Running

Today in my counselling session with Bobby we resisted my first memory of abuse from the perpetrator in the lounge room of my house when I was 7 years old. 

It's a bright Summer's day. I walk out into the lounge room in my pyjama shorts. Haddin is there in his underwear. He plays a game and asks me to play the game with my penis.

I'm shocked and step backwards. I feel unsafe despite being in my house. My chest tightens, there's a lump in my throat, my brow furrows, my legs feel jump. 

"NO! No one gets to touch my body there. That's wrong!"

I get to choose who touches me, where they touch me, and when they touch me! This man wanted to touch my penis and that is wrong!

I run.

I run out of the house - even though I'm only in my pyjama shorts.

I run to the neighbour's house. I meet the big tall David Walkham. He's surprised to see me just in my shorts and crying.

"Help!"

"Of course! What's going on?"

"There's a man. He tried to touch my penis! You gotta call the Police now!"

"What! Yes, the Police..."

They call the Police and get me a towel and a drink.

The Police arrive, handcuff Haddin, and put him in the paddy wagon.

My parents arrive and are shocked. They're so proud of me for being so courageous, strong and assertive - and for knowing my boundaries even though they'd never taught me about inappropriate touch. They're shocked, sad, and angry at themselves for leaving me in such an unsafe place. They're proud of me for doing everything right: getting out of the unsafe place with him and getting to a safe place at the neighbour's house.