As a boy, I carried my shame in silence, and learned early to dislike and avoid extended family gatherings, masking my avoidance in a blanket of "family sucks/is boring" cynicism.
As an early teen entering puberty, I grew increasingly disturbed about had happened. I tried to force the feelings away, almost ritually, but grew increasingly mired in confusion about what was wrong with me. Why did I (despite the fact that I was but 5-6 years old at the time) not take action? Did this mean I enjoyed being abused? Did this mean it wasn't abuse? Did the fact that I didn't stop the abuser mean I was not heterosexual? I began bombarding myself with pornography, almost as a salve against the uncertainty and doubt about who I was.
It wasn't until nearly 40 - and in the context of therapy to try to prevent the most important relationships of my life from falling further apart - that I had even considered the fact that I'd survived abuse. I felt ashamed to even think about accepting that statement, as I knew many others had suffered so much more serious forms of long-term abuse.
Only now have I come to marginally accept that decades of suffering internalized shame, fear, pain and mistrust deserve to be called survival.
I now have children who I love with all my heart. I cannot fathom inflicting such suffering upon them - or anyone else, for that matter. I will never be able to entrust them to the care of close family or friends. It's a constant internal struggle when they ask about sleepovers with friends. Such trivial things as "going over to someone's house" trigger immense uncertainty and fear, which I do my best to not burden my children with. I don't know if I will ever truly be able to shed the thick cloak of cynicism - largely a defense mechanism - that has and continues to impede my ability to relate meaningfully to the world and the people around me.
I hope I can - and I hope that awareness grows, so that other people aren't exposed to a similar experience.