The Danger of Being Seen

Safety is a luxury I lost very young.

I grew up in the 80s, a time that feels like a different world now. It was an era before terms like "Good Touch" and "Bad Touch" existed in our vocabulary. People lived in what felt like peace and harmony. We trusted our neighbors. We trusted our elders.

Because both my parents were working, I often spent my childhood in the care of trusted families nearby. To the outside world, it was a perfectly safe arrangement.

But one man in our close circle saw me differently.

He noticed the physical attributes in my body before I did. He saw a softness in me, a difference. And because I was a child who knew nothing of boundaries, he began to groom me. He blurred the lines between care and abuse so slowly that I didn't know when—or how—to say No.

The Cycle of Silence

That lack of boundaries followed me as I grew. Because of the traits in my body, I was targeted by several men throughout my childhood and into my adulthood.

Some used affection. Some used threats. Others used force. But the result was always the same: They won.

I cannot recall a single incident where I was cornered and managed to escape without being abused. Being submissive became my only way out. It was a survival mechanism—if I surrender, maybe it will be over faster.

The Wrong Question

For years, a deep-rooted thought grew in my mind: "It isn't their fault. It is mine."

I convinced myself that I was the one giving them the opportunity. I started to believe that perhaps I was gay. I thought this was just who I was.

But there was one thing I never understood, a question that haunted me: "If I am gay, why don't I ever try to do the same thing back to them?"

I was always playing the part of the female. I was always the one being used. There was no desire on my side, only submission.

It took me a lifetime to realize that compliance is not consent. Freezing in fear is not the same as wanting it.

But back then, I didn't know that. All I knew was the shame. I felt I was the one to blame for every hand that touched me. And to survive that blame, I had to do the only thing I knew how to do. I had to build a mask.

(Next: The First Layer of the Mask)