At least twice it happened.
The first time I was five and the other I was nine.

Both instances I had no idea what was happening.

It was only when the risk became known to my younger sister that I decided to speak up and confess my disturbed past.

My Parents shredded their tears and rejoiced at their failing as guardians.

Could their rivers that run from their eyes help me now? They certainly couldn't help me back then when I was trapped in his bed. Cemented between his aroused body that was firmly pressing down on me or the unfamiliar scent radiating from the uncomfortable mattress that lay beneath me. I was five.

Could their pleas of forgiveness help me now? They certainly couldn't when I was sitting on his knee as his unhesitant hand crept higher up my leg, reaching to the buttons on my jeans and unwillingly entered beyond the waistline.  I was nine.

Can therapy help the fact that I hate men? How I despise the idea of love and coward away in a corner when I think of becoming close to someone. How about I can’t even be in a room alone with a male without welcoming on a panic attack.
I am scarred for life and no amount of pills or talk sessions are going to change that.

Don’t try.