Peter

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.

Childhood Dreams Die Hard

When I was little, I was always pretending to be an animal.

Usually I'd pretend to be a horse or unicorn, but sometimes I would be a cat, or a fairy.

I used to play a computer game called Barbie's Riding Stable, where you play as Barbie and get to ride four different horses around the game in first person.

I loved that game, and when I was out pretending to be a horse or riding my horse I would pretend I was in the game and say things to myself like "Let's go to Rabbit Run!" or quote some other repetitive shpeal Barbie would say in the game.

Even now, while playing video games where you get to ride horses like in Red Dead Redemption and Mo' Creatures mod for Minecraft, I still am reminded of galloping about in that 1990's computer game.

When pretending to be a horse, I would whinny, and squeal, hardly ever breaking character, which certainly didn't make me any friends, especially when I grew up and no one wanted to pretend to be an animal with me anymore.

What I always wanted and wished for was to become a horse, and what I thought would be the closest thing to that was to run with a herd of people, all pretending to be horses. I would eat wild plants my father had told me were edible, snort, toss my head and do my best at bounding around like a horse would. 

If I am alone in nature, I still do all of these things whenever possible. And I dream of the day when I can run with a herd.