When I was 9 years old my parents placed me into Taekwondo lessons. Unlike the others, I was not taught discipline, commitment, and self-defense. There, I was taught by a male instructor, more than twice my age, what it means to be a victim of molestation.
The sexual exploitation went on for a while. It started out seemingly harmless, as he molded me into his perfect little protégé; a keeper of his secrets. He made me feel special, because out of all the other kids he wanted to sit next to me during snack breaks. He wanted to hold my hand underneath the table, not the other kids. It was me he wanted to have sit on his lap. Eventually, it was me he wanted to take into a closet, and my privates he wanted to touch. He had groomed me well, I kept his secrets for too long. Or maybe that’s why he chose me, because he thought I wouldn’t talk.
As a teenager and into my young adulthood, I continue to look for this same treatment amongst male company; someone to make me feel special. Maybe I longed for that same affection, that undivided attention, maybe my molester had introduced to me a void I didn’t realize was there. I am left only to ask myself, “would I ever be able to have a relationship with males in which I don’t long for their approval, for their praise and attention?”
He now has a wife and kid, and I think he must be living with some sense of guilt, right? Some awful dark secret he must carry around for the rest of his life. When he looks at his little girl, he must occasionally see me, prematurely introduced to sex. I was molested, and while it may influence my relationships, he’s the one who must live with the pain of knowing he brought harm to someone else. He is the one who suffers.