The first person I told that my stepfather molested me didn’t hear me. Her eyes were glazed over, head leaning forward, attention span engulfed in late night TV. I called her name, over and over again. She didn’t hear me.

The second person I told that my stepfather was “touching” me cried and asked if I was serious. I’m not sure if she ever believed me.

The third person I told that my stepfather was sleeping with me understood my tears. She held me through the phone, asked me if I believed in God, and explained that He wasn’t punishing me. She told my mom.

The fourth person I told that my stepdad had been f’ing me called me a whore. She carried me for nine months, put bandages on my scuffed up knees and led me to believe that because I was terrified of her leaving him, because I had been forced to break up with my long-distance boyfriend the day before, that my intentions were wrong.

“Why else would you tell me, if you don’t want me to leave? Is it that you’re mad because I won’t let you date? Because I still won’t let you date? But I need you to be honest and have trust in me.”

What the hell do you tell your mother when she asks you a dumb question like what color his penis is or why she never saw blood in your panties?

Do you explain that the time he body slammed her on the middle of the hard, living room floor will always be etched in your memory? That when she’d take a shower he’d sneak in your room and run his tongue along the insides of your thighs, his hand muffling your screams? Or do you tell her about the ways you plotted your escape, calling an aunty or running away at 15?

You let her call you a whore because you had sex with someone else, besides your step dad, apparently.

You let her lecture you about what kind of man is (or isn’t) okay to date: Someone who values your body, your opinion and provides for his family.

You let her make you feel small because, despite her revelation that she was raped by her stepfather, too, she can’t possibly understand why you’d keep something like this from her for so long.

“You’ve always told me everything, especially when somebody did something to hurt you. Something you didn’t like. And you know when Jason* hits me that I’ll hit him back and yeah we fight, but you know I’m not afraid to defend myself,” she said.

“You know that you can come to me and tell me everything. I know my child wouldn’t keep a secret or tell a lie. Not my child.”

And you told me that whenever there was something I needed to say, but couldn’t, that I should write.

So, I’m writing.

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Courtney Akinosho
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