I Finally Told My Parents I Was Raped

I was seven then, I am seventeen now.

It happened in my own house, back in our game room where my younger brother and I would play and watch movies.

The boy was the son of a very nice couple who were good friends with my parents. The boy (lets call him Peter) was a good friend to me and my brother, I trusted and looked up to him.

Looking back I can’t quite remember how I ended up alone with him, my brother was usually there too. What I do remember, and quite vividly, was every detail in how he sexually assaulted me.

Being just a child I didn’t know what rape was or what it meant, but it felt wrong. Unfortunately that feeling wasn’t enough to get him to stop when he kept convincing me and telling me it was okay. I was supposed to trust him, this family friend that was years older than me. So he continued and I laid there like the naive child I was.

That wasn’t the only time Peter assaulted me. He molested me three times after that, all in places I considered to be safe.

It wasn’t until years after when we had already lost contact with the family that I realized what had happened. By then I was too ashamed and afraid to bring it up to my parents out of blue. So this secret, this damage, stayed hidden inside myself for ten years.

Fast forward a few more years. I’m now seeing a therapist for my generalized anxiety disorder. The lady is wonderful and I feel comfortable with her immediately. That’s why the thought of telling an adult about the rape began to sneak its way into my head more than it ever used to. Part of me knew that my therapist would encourage me to tell my parents, and maybe that’s what I needed.

During the 5th session with my therapist I told her the full story. Getting the first few words out was the hardest, but after that it all flowed out. Ten years worth of torture that I had kept inside myself was now out in the open for the first time.

After I had finished, my therapist reminded me that this abuse does not define me as a person. I’ve come far in life by always doing well in school and my future is bright. The rape is just a piece of my past. It does not affect the kind of person I am or will become.

What she told me next was the hardest part. Under law, she has to report the crime to the police. Because of this it was in my best interest to tell my parents before the police contacted me for more information. My therapist apologized and explained that Peter could be out there doing this to other women or already has, that’s why it’s important that the police check on him to make sure he isn’t hurting anyone else.

We set up another appointment two weeks from then, and this time I would bring my mother with me.

The days leading up to that next appointment were torturous. The closer it got the more terrified I became. What if my parents don’t believe me? What if they get angry that I kept it a secret or that I told my therapist and not them? Every possible outcome was clouding my head. At night I would barely sleep, the nerves kept me awake and drove me crazy.

When the day finally came, I felt sick. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking the entire drive to the office where my mom was meeting me.

At the office my therapist tried to calm me down a little before we brought my mom in. She assured me that if my mother gets angry, it’s not directed at me but to my assailant.

I decided it’d be best to just rip the bandaid off, so my therapist brought my mother into the room.

Her first reaction to telling her I was raped was shock.

“What?” My mom had said. I could tell she was staring at me, though I refused to meet her gaze. “Like, penetration? Actual penetration?”

“Yes, mom.”

We sat there in silence for a few minutes before my therapist stepped in to console my mother, who then burst into tears. She reached for me and pulled me to her and told me she was so sorry and that she wished she would have known. I told her I never knew how to say it.

There was a lot of silence after that. I could tell my mom was trying to process what she had just learned about her daughter. I just stared at the floor. Living with the rape for ten years, I had become numb to it. I felt nothing, I couldn’t cry. The only thing that made me hurt was that my mother was now hurting, and my father would be the same way when we told him at home.

It wasn’t until that night my mom was able to sit down and talk to my father. I sat on the couch holding a pillow to my face while she explained what she found out at my therapy appointment.

His first reaction was the same as my mother’s. Complete disbelief. After it sunk in, he stood up and hugged me and asked why I had never told them. I said I didn’t know how to. My dad covered his face with his hand and my mom started crying again.

“It happened right upstairs in the game room.” My mother finally said.

“We were here?” My father asks. I nod.

That seemed to make it worse for them. Knowing that I was being raped right above their heads and they didn’t know. I could see the guilt in their eyes thinking that they had been bad parents. But there’s no way they could have known. No one said anything, and they trusted Peter just like I had. No one expected anything like that to happen.

My mother kept talking about all those times they left me alone with Peter, unaware of the damage he was doing to me. It broke her heart.

“I don’t know what to do.” My father said.

No one knew what to do. No one could find anything to say that would make everything better. The truth is that only time could make things better. My parents needed time to accept this information, and I needed to wait for everything to go back to normal.

Looking at my parents crumpled expressions, I couldn’t believe that I had thought they’d be mad. I couldn’t believe I thought they’d be anything but heartbroken that someone had abused their baby girl.

I write this story not for myself, but for anyone else who’s ever been abused in their lives. I know you’re afraid and it’s hard to come out and get help, but keeping it a secret is a burden no one should have to carry with them. There is always someone willing to be there for you and make the pain a little less heavy.

Another reason you should get help is that the person that hurt you could be out there hurting others too. What if those victims don’t speak up? That’s when the villain wins. Be the hero, stop the villain from causing more harm than they already have.

It’s hard, but something like this is bigger than yourself.

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