I remember the first time I was sexually abused, as if it were yesterday. I was five years old.
I remember feeling loved and special, chosen, and cared for, a feeling I had not felt before.
I remember the warm feeling of his embrace, his arms wrapped around me, as I sat on his knee.
I remember the softness of his touch as his hands moved over my tiny body.
I don’t remember the pain, the shame, the uncomfortableness. But my body does.

I remember the first time I fell off my bike. I was six years old.
I remember knowing no-one would come for me, comfort me, take me in their arms and whisper to me, that everything would be ok.
I remember walking home terrified, knowing what was to come.
I remember being hit for being stupid, ruining my clothes, my hair and getting blood everywhere.
I don’t remember the pain, the shame, the uncomfortableness. But my body does.

I remember the first time I was beaten by the man my Mum married. I was eight years old. 
I remember curling up in a ball as he hammered down on me, one blow after the other.
I remember not crying, screaming out in agony, defiant to the end.
I remember spit spraying from his mouth, sweat pouring from his head as he raged.
I remember the reprieve when I thought he had stopped, instead using his belt buckle because he got hot.
I don’t remember the pain, the shame, the uncomfortableness. But my body does. 

I remember the first time I ran away from home. I was ten years old.
I remember planning, packing, and setting my alarm clock to leave before dawn.
I remember sneaking out the door quietly leaving, with no idea where I was going to go.
I remember my heart sinking when I was found hours later, hiding behind bins filled with rubbish and litter.
I remember Mum acting concerned in front of the neighbours, but behind closed doors the rage.
I don’t remember the pain, the shame, the uncomfortableness. But my body does.

I remember the first time I wanted to die. I was eleven years old. 
I remember swallowing 'tic tacs' whole, pretending they were tablets that would put me to sleep, so I would never have to wake up in this misery,
I remember making wishes on every dandelion, blowing them into the air wishing I was 18 and free. 
I remember starving myself and hiding it in the wardrobe, too young to understand why I was depriving my body of food.
I remember writing my thoughts down to free my mind, and the punishments that followed when the journals were read, and the food was found.
I don’t remember the pain, the shame, the uncomfortableness. But my body does. 

I remember the first time I was raped. I was twelve years old.
I remember his greasy hair, the taste of pepperoni on is tongue as he forced his spotty face, into my personal space. 
I remember laying there motionless not knowing what was happening, as he pushed his full weight against my lifeless body.
I remember the boys almost queuing, to take it turns, knowing I was easy and wouldn’t fight, struggle, or scream ‘NO’.
I don’t remember the pain, the shame, the uncomfortableness. But my body does. 

I remember the first time I told someone what was happening to me. I was fourteen years old.
I remember for a minute feeling heard, cared for, believed. Then he came, and I was blamed for being me.
I remember feeling stupid at the time, I had no bruises to show, no scars to prove, that I lived in fear year after year. 
I remember the terror as I was driven home, knowing what was coming, deep into my bones.
I remember running to my room to barricade my door, using all my strength, my legs against the wall.
I remember I failed - it went black. I came to hours later still curled up in a ball, to numb to move, body broken and sore.
I don’t remember the pain, the shame, the uncomfortable ness. But my body does. 

I remember the first time someone noticed my bruises. I was seventeen years old.
I remember the shock on their face as I told them this was normal, playing happy families, hiding the trauma.
I remember being taken to a homeless shelter, the kindness, compassion, and warmth, more feelings I had not experienced before.
I remember picking up my belongings a few weeks later, with the help of my new guardian angels.
I remember Mum not even looking at me as I quickly packed up my room, The man I called Dad wished me luck with my life, closing the door, going back to his wife.
I don’t remember the pain, the shame, the uncomfortableness. But my body does. 

I remember the first time I felt objectified. I was twenty-one years old. 
I remember as a child being called a pretty little ‘thing’ and as I grew into a sexy, hot ‘thing.
I remember being introduced to the owner of a club on his opening night. I felt good, I felt happy I felt everything was going to be alright.
I remember as he looked at me up and down, like a piece of meat hanging in the butcher’s window in town.
I remember him turning to the man who’s arm I was on and saying ‘WOW, how much did you pay for this one, can I have a turn?
I remember wanting to punch him in the face, but instead I smile sweetly, like the good little girl I’d been programmed to be.
I remember I visited the hairdresser the very next day and asked them to shave every hair on my head.
I remember the darkness that suddenly consumed me, becoming cold, uncaring, and very scary.
I don’t remember the pain, the shame, the uncomfortableness. But my body does.

And as my body slowly remembers and lets go of the pain, the shame, and the uncomfortableness, I gently remind myself to be kind. I may have had more than my fair share of traumas, but the lessons I’ve learnt, and the gratitude I feel, has somehow all been worth it.