutting the door behind us. I felt scared, but now I know not why. I felt confused, too, but again I cannot explain the exact causation behind that feeling. The next thing I remember is the black silhouette laying me on the floor, and I felt a pain so unimaginable that I still am unable to describe it.

In my mind, the day skips to night, and I am at home, safe with my parents and in need of a bathroom break. I told my mom I had to “tee-tee” (that was the way my grandmother taught me to say I had to take a leak…lol). My mom walked with me to the bathroom, sat me on the toilet, and when I tried to urinate it hurt so badly I wouldn’t go. I remember telling my mom that I couldn’t go because it hurt. Again, my mind skips, and the next memory is later that evening in Children’s Hospital Emergency. I can’t tell you anymore than that, because the remainder is completely blocked, but my mom remembers that the doctors “refused to say” what caused the problem, and just catheterized me to make me go.

We have to think, that this is back in 1976…sexual abuse was that dirty, little secret that no one spoke of…including medical professionals. They could have told my mother and father that I was raped, because undoubtedly they knew; however, they let things remain unveiled and sent me back home and inevitably back to my abuser. I cannot tell you if this happened more than once, because unfortunately (or fortunately…depending on perspective) I cannot remember. But what I do know is that my dirty, little secret is out now to millions of people. It is no longer a secret, as it is my first step to empowerment…my first step to healing…my first step to discarding the baggage that was left with me that I did not own.

Now that you know one of my stories, what do you think? How do you feel about my story? Do you have a story to tell? If you do, I can add it to my blog anonymously and you can take your ‘first step’ not alone, but with me at your back. As the blog becomes viral, you won’t just have me, you will have millions of supporters at your back to help you take your walk to finding yourself once again. What’s your secret?

If you would like to email me your story, feel free to at Your private information will remain such unless you tell me specifically to use your first name. I appreciate you taking the time to read my story, or the beginning I should say. Thank you.



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