Harm unchecked

Content note: This essay includes discussion of childhood sexual harm and its long-term effects. Please take care while reading.

I was an 11-year-old child who was being sexually assaulted by a classmate who sat next to her. I thought that was what friends did. I had no friends until then in my life, so whoever wanted to stay with me and spend time with me was a friend.

I was 2–3 years younger than my peers all of my student life. This was 8th grade. When other girls talked about boys or porn sites, I was sitting there asking, “What does that mean?” and the response was always, “You’re too young.” That alone created a sense of isolation that I craved to break out of.

For safety and sensitivity reasons, I’ll call her Y. I used to sit on the first bench, Y next to me. I don’t remember how it started, but she started hanging out with me, going to the bathroom with me, and eventually asking me to touch her—and a lot more that I will not name here due to the triggering nature of those incidents.

The building had a shared open floor where kids were expected to relieve themselves and only two tiny stalls with doors for the 'grownups.' Definitely, in retrospect, I can see how the environment had no measures to safely hold growing bodies.

After almost 5–6 months of this every day at school, one day Y invited me to her home. I went expecting we’d have all her family there, but she was there alone. She told me that her parents went out to shop and that her mom said it was okay for her to have me over while her younger sister was still at school.

We started playing board games, and I still don’t remember how it escalated, but I was raped and in pain by the time her parents came home. I was frozen. I, to this day, don’t remember how I came out of their house.

All I remember was what it felt like when she was walking me home. I didn’t wanna be touched. I didn’t wanna be close. I had pounding pain in my lower abdomen and could barely walk without flinching. I didn’t talk to anybody that day. I didn’t want to. I wanted to hide.

One day, when my mom was folding clothes, I remember very uncomfortably bringing up the subject the only way an 11-year-old could frame it:

“Mom, Y touches me a lot and I don’t like it…”

My mom, without a moment of pause, responded with, “Just be grateful you have a friend now,” as she continued to fold clothes. I remember a sinking feeling in my chest, and I knew I had nowhere to hide.

At school, I started avoiding her. Her touch felt repelling. I changed where I sat. I told myself, “Just a couple more months and it’ll be summer.” My mom had already planned on changing schools for next year, so I just held on with all I’ve got.

I changed schools for 9th grade. No classmate of mine was touching me anymore. I was not sure what was happening inside me, but I couldn’t exist without someone touching me. It felt horrifying. I know now that my nervous system was conditioned to touch—something a child should NEVER have to experience.

I was 12 years old, and I didn’t know how to exist without being touched like Y touched me. I started asking other kids to touch me, without knowing I was doing what Y did to me.

I remember that one day—I’m not really sure what triggered it—I came home after someone touched me and I thought to myself:

“I never liked when Y touched me. It felt awful. They must feel awful when I touch them too. I don’t want to make anyone feel that awful.”

That was the pledge of a 12-year-old who never went back. No matter how many people harmed her in so many ways, she chose over and over again to never spread the pain inflicted on her. Even today, as a 31-year-old, I hold that same value—a boundary set in stone.

“It stops with me.”

This isn’t a story of a hero or someone doing the right thing. It is a witness of what unaddressed harm can do and how it spreads unchecked. A child should not have the responsibility to do 'the right thing,' because at 12 years of age, most cognitive systems have not yet formed what 'the right thing' means.

I used to carry a lot of guilt and shame around the fact that I touched anyone at all during those incidents. I remember feeling like a monster, afraid of telling anyone I did that. Just the thought of coming across or being faced with any of those individuals as an adult made me want to burrow myself and never come out. That stayed with me until just a couple of years ago.

If I were faced with adult versions of them now, I know what I would say—even if they never asked me to explain myself.

“I remember that, and that was wrong. It was wrong for you to have gone through that, for me to have gone through that, for that circumstance to have even been. I wish that didn’t happen. I’m grateful that you’re still here and you see it too.”

We treat harm as something that arises because someone is 'bad.' I learned very young that harm is often the result of an unchecked stream. I never intended harm, and that child learned very young that intention does not equal impact.

I never had an outlet—another channel to release the harm—no matter how many times I ended up being assaulted, violated, tortured. My body bore the cost of containing what should’ve never been carried by anyone, definitely not alone.

Now, I build systems, boundaries, educate, and advocate—not because I am special, but because I’ve lived inside harm and understand it.