Post-traumatic stress disorder is a very common mental illness, with three million Americans having some form of this psychiatric condition. In the 1952 DSM-I, PTSD was named “gross stress reaction.” It has many of the symptoms that fit the present-day description of this condition. In 1980, the diagnosis changed to “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder” in the DSM-III. The criteria is used to diagnose those who suffer from symptoms such as intrusive memories, avoidance, negative changes in thinking or mood and changes in physical or emotional reactions.

As children grow, they sometimes have nonsensical fears. Maybe they’re terrified of the dark, the boogie-man, or some imaginative monster that lives inside a closet or under their bed. My biggest fear came to be at the age of five. And it wasn’t part of my imagination. I lived with a monster; it was my uncle. My uncle had grown up during a time where people lacked sensitivity. As a man, you were expected to marry, have children and continue on the traditional role of supporting your family. He was in the closet for most of his life. He was worried about what people would think of him if they knew he harbored the desire to be with the same sex. His obsession took control of him, and eventually, he decided to take his immoral frustrations out on a five-year-old boy. Me. 

I recall visiting my cousins. They made a blanket fort and I remember feeling so safe inside. I didn’t want to leave. I knew what was bound to happen when we returned home. As soon as the opportunity presented itself — my uncle would attack me again. I ended up making my own blanket fort. It became my territory, my own little domain where I’d play with my toys. It also became the place I hid after being sexually molested. In my blanket fort is where I’d hide all of my pain. I was gaining awareness of just how wrong these “games” were, the ones my uncle forced me to play. I was getting older and he knew I was beginning to understand that he shouldn’t have been doing this to me.

Growing up, my uncle lived in the back corner of our house. He rented a bedroom from my parents and that was the place I feared the most. As an impressionable child, you’ll usually believe an adult’s words. Sometimes, my uncle would tell me that if others found out that I would be taken away from my family because “they would think something is wrong with me for not wanting to play with adults.” When you’re only five years of age, you have a sweet innocence within you; you’re still learning right from wrong. The truth was if people found out my uncle had been molesting me; he would’ve been put in prison for pedophilia. Slowly, my innocence dwindled away, I was becoming depressed and exhausted from the ongoing abuse. I couldn’t handle being a victim any longer. 

The abuse wasn’t unveiled to my parents until I reached the age of seven. It was difficult for them to believe they hadn’t noticed signs of him molesting me. Especially since it had been taking place for two years. But, my uncle kept a lid on what he was doing — until my grandmother exposed him. One day, she came to visit us all for the weekend. She noticed my avoidant demeanor and that I seemed upset. More importantly, she took notice of my uncle’s behavior around us, how on edge he appeared. The signs my uncle had been showing sent chills down my gram’s spine, she knew something was wrong. During the time she stayed over, my grandmother brought me into a room. Then, she asked me if my uncle had been touching me anywhere. She assured me it would be safe if I told her anything. I believe my grandma was not expecting me to confirm her worst fear, that her son had been sexually assaulting me for the past two years.

I remember pointing at the places he would touch me.  I told her how long he had been taking advantage of me. Next thing I knew, all hell broke loose. After being confronted, my uncle yelled and claimed my father beat my mother. He was trying to take the attention off of the accusations made against him. He threw a jug of spackle plaster across the room and it splattered everywhere. My father firmly grabbed him by his shirt collar. But my uncle ran to his room and packed some items. I can still picture the way my mother pounded on his door, punching holes in it while she screamed. My uncle walked out of the house that day. I felt immeasurable relief, as I’d begun to believe he might hurt me forever. Standing on our living room couch watching his departure, I couldn’t believe it. My monster was finally gone.

Presently, I am still haunted by nightmares of my childhood tortures, but I’ve learned to live my life for the most part. Some days are more challenging than others. People commit reprehensible acts sometimes and I’ll never forgive my uncle for what he did to me. However, I accept my past and realize it does not change who I am as a person. I’m twenty-eight-years old now and I live a happy life, a life I never imagined possible. Overcoming the trauma of sexual abuse is possible, albeit difficult. Hard work, therapy, medication and self-help books have aided me in healing my emotional scars. I can never “fix” myself; I am not broken. What I can do (and anyone else who went through childhood abuse can do) is recover. I am no longer a victim. I am a survivor.

John Marchese is a 28-year-old, Long Island, New York-based writer. He has done several articles in various newspapers, when he decided to go freelance on topics such as, mental health, addiction, personal essays, poetry and some fictional writing. Also while enjoying the hobbies of yoga, martial arts, and meditation.