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My parents had moved to the U. I stayed with my aunt, my father's sister, and her family from ages three to six.

I would later join my parents in Long Island, New York in , the year my brother was born. My aunt turned part of her home into a small convenience store.

This is what she had to rely on in order to make a living. I slept in the same bedroom with a male cousin who was only a few years older than I was.

My aunt's friend also owned and operated a convenience store from her home, and I was taken there one day while my aunt helped her friend out on a busy day.

I was left in a bedroom with two older boys and watched television on the floor while they laid on their bunk beds. My aunt checked on me once throughout the time I was there.

It was only a couple of minutes later after I had arrived that I felt someone grab me from behind and cover my mouth with his hand.

He placed me on the top bed while I struggled and tried to scream. I laid on my stomach while the other one forced himself inside me, and all I remember was suffering unbearable pain.

At one point I heard footsteps getting closer to the door, and that's when they immediately stopped raping me.

They placed me back where I was originally sitting before my aunt left me in the room, which was back on the floor in front of the television set.

I tried to act normal as much as I could. My aunt opened the door and took a quick look inside but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary.

She left, and as soon as she did, they continued to rape me. It's now been twenty-two years later, and I still haven't been able to recover the entire memory of the gang rape.

I don't remember how it ended. What I am certain, though, is that these boys were total strangers to me.

I never saw them again. Later that same year, I went to the doctor's office for a regular physical check up. He revealed to my aunt that I had been sexually abused.

She questioned me several times and demanded to know the identity of the person who had done this to me. I didn't know what exactly had been done to me.

I didn't understand it, but I felt deep inside that it was wrong. I didn't feel comfortable or safe enough to talk about it, so I simply remained quiet.

She misinterpreted this and thought I was trying to protect someone from getting in trouble. She thought it was her son, the cousin I shared a bedroom with.

I would sleep with my other male cousin in his bedroom for a short time until she was entirely convinced that it was safe for me to go back.

The next event that took place wasn't specifically responsible for the cause of another abuse that would last for several years, but it's what gave someone an opportunity to take advantage of me.

I begged my aunt not write the letter to my parents telling them about the sexual abuse, but she did anyway.

I arrived in New York in , only a few weeks after my brother was born. I clearly remember confronting my mother for leaving me behind in Central America but never mentioned the gang rape.

One winter night, a month or so after my arrival, my father insisted on taking me to the pharmacy store to pick up a medicine for my brother since he had a high temperature at the time.

My mother agreed, so I went. I was a bit confused when my father parked the car on the side of the street.

He took out a letter from his jacket and told me that he knew everything that had happened to me in El Salvador. He promised that he would show it to my mother if I did not allow him to touch my private area.

Different emotions ran through me. I felt confused, shocked, and scared simultaneously. It was bad enough that he knew about the sexual abuse, even though he didn't know the specific details since I never revealed them to my aunt.

I had to protect myself, keep the secret hidden from my mother. It would have been considered embarrassing to me if she ever, somehow, found out.

He put his hands inside my pants and started touching me. It only lasted a few minutes. I did not know at the time that this was only the beginning of many more years of abuse to come.

I was six years old, and the sexual abuse stopped when I was twelve. I was raised in a Christian family, a Seventh Day Adventist.

It was at the church where I was taught to show obedience and respect to my parents at all times.

I, however, found many beliefs of this denomination a little too eccentric and extreme for me. Ordinary activities many people enjoy were considered forbidden, from dancing to attending a theater.

Because of this, as a child and as a teenager, I felt as if my parents were being too overprotective. I wasn't able to experience as much freedom as I wanted to.

It was not until I was in the fifth grade that I learned that what my father was doing to me in private was not only considered wrong, but also illegal.

Before I knew this, I thought it was normal behavior between father and son that was meant to be kept a secret. I used to sit in back of the church and would watch church members walk up to my father, shake his hand, and smile.

I, on the other hand, was looked at as being awkward, an introvert who always wore a jacket and sat in back of the church with his head down drawing.

