By Mathilde Vesterherup
The dark thundercloud
Stories of first sexual experiences abounded among my female friends as a romantic rite of passage that left people on a pink cloud. My body could recognize the words about how fingers on the skin could give goosebumps, and about how hands on the breasts could make the body tremble. But the cloud that ended up hanging over me was a large and dark thundercloud that hammered its lightning into my frightened body. Every morning especially. When my mother's husband sneaked through the door of my room, lay down with me and caressed my body.
I was 16 years old when my mother's husband started his abuse and he did it by subjecting me to what I know today is grooming. To prepare his prey by manipulating them into assault.
When it started he told me about all the men he had killed while stationed in Afghanistan. I was 16 years old, and my thoughts about war were that my mother's husband was on the side of the good guys fighting the bad guys. That one had to kill those who lived, thought and behaved wrongly. I found his gun one day, unlocked in a box, and looking back, I know he let me find it in the closet on purpose. As a kind of proof that he was the good person who could kill those misbehaving.
And so I began to obey in silence.
Grooming
Being exposed to grooming is a long-term process in which an offender builds a relationship with a child or young person, where the goal is to commit a sexual assault. You are manipulated over a long period of time, and little by little, you are forced to exceed your limits. What started as small episodes slowly became everyday. When my mother's husband first took a small step over my boundary, he did so by offering massages and kissing me on the mouth when he came home from work. He did it a few times while my mom watched, as if he wanted to convince us all that what he was doing was completely normal. I felt that I should think it was nice, and I thought a lot that maybe I should learn to be kissed now that my own mother didn't react when she saw it.
My mother's husband started fondling the side of my breast under my shirt when we were watching TV in the evening. One day he walked into the bathroom while I was in the shower and looked at my body through the glass wall of the shower. He started by coming in to me in the morning, when I was woken up by his stiff member pressing against my back through his pants. At first it was only on weekends. Suddenly it was every day. And I began to think about whether I should tell my mother. Because I felt he was cheating on her. With me. Because I let him do it.
One day I chose to tell my mother if her husband had told me about those he had killed in Afghanistan, probably because I was desperately looking for an explanation for his behavior. Maybe he was really having a hard time. Maybe he needed help. My mother said that he had never spoken to her about it, and I could see in her eyes that her feelings were not outrage, or anger. She felt jealous. Like I was a competitor trying to conquer her husband.
A total of 1.5 years of abuse went by, and it stopped when one day he asked me to take off my clothes. When he said that, it was like I finally woke up from my nightmare. That night I fled from my home and I never returned. My mother didn't believe me when I finally got up the courage to tell her everything he had done. Because he hadn't raped me. Or touched my sex. So it couldn't possibly be that bad.
The municipality asked me to accept an apology from my mother's husband, and asked me not to walk around the house in underwear anymore. Because I shouldn't tempt. During the 3 months when I was homeless and had to struggle to borrow a sofa, a caravan or a mattress, I constantly doubted whether it was really that bad or whether it was me being too delicate. But I knew that if I returned home, it was only a matter of time before he would manipulate me into having sex with him.
Aftershock
My first encounter with sex had been decided for me. I was cold and tired, I had been demoted to a piece of meat that he could eat whenever he wanted. My head and my body were no longer connected. I couldn't understand how my body felt the caress as something nice, while my whole inside screamed and burned as if his fingers were knives inside me.
One of the most precious things we have had been ripped from me, abused and thrown on the floor. I developed vulvodynia after the long trauma he had put my body through. He made it impossible for me to have sex without it starting with burning pain and reminders of his desire for me.
My mother married him after I escaped, and today he still lives in my childhood home. I don't attend my grandparents and siblings birthdays because it means I have to be in the same room as him. It breaks my heart to see them laughing with him. I hate that the victim is considered guilty until proven guilty. I hate that he has stolen both my body and my family. And I hate that I can't make them realize that we are sitting at the table with a pedophile.
Light in life
I have been so broken that at the age of 20 I tried to take my own life because I couldn't see myself at all, from all the heavy emotions that invaded my mind. It has been a long and hard struggle to get to where I am today. It has taken me 13 years. This article is the first time I'm telling my story publicly, I haven't had the courage before because I've experienced massive victim-blaming. As if what happened to me wasn't enough to kick him out. That an apology, or a ban on walking around in underwear, should have solved it.
If I had read this, I think it would have helped. So if you can recognize yourself in my story, then know that it is not your fault. No one but you can decide where your limit is. I wish I could tell you that life on the other side is easier than living with abuse. But I can't. I hope that your family reacts differently than mine did, but there is perhaps just as great a risk that it is you who will be thrown out, and not your abuser.
But I can promise you it's all worth it, and I wish for you that you don't wait 13 years. You don't have to live your life in hiding, to take care of those who should have taken care of you. There is light at the end of the tunnel, and although it is not always the light we hope for, light in life is better than heavy thunder clouds.
It took me many years to stop being ashamed, and even though the shame visits every now and then, I insist that I have a right to a good sex life. That I have the right to decide over my own body and desire. That my body is not his anymore. That I want to be my own woman again, feel safe in my own skin, give myself sexual experiences based on consent, desire and love.
And now it feels like it was in another life. Today I am almost 29 years old. My black heavy thundercloud has turned quite pink and I float around on it in peace and security with my girlfriend. Today I love my body. It has survived something unforgivable. Locked my boyfriend in. Carried and gave birth to a child. I give it permission to love sex. I am my own woman. Safe. Glad. Proud.
