At age 7 I was a child and my body became a battleground.
My cousin’s father raped me, whispering: “No-one will believe you. This is love.”
My mother worked night shifts and I was left to endure it alone. Two years later my great-uncle repeated the horror. I kept quiet, trapped in shame, convinced I had lured them.
The lessons of a child
In Grade 2 a rainbow picture book taught me this wasn’t normal.
But the damage was done. I masked it with a bubbly facade, mastering silence. One night I whispered Mommy as he touched me, but my fear outshouted my voice. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
I was 13, helpless and protecting them.
Slurs cut deep: “worthless”, “monster.” I believed them.
Rebellion became my shield.
The legacy of trauma
Both abusers are dead, but their ghosts haunt me. Today, I ask:
Why did adults fail me?
Why does society blame victims?
This is not a story of defeat.
It’s a scream.
Survivors, you’re not alone.
Oh world, GBV is a war on us all.
I am McShane, I survived and will not be silenced.
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