If only they knew the truth who my father really was, I used to tell myself. He wore an invisible mask in front of these people and could easily fool them with his charming personality.

I was the only one aware that he was hiding behind a mask. Once a lady at church approached my mother privately and told her that she suspected that I had been sexually abused.

She based her conclusion on my quiet, shy personality and also the fact that I was always using excessive amount of dark shading in my drawings.

I used to shade my drawings so much that it was difficult to tell exactly what I had drawn. She wasn't a psychiatrist but was taking college courses to earn a degree in psychology.

She advised my mother to take me to see a professional therapist. My mother told my father about this, and he refused.

The sexual abuse began only with molestation during the first years and later to other sexual acts, which included oral and intercourse.

The molestation was done when my mother wasn't home or when she wasn't in the same room we were in. The other sexual acts took place in a very wealthy home in Oyster Bay, New York, at my father's work.

These mansions were spread far apart from each other and surrounded by nature for privacy. It was here where my father used to take me on Sundays. His bosses, an Italian couple, were never home on this day.

My father did a variety of jobs which included mowing the lawn, tending the garden, and other labor and maintenance work. The sexual abuse began as a game.

An upstairs room with a couple of couches, a screen TV, and a video game console system is where the abuse took place most of the time. On one side of the room were sliding glass doors that led to a balcony.

It had a good view of the swimming pool, the flowers, and trees that surrounded it. All of the curtains were closed before the sexual abuse began.

My father would start off by making a deal with me. He would allow me to play video games if I agreed to let him perform sexual acts on me.

Excited as any child would be when given the opportunity to play one of his favorite games, I easily gave in.

One of the worst memories I have of the sexual abuse is being taken to the attic when I was around ten years old. It was very dark inside, and I kept having thoughts in my head that I wasn't going to make it out back alive.

Sometimes he became aggressive when I didn't let him have his way, but he never physically abused me while having sex.

If he kills me, I thought to myself, I would no longer exist. This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this site, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

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I didn't know what exactly had been done to me. I didn't understand it, but I felt deep inside that it was wrong. I didn't feel comfortable or safe enough to talk about it, so I simply remained quiet.

She misinterpreted this and thought I was trying to protect someone from getting in trouble. She thought it was her son, the cousin I shared a bedroom with.

I would sleep with my other male cousin in his bedroom for a short time until she was entirely convinced that it was safe for me to go back.

The next event that took place wasn't specifically responsible for the cause of another abuse that would last for several years, but it's what gave someone an opportunity to take advantage of me.

I begged my aunt not write the letter to my parents telling them about the sexual abuse, but she did anyway. I arrived in New York in , only a few weeks after my brother was born.

I clearly remember confronting my mother for leaving me behind in Central America but never mentioned the gang rape.

One winter night, a month or so after my arrival, my father insisted on taking me to the pharmacy store to pick up a medicine for my brother since he had a high temperature at the time.

My mother agreed, so I went. I was a bit confused when my father parked the car on the side of the street. He took out a letter from his jacket and told me that he knew everything that had happened to me in El Salvador.

He promised that he would show it to my mother if I did not allow him to touch my private area. Different emotions ran through me.

I felt confused, shocked, and scared simultaneously. It was bad enough that he knew about the sexual abuse, even though he didn't know the specific details since I never revealed them to my aunt.

I had to protect myself, keep the secret hidden from my mother. It would have been considered embarrassing to me if she ever, somehow, found out.

He put his hands inside my pants and started touching me. It only lasted a few minutes. I did not know at the time that this was only the beginning of many more years of abuse to come.

I was six years old, and the sexual abuse stopped when I was twelve. I was raised in a Christian family, a Seventh Day Adventist.

It was at the church where I was taught to show obedience and respect to my parents at all times. I, however, found many beliefs of this denomination a little too eccentric and extreme for me.

Ordinary activities many people enjoy were considered forbidden, from dancing to attending a theater. Because of this, as a child and as a teenager, I felt as if my parents were being too overprotective.

