I know that it was Summer. The humidity in KZN can be debilitating. My golden skin glistened. Having a tan living in Durban is hard to avoid. Down the road, opposite the Drive-In, a path past the rubbish dump led to a dense forest area. Just beyond it, walled off was the caravan park. As an adventurous kid, I was always slaying dragons, hunting fairies, and conjuring up incredible ‘world-changing missions’ in that forest. I was quite a loner. Besides, most people couldn’t play well. I hated being bossed around. Some might argue that my ‘world’ was a coping mechanism. Maybe so. Anyhow my adventures found me examining trails, observing monkeys, finding snails, and random interests of the moment.
I was 12. Free-spirited. Being caged, boxed, and dictated to cut deep into my curious mind. It was, still is, a total invasion to my humanity.
On such a spirited day, I cannot tell which day, except as mentioned, it was summer.
I found a tree. Suffocated and eventually predatorily overcome by creepers. Slumped over and rotting it housed a trillion ants that sought to invade my flesh as I rested. I had heard of carnivorous ants in the Amazon. Beating off the ants in a frenzy before I got eaten, must have been a comedy to observe.
I put the rustle down to monkeys.
I was wrong.
He emerged smelling like sweat. That overpowering sweat of a grown man that had laboured. “These ants are such a pain. I was just resting. The next thing they were all over me.” “I see some on your back.”
Grateful to not be eaten and to get the irritation off me, I turned.
Strong hands beat the ants off my back. A bit too long. I started feeling uneasy. “Thanks. I must go do my homework. Enjoy your day.” As I always did, and do, when I am alone and scared, I started singing. I always imagined that observers might think that I was a cuckoo and would not venture near me.
Today I would be wrong.
Not too far along the path the wind blew a hint of the enveloping odour. I knew what was coming. Experience sharpens ones senses. The tears streamed down my dusty face. “Dear Jesus, I know that I was wrong to sneak out and play. Please forgive me. Please don’t let me die today. I don’t want to go to hell for disobeying my mom.” My 12-year-old, skinny legs, moved quicker. I tried to walk faster without appearing to be scared. I was being brave. Hoping that what I sensed was wrong. But I knew.
Before the path broke through to the overgrown veld grass, strong hands had me around the mouth pulling me. My feet didn’t touch the ground anymore. I kicked, Wriggled. He was strong. ‘Dear Jesus, please I don’t want to die!’ The thoughts and experiences flooded my mind grasping for ways to free myself. I felt ashamed that I was weaker. Angry. “Don’t speak to strangers, my Boy,” my Mom’s cautionary voice relayed through my mind. “This is your fault Arion!”
He pushed me into the ground. My body was pinned by his knees as he pulled down my pants. I could hear him loosening his own. Spitting onto his hand I could hear the motion as he aroused himself. “I am sorry Dear Jesus. I never asked to be born psychic. Why do you hate me? I don’t want to be the anti-Christ!” “Please.” In my childhood thinking it was an obvious deduction that I was the anti-Christ. Why else could I be sexualized, repeatedly from age 4. The tears came fast. I thought I might choke on the sand. My face was thrust so deep into it. I hoped that earthworms wouldn’t crawl into my mouth.
And there it was. The burn. It felt like I was being torn apart as his man penis forced its way into me. The burn! As fast as he had overpowered me the ordeal was over. I lay motionless. Too terrified to look. I waited till I could hear the rustling in the bush a far distant noise. Pulling up my pants I felt the blood starting to dry. I smelled too.
“How was I going to sneak home without anyone seeing me? Nobody could know. Daddy will blame you anyway. Shut up Arion, don’t tell anyone.”
I managed to sneak into the bath. I washed my underwear. Cleaned myself. Cleaned my face.
“Why are you walking funny, my Boy?”
“It’s nothing Mommy, I fell out of the tree playing with Scampy.”
I knew that my Mom would think that my Dad had beaten me up again.
Dear Rapists, Paedophiles, Corrective Rapists
You see these days I look back at you and worry about you. Not in a nice way. In a spiteful way. I know that God promises to avenge people, especially children who are abused by sick adults. Your day is coming. I do not wish it upon you. I have forgiven you. It took 15 years of therapy. But I got there. So let me explain what happens in the mind of a survivor.
First, we blame ourselves and act out our punishment on ourselves because of your actions. If as survivors we get passed that step, eventually we realise that we don’t want to keep hurting ourselves. It is here that we begin changing. Through much questioning, tears and anger, we realise that we want to be anything not like you.
It is at this stage where we struggle to find our true selves. It is ugly. If we as survivors get passed this stage, we eventually learn to like ourselves. We are restored back to the innocence you robbed. But this is where it gets tricky for you. You create beasts in us that seek to fight against the cruel and pathetic excuse your behaviours are for a human. These justice warriors increase daily as we support each other in our various healing journeys.
So where you thought you were taking what is not yours to take, in fact, you give yourself away to a series of consequences that are coming your way both physically and supernaturally. It cannot be avoided. Well, not unless you willingly seek professional help and voluntarily make amends.
You see as I was being raped at age 12 I was aware, as God wept for what a man was doing to me, that I was loved. That even if I died that day that I would be taken Home and made brand new.
You think that you are serving your sick mind…..trust me you are not.
WHAT IS COMING YOUR WAY, I WOULD NEVER WISH UPON MY WORST ENEMY. AND I AM NOT REFERRING TO WHAT HAPPENS TO PEOPLE LIKE YOU IN PRISON. IT IS A FUNNY THING…..A CODE AMONGST PRISONERS IS THAT MEN OR WOMEN WHO VIOLATE CHILDREN IS AN UNFORGIVABLE ACT. THEY ACT ACCORDINGLY, OFT THE VIOLATOR DIES BEHIND COLD IMPERSONAL BARS.
Get help and help stop a sickness that seeks to ruin lives. Instead of pushing people out of a sexual orientation you simply push them into it.
IF YOU WANT TO ‘CORRECT’ THE WORLD IT STARTS BY FIXING YOUR OWN BROKEN SOUL.