Like many of you AFAB here, I've been victim to many small cases of sexual abuse, of my body being judged, my behavior being called not female enough, too female, too different. How dare I not shave? Why do I wear comfortable clothes I enjoy? Why do I not wear makeup? Why am I not small, quiet, shy, female?

Those moments are everywhere but there are three moments in my life that still sit very deeply until this day, moments that left hard-to-heal scars.

2/x

The first abuse happened very young, in a public space, surrounded by people. I was in an adventure public pool where they had a wild-water slide. In the bottom pool, boys were hiding under the water and put their fingers into (yes into) the bodies of girls. He pulled me down, pushed a finger into my vagina, and the moment was over--for him. I didn't say anything. For years, I didn't tell anyone.

3/

The second abuse was in the extended family. Looks can traumatize. A man watched me and my sister change, wanted to shave us, just quickly had to get something whenever we were in the bath. He was only curious, just interested, only wanted to see how girls grow up.

4/x

The third abuse happened at work. I was 16, working at a gallery for the summer. I worked on commission, made no money at all, but all I wanted to do was to paint. I was given old canvases to repaint. I just wanted to paint. Naked, he stood in front of the fridge, telling me about cold hands on his balls while he drank from the milk carton. We were alone in the room above the gallery. I was massaged naked by a much older naked man. My last memory is of his warm balls on my back.

5/x

I don't remember anything after that. I don't know what happened up there. I don't know how I left the gallery. I assume I was raped, that my brain is protecting me but if I can't even remember, how can I talk about it?

No one was allowed to touch me between the legs for a very long time. Even my own fingers brought unexplained panic attacks. For years, this got worse and worse. Trauma, confusion about my gender and orientation. Who am I? Which box do I fit in?

6/x

I searched for a therapist was assigned an emergency session with a psychiatrist.

"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Are you sure you aren't misinterpreting things?"

For an hour, the old white man tried to convince me that my abuses were my fault, my imagination. A shattering letter explained that I lived in Lalaland, that I idealize my time in California, and that I am making up how bad my experiences were.

No, I am not ashamed.

7/x

I am scared of the reaction of men who try to blame me, of women who have an easier time if they can convince themselves that this is my fault instead of admitting it could have happened to them, too, could still happen to them. I am not ashamed but I doubt my memories, the panic that rises every time I notice that my hands are cold because cold hands are deeply connected with a naked man in front of a fridge and whatever happened up there.

8/x