I wasn't able to experience as much freedom as I wanted to. It was not until I was in the fifth grade that I learned that what my father was doing to me in private was not only considered wrong, but also illegal.

Before I knew this, I thought it was normal behavior between father and son that was meant to be kept a secret. I used to sit in back of the church and would watch church members walk up to my father, shake his hand, and smile.

I, on the other hand, was looked at as being awkward, an introvert who always wore a jacket and sat in back of the church with his head down drawing.

If only they knew the truth who my father really was, I used to tell myself. He wore an invisible mask in front of these people and could easily fool them with his charming personality.

I was the only one aware that he was hiding behind a mask. Once a lady at church approached my mother privately and told her that she suspected that I had been sexually abused.

She based her conclusion on my quiet, shy personality and also the fact that I was always using excessive amount of dark shading in my drawings.

I used to shade my drawings so much that it was difficult to tell exactly what I had drawn. She wasn't a psychiatrist but was taking college courses to earn a degree in psychology.

She advised my mother to take me to see a professional therapist. My mother told my father about this, and he refused.

The sexual abuse began only with molestation during the first years and later to other sexual acts, which included oral and intercourse. The molestation was done when my mother wasn't home or when she wasn't in the same room we were in.

The other sexual acts took place in a very wealthy home in Oyster Bay, New York, at my father's work. These mansions were spread far apart from each other and surrounded by nature for privacy.

It was here where my father used to take me on Sundays. His bosses, an Italian couple, were never home on this day. My father did a variety of jobs which included mowing the lawn, tending the garden, and other labor and maintenance work.

The sexual abuse began as a game. An upstairs room with a couple of couches, a screen TV, and a video game console system is where the abuse took place most of the time.

On one side of the room were sliding glass doors that led to a balcony. It had a good view of the swimming pool, the flowers, and trees that surrounded it.

All of the curtains were closed before the sexual abuse began. My father would start off by making a deal with me.

He would allow me to play video games if I agreed to let him perform sexual acts on me. Excited as any child would be when given the opportunity to play one of his favorite games, I easily gave in.

One of the worst memories I have of the sexual abuse is being taken to the attic when I was around ten years old. It was very dark inside, and I kept having thoughts in my head that I wasn't going to make it out back alive.

Sometimes he became aggressive when I didn't let him have his way, but he never physically abused me while having sex. If he kills me, I thought to myself, I would no longer exist.

I do not remember exactly what I was thinking about during the abuse. It was like my mind wasn't there. It was painful, and I cried just like many other times, but he never stopped.

I managed to withstand the physical pain, and was glad once I left the attic. He took a picture of me once, right after he had finished abusing me and I got dressed.

He was talking to my mother on the phone only a few seconds ago when I sat on the couch in the living room downstairs.

He took out a disposable camera, told me to smile, and took the picture. It was this picture that remained in the family photo album for many years to come.

There were a few other incidents that were as horrifying as my experience in the attic or even worse. He even sexually abused me in his bosses' bedroom upstairs a few times.

What I found very disturbing and annoying was that sometimes he would have perverted conversations while abusing me.

He would ask me questions about other boys' genitals, if they had grown hair around that area yet or if I knew what a girl's private area looked like.

I wasn't mentally prepared for these kinds of questions at this age. The abuse would have continued pass the age of twelve if he didn't have a life threatening experience.

He was a soldier in the Salvadoran Civil War. He had been shot in the leg and in the back of the neck. Throughout the years, without him ever suspecting, the bullet from the back of his neck was slowly traveling upwards.

It caused him severe headaches that used to last for several of hours. He was prescribed medication after the doctors discovered the bullet.

A risky surgical operation had to be performed in order to remove it. The doctors explained to him the procedure in detail and the fact that he might not survive the operation.

This is when the abuse suddenly stopped. We never discussed it. It was almost as if it never happened. Come on in and say "Hello! Talking Pictures For discussions on, about, and referencing photography; the art of, the proponents of, the love of photographs - not kit, nor technology, but technique, styles, genres, historical and contemporary.

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