I was molested when I was three years old by my Brother’s then best friend, who was four years older than me. I told my Mum and I was accused of lying by his parents because he was a perfect little angel, and I was obviously making it up for attention. Neither of them questioned where a three year old heard the word “shag” before, the exact word I used when I spoke to my Mum about it.
I was molested from the age of six to the age of twelve by my Best Friend of the same age. He would find any excuse to have his hands down my pants, kissing me and fondling me. When I finally found the strength to tell him to stop, he looked at me as if I had disappointed him immensely and refused to speak to me until I apologised. He tried to make me cheat on my fiancé three times in recent years, and each time I refused he got disappointed in me again.
My Mum’s friend’s former boyfriend would stare at me whenever I entered a room, and make me sit on his lap so he could cuddle me and stroke my back. I was five.
My Uncle would follow me with his eyes and call me his Girlfriend, touch me whenever he could. I was five.
I was molested when I was six by my “Dad’s” former girlfriend’s son. I never told anyone because of the reaction when I was three.
I was raped when I was fifteen, because he decided I owed him my virginity and he deserved to be my first. It was a competition between him and his friend as to who could get me to sleep with them first. He won through force.
I was groomed and molested when I was seventeen because my confidence had said fuck off, and vanished on me. He attempted to anally rape me on more than one occasion, and admitted to raping his ex-girlfriend anally whenever he wanted to because she weighed so much less than him and he could easily pin her down to do it. I got lucky, I fought back.
I never reported anything to the authorities because I was convinced I wouldn’t be believed. Because I have no faith in the British Justice System. Because I was too scared.