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An honest story about Child-on-child sexual abuse

Child abuse is something that makes a lot of people uncomfortable. 

Child-on-child sexual abuse (CoCSA) damn right cringes people the hell out. 

I’m here to talk about both, if not now, then for a short time soon.

What amazes me is that it’s not widely talked about and victims of  (CoCSA) are shamed into silence about it or are mistakenly blamed for the sexual assault they encountered as a small child. Like, “no, that wasn’t sexual abuse! That was you exploring your sexuality, you little deviant!”

But guess what? 

If you’ve had to suffer through unwanted sexual contact as a child from another child, that is CoCSA. That experience shouldn’t be explained away, it shouldn’t be brushed under the rug nor should it be minimilised. 

Your experience is very real, incredibly valid and shouldn’t be silenced because it makes people uncomfortable. That’s not fair on you or your experience. 

I’m sick and tired of people looking down on victims of CoCSA because they can’t wrap it around their own minds how one child can violate another in such a way, but holy hell does it happen. And it happens in the thousands. 

One way or another, that experience can very well effect your functioning. 

I know because it has effected mine. And I hate it. Absolutely hate it with a passion and I wish I never had to go through that but I did. 

I did.

Nakedstreetkid out x

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Poetry

Rotten, ripen

I grew up hating myself

I would lace my blooming body in dirty rags

Slam it into walls to disfigure my ripening bossoms

And drape cloth over curves to hide away my woman-hood.

It didn’t make sense to me.

How could fruit grow

On the outside

Of a rotten centre?

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STORYTIME: The story of Little Miss Scarface

I find that I have always grown up hating my body.

This was true for me especially after being sexually abused. I remember feeling dirty and just hating myself beyond comprehendabe words. That I wanted, more than anything, to get rid of that feeling of dirt that layed grinning, firmly attached to my skin.

So I found a way.

Something that I used to do from a very young age was scrub away at my body with a sponge.The sponge being a notted lace of mesh-like material, which was – and still is – a very popular method of cleaning the body in Africa, Ghana. This increased with a furious vengence during and after the sexual abuse. I would scrub and scrub and scrub, until the first layer of skin came off and then the second layer.

Essentially, without knowing it, I was engaging in self-harm behaviours.

It was something I did in private and my mum didn’t really know about it until I started getting acne at the age of 10. Which I was so embarassed by, so, what did I do? I scrubbed it away.

And my mum was furious. 

Absolutely furious.
She kept asking me why would I do that to myself, that people were going to see that ugly mark on my forehead and people were going to hate me.

But I didn’t really care. People already hated me, I didn’t have any friends and scubbing away my problems in the past made me feel satisfied, so why should I care? But my mum went on and on, shouting at me until I felt utterly ashamed of what I had done and felt very much that I shouldn’t have done it for everyone to see. That now that people could see it, they would definitely not be my friend.

So, I went into school the next day, with a collection of small plasters on my forehead and because they were too small, I had to place some of the sticky parts onto the open wound. I remember it hurting so much but being proud of myself because I had successfully hidden it.

A lot of people came p to me and asked me about it and I laughed it of, saying that I had skid my head on the pavement while playing outside but at least I was one step closer to being the next Harry Potter. Most people bought that and a lot more people found me interesting.

The long story short? I made friends, my self-esteem grew and without knowing it, I surrounded myself with people who somewhat cared about me.

Nakedstreetkid out x

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My Future

It is six in the morning. I have only had two, maybe three hours sleep. No matter, I wanted to say this somewhere, to someone.

I don’t think I’m going to university next year. Even though I desperately want to, I need to take my time with this because I am just not ready. I am so emotionally unstable, my depression and my anxiety is just overtaking my life right now. Especially if I want to go into the healthcare profession, I need to prioritise my own wellbeing. And right now, I am not ready.

I go through significant and life threatening bouts of suicidal ideation, my depression has isolated me so completely from myself and the world, my forearm is scarred to the high heavens and my body is suffering from my compulsions to pull out my hair. My life is not looking good right now.

But I don’t think I should be ashamed about that. The mere fact that I have finally allowed myself to recognise it shows that I’m finally trying to face it. I’m finally trying to face it. I really am. And that makes me kind of happy.

So, for now, I shall focus on retaking my A-level exams and worry about everything else later. I mean, I’ll give a brief thought to the future, but really, I know that will stifle my motivation.

Maybe I can finally go to sleep, so I’ll talk to you guys later.

Nakedstreetkid out xx