For some reason, my past is catching up to me. I suppose it is because I am so happy, and also beginning a relationship that includes some sexual bits, but my history of sexual abuse has really been bothering me lately. It can't be because I don't think he'll want me if I've been damaged... He's done enough on his own. It can't be that I've started to actually care, because the assholes of my past rarely still affect me. I've been dwelling a lot on my uncle, because he is the one I see the most. Right now, I am typing from his computer... My aunt's computer... They fight a lot, and I've been fantasizing about them breaking up... it makes me feel utterly guilty. It is my conscience that keeps me from telling on him, for Johnny's sake. I don't want him to have to grow up with a menopausal mother and no father. It would suck for all involved. But, no matter how much I try, I can't seem to shake the insult of the fact that it was his crime and I have to be the one with a conscience. He doesn't even feel guilty for it, or at least shows no remorse. He simply carries on as if nothing ever happened, as if it were perfectly normal what he did to me for so long. It wasn't that extended of a period of time, really. About two months or so. He didn't even really do anything. I don't remember when it started, or when it stopped. I just know it happened both when I had my first bedroom there and after I switched with the adults. I know that once he got his hand inside my underwear he never did it again. Was it that he had made his final accomplishment? I still remember him asking if he could please do it, and the dirty feeling of his gritty hands against the parts of me that weren't his to touch. I wonder if after that night he realized how wrong his actions were, and in his own way tried to make things right, by not doing it anymore... I was eleven years old, I think. ... And the other night, when I was cuddling with Jordan and he was touching my breasts, I couldn't help but think of my father. I remembered how he had been just like my uncle in his ways and tricked my young mind. I didn't realize it was wrong with my uncle, but I did with my dad. I knew that it was a kind of attention that wasn't okay. I didn't make him stop because I wanted to have an orgasm. It was four days after my twelfth birthday. I had a really awkward time going through puberty. When I got to the age where I started thinking about sexual things, they began happening to me in devious ways, that I just now am feeling the effects of (I suppose) I've just realized, it must have gone on longer with my uncle than I thought. It was not long after my little cousin was born that it started. After all the time spent trying to conceive a baby, now that they had one I suppose my uncle was sex-starved. I couldn't have been more than 10 years old. Johnny was only a matter of months old... and I don't think it could have ended too long before the incident with my father. I remember the first time I masturbated. It was to Laverne & Shirley. I didn't care what was on tv, I just watched it and touched myself at what happened to be the same time. I was way too young to be doing that sort of thing, even if I didn't even think of the sexual nature of it until I'd already been doing it. I was 10 years old when I lost my innocence. It was aided partially by conversations with my uncle before the abuse started, and taken by myself with that first orgasm, after which I became a sexual being, something which I had never intended to be. I liked it when my uncle touched me because it felt good. I guess I feel guilty for that, though I really don't. It wasn't something I could control. I was a child, I didn't know better. I knew that it should be kept a secret (I typed sex and had to go back and correct my spelling), but I didn't fully realize what it meant. I'm confused now, about the chronology of things, about how my youth got so blurred and confused. In the sixth grade I wanted to kill myself. I wanted to become a goth and live all my days in darkness. I still find the style of dress the most utterly attractive thing on the planet. But also in that sixth grade year, I goofed around with the boys, telling sick jokes, laughing about sex concepts that we had no real ideas about. I was just as into it as a joke as all the slutty little elementary kids are into it as a reality. Unfortunately it was a reality to me, one that I didn't even acknowledge in a way that is satisfactory to my present self. It seems it's time for healing, time for me to actually face the issues in my past (that's where they are now; I've confronted my cousin and my father apologized the next day after that isolated incident... with my uncle there has been no closure, which must be why it is bothering me so very much, but at least the action stopped long ago) and let them go. Time for me to move on. But do I even want to? ... Yes.