Tuesday, April 17, 2012


Growing up, my family were nudists.
I too always ran around bare, which wasn't a problem because we lived out in the pine forests, so no neighbors to worry about. Except for when I went out on the park road and got picked up by strangers and taken back home screaming.
Whenever someone would visit, which was rare, I would run and hide. I knew that it wasn't right to be naked in front of strangers, so I would run somewhere I felt safe, either to the horses, or if I wanted to see who it was, I would hide in my "bower", which was made of a couple of yopan bushes that had grown tall and thin, with few low branches, covered in white honeysuckle right next to my father's house.
I used to collect quarts crystals and pretty pieces of flint to make alters on a big piece of sandstone in the safety of my bower. 
Snakes and spiders were abundant on our land, but never once did I see one in my precious bower.

I appreciate how free my childhood was; I was homeschooled, naked, and left to play all day.

Freedom can come with a price; the price I payed was my family leaving the land without telling me, being alone often, and eventually turning to the one person who gave me attention whenever I wanted it, however unconventional. Peter was his name, who I returned to because he made me feel good and valued my opinion. I didn't understand that he was raping me, I always thought rape was violent and painful, he never hurt me physically or said any harsh words to me the entire time he lived out on our land. I was used to adults being impatient and quick to scream at me, so his company was a relief at first. Eventually, it got to where I would lie to my parents to go see him, saying I was going to get a glass of water or whatever other lame excuse a toddler could come up with. On top of him giving me attention whenever I wanted, my mother loved him, which made it even harder to convince myself to tell her what was going on. He told me not to tell, of course. And I knew what I was doing wasn't right, I felt guilty, like I had some say in it, I felt that it was consensual even though I was just three years old.

It took me three more pedophiles, from when I was age six to nine, and one man trying to kiss me in a dark alley when I was twelve to really understand what was going on.

Peter lived on our land for two years. I never told any of my family about what happened.

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