When I was ten, a child began to become a woman. Dad noticed and properly appreciated: he started touching me, masturbating, he gave me oral sex, he made me touch him. It happened repeatedly until about eleven before the sister was born. I liked it, but at the same time I felt guilty: does my dad belong to my mom and I'm cheating on her? I felt like a mistress breaking family happiness. At the same time, I thought that without my dad, I would never have had sexuality she did not come, it's actually good that it's me showed, I thought that at ten I should have known it long ago. At the time, I didn't think that it was bad or that it shouldn't be, on the contrary, I thought how exemplary our family is. Of course, I didn't tell anyone. When I got worse at school and started having neurotic tics, my parents sent me to the doctor to see me rectified. Together with the doctor me motivatedto control my urge to twitch uncontrollably that for every day when they don't see me, I'm supposed to get a crown. And the doctor transferred, she said, if I lasted a whole month, I could have thirty crowns! At the time, I said to myself, definitely, if it's normal, no one will pay me for it. I started trying to control myself on strength. To some extent, it worked.

At twenty, I was promiscuous. I changed boys for one night. I thought they wouldn't like me if I didn't give them. I also liked having power over them. In the meantime, I've been raped three times - but I thought I was to blame. I didn't tell anyone. I shouldn't have gone anywhere with those boys.

At thirty, I met my husband. Sexuality has reversed in the last ten years: now it doesn't tell me much to change. Our relationship suffers.

Five years ago, I decided to break the silence and wrote a letter to my dad. I described to the whole family what had happened in our family a quarter of a century earlier and how it had hurt me. Dad pretends that what he was doing was for my own good, and that it couldn't hurt me. Mom doesn't want to hear anything again, my brother has had enough of her worries. The only interest was shown by the nurse, who could hardly believe it. At least she avoided it.

Two years ago, I gave birth to a daughter by caesarean section. From the behavior of some staff in the maternity hospital, I felt abused again and perhaps cried for the whole sixth week.

I'll be forty soon. Thirty years have passed since those events, but I'm still scared. About our daughter, what if I left her alone with my grandfather wouldn't hurt her? Will I not hurt her, albeit unintentionally, because it is known that victims of abuse also abuse them? I have border problems, psychosomatic illnesses, and who knows what else, what I can't even describe, but what negatively affects my current life. I tell myself that such an old matter can no longer affect me. But the opposite is true, and I decide that I will finally be fine.

I am going for the first time to a meeting of a self-help group for victims of rape and child abuse. For the first time, I can talk to someone who has experienced the same thing as me. I feel there among my own. It is a beginning, and I hope it will have a continuation and a happy ending. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for now.