Rick and Robbie,

I hope the things you did to me haunt you. I don’t have very many clear memories; after all, I was only 7 years old. I don’t remember your last name, but I remember you were about 16 and 14, that my dad met your mom while they worked together at the hospital, that you had a sister, and that you had a little poodle named Bubblegum. You may have been kids yourselves, but through my 7-year old eyes, you were adults. Had authority. Were powerful. Were scary. Especially you, Rick.

I don’t remember how long my brother and I were under your care or how long you sexually abused me, but I have been burdened by the effects of that abuse for the last 29 years. I wonder how many other girls you abused? Any boys? Do you have families today? Kids? God, I hope not.

Rick, I remember you telling me that we were going to have sex. I think you even let me choose if it was to happen that day or the next. I didn’t exactly know what sex was, but I knew it required no clothes and that it was going to be bad. I remember feeling trapped and panicked. I remember trying to rationalize in my little 7-year old mind, “If I choose today, it will be over with. If I choose tomorrow, maybe he’ll forget.” I was so scared of you. You were so mean.

Robbie, I remember you were troubled. I think you were suicidal. I have some memory of you trying to hang yourself with an extension cord. I felt sorry for you. In a twisted way, I even had a crush on you. Probably because you didn’t terrify me like your brother. If one of you had to do those things to me, I was always relieved when it was you over Rick. But, actually having a preference between my two abusers messed with my head. After all, didn’t that mean that I was willing? It took me years to realize that I even if I wanted to, I could never have been a willing participant - I was totally and completely powerless.

Being sexualized so young left me with such a twisted childhood; such a twisted view of myself. And I have the two of you to thank for that.

I don’t know the extent of the abuse; my memories exist only as pieces. Maybe that is a blessing. But the questions drive me crazy sometimes. For the longest time, all I wanted was to forget. But now I want answers. I want to remember so I can finally move on. But no matter how hard I try, I’m left with gaps and holes.

In case you have been able to put what you did out of your mind, are able to sleep at night and face yourself in the mirror, I want you to know that I still carry deep wounds. I hate the ruins of childhood you left me with. I hate the self-loathing that resulted and continues to this day. I hate the depression and anxiety that plagued me in adolescence and adulthood. Did you know that I was suicidal at the age of 12?

I grieve for that little girl, who within a matter of months, went from a carefree, happy child to a dark, sullen, damaged one. I wish I could protect her. She was so defenseless.

Survivor to this day,

Sarah, 36