I WAS molested as a little girl
My given name is Cecile Katricia Peter Nogis and this was the domestication of the earth I knew. To those who feel unseen, unheard, or even unvalued — this one’s for you. As we step out of the month that highlights Mental Health Awareness, I share my story not to dwell in the shadows of the past, but to put light to a path for healing and understanding. Mental health struggles are not a sign of weakness but is what provides a stem that can lead us to our strength. Your story matters even if you don’t have the will to share it. I have drafted out so many things to share about self acceptance and when I finally had the urge to launch, I had a writers block. Although, I knew what to write about, I didn’t know how to organize it nor what to begin with. In means of finding help, my sister and best friend had suggested I should start by sharing my story. Which felt completely right as I will be connecting with people and groups in the near future. I found myself having a hard time trying to word it rightly with no offense to anyone.
As I started writing this I looked up the meaning of molest, because I thought it specifically referred to an adult making unwanted sexual contact with a child. But I was wrong. Molest actually means making unwanted contact towards another regardless of the age of the person doing it or having it being done to.
Around first or second grade something happened that changed me deeply. A boy nearly twice my age lured me into a room to have his way with my body nevertheless, my innocence. My innocence because I was unaware of what was being done to me. And that was the beginning of what I believed to be my end. I don’t remember my exact age, I guess because it’s a memory I was not fond of. At any given chance I’d lie to myself that it didn’t happen in my attempt to blur it out of my memory which was impossible.
I can remember that in second grade, it was hard for me to focus on what was being taught in class. My interest shifted from wanting to make my parents proud with my good grades to wanting to fit in with my classmates, whether with fashion or having the most friends even if it meant having the worse grades. I remembered that by then anything instructors were teaching had barely reached my interest.
I trusted a boy who was older than me to do to my body what he shouldn’t be doing. But how was I to know it wasn’t right, when we were taught to believe that the older you were the wiser you are. The topic of sex was never brought up in the house and it felt awkward to bring it up to my parents by the time I knew it was wrong. It was one thing to not know it wasn’t right, and it was another thing to always promise him that it remains a secret each time it ended. There were hints, of course, like times when my parents would tell me to close my eyes during a kissing scene then I secretly peek to see two people being romantically intimate. Also from kids around my age talking about exotic things. What could you imagine I was thinking and evaluating for myself and how would I view romance as I grew? I lacked resources to give me courage to find help, and more importantly, answers. Like why? Why me?
The sexual activities happened until I reached middle school. By that time, I’d define myself as someone who is ruined physically and mentally. The people I was acquainted would have no idea. I grew to gain guilt over knowing how things would turn out had I brought it up to my parents or any of their siblings. However, at the back of my head was the thought that if I shared anything to them, they’d protect me like a cub and that idea alone was enough to comfort me. Even so, not having anyone to confide in was still torturing.
Overtime, I struggled trying to fit in and find the same confidence, happiness, and attitude I could find in my friends. Because my self-esteem was so low that I never had the courage to make self-sustaining decisions. I could say I was a follower more than I was a leader with my peers and with my thoughts.
It was not easy knowing there’s nothing that could change what had happened to me. It was not easy thinking there was something wrong with me. It was not easy thinking I needed to find mental help from an expert on an island filled with people that could just label you as they see fit for themselves. It was not easy trying to find love through anyone when I couldn’t even care to love me first, where I was self-destructive in order to please others because I never had the capacity to accept me. Despite the love I’d receive by everyone around me not being enough as I was assuming. I had no interest to sit in silence and be aware of my thought process to separate what made me feel life and what made me feel death. I’ve wastefully worried most my life about being accepted. Knowing what it’s like to feel lost and less, I am now driven to remind anyone who feels small that their presence is enough.
People don’t know the seriousness of mental deprivation. Mental health is necessary every month and every day. It’s as serious as making the choices that either hurt ourselves or others. As I found comfort when I held on to my victimhood and used it as an excuse to continue making choices I regret or just fearing the attempt to try harder for myself. It held me back countless times on reaching stages of growth and opportunities I’d turn away from.
I’m not writing this in hopes to gain anyone’s pity and approval. I care less if anybody believes me. Because I’ve lived long enough to realize that I refuse to continue living as a victim of my past. I’m not sharing this to shame anyone in the process as well, for I am now understanding that we are all growing through what we are going through. And, I share this with good intention.
From my heart to yours. I will share to you what I wish I’d known years ago. Quit looking for happiness outside of you. Stay curious and don’t settle for the lesser things that barely makes you feel okay to be alive. If you can be aware that you’ve reached your lowest point, guess what? Through that awareness, it can only go upward from that moment forward.
To the males of all ages that went through a similar experience. I respectfully salute to you. I can’t imagine the hardship of reaching self conformity in a society that expects you to be masculine while you’re trying to figure things out. If it went as bad as thinking you had to be in a gang to have the feeling of belonging or even take drugs to escape a reality you could not stand, this counts for females too, you-are-not-alone.
For the past year, I’ve come across many individuals sharing their stories with me and their mental struggle didn’t have to root from being molested. It can stem from rejection, failure or the expectations that destroys them.
It’s hard enough hearing stories that I couldn’t imagine myself going through. It had made me look at my story differently, as if there really wasn’t anything to complain about. I can say I continuously find gratification when I realize that there will always be trials you can overcome that others need guidance with. Because we were meant find hope in others and share hope for others. Some stories are meant to be reached for one to realize they’re not alone. I know this because the first time my best friend told me her story of being molested, the weight of hatred I had carried for myself lifted off. I’m not saying that I loved myself overnight but I’ll never forget that day because when I realized I wasn’t alone I started accepting myself.
This world needs work and it starts by reminding each other that we’re not alone and that it’s only the beginning.
