I don't really remember how old I was.. probably about 7 or 8 or 9. It went on for a while, and covered one birthday for which I got a Tiny Tears doll that could cry. We moved from London to Moscow when I was 9, so it must have stopped by then.

The abuser was called Bill, and he came to the house to clean the windows. He was old, had yellowed wrinked skin, smoked hand rolled cigarettes from a Golden Virginia Tobacco tin, and wore a blue knitted ski cap.

Most of the abuse I remember took place in my bedroom upstairs, with the door open so that no one else in the house (my mother, my younger sister Sally, and the au-pair Bettina) would suspect anything.. although I think that it must have started with him touching me downstairs. I remember calling him up to my room, two visits in a row, and getting told off by him for that. I sometimes still feel guilty over that.. like I asked for it.. but I do know that I was only a child, looking for affection. The abuse was in no way my fault. At least, that's what my head tells me. I still struggle with feeling like I"m bad.

Back to "I Have Survived" or on to next page in my story...