“Don’t worry, this is what you’re supposed to do.” These are the words that a 6-year-old has to hear as she is laid on the floor with her pants down by an older gentleman. I’m 32 now, but I swear the memory is vivid as if it was yesterday. I didn’t know that those nine words would eventually put me down a road of regret, shame, guilt, confusion, loneliness, and depression.

I was born to a Muslim Middle Eastern/African family. At the time we had been living in Toronto, Canada in low-income apartments. Our neighbors were from Afghanistan, and I used to play with their daughter. One day they had a gathering at their home, and since my parents had been fighting that day, they sent me over there to have fun. One of my neighbor’s male cousins had come over, and at the time I didn’t know that he had other plans for me.

He took me into the room and told me to keep quiet. As a kid, I didn’t know what he was trying to do. He laid me on the floor, and told me “It’s ok.” He started to pull my pants down, and all I remember feeling was that something wasn’t right. The only person who had seen me without my pants off was my mother. Although I was young and hadn’t been exposed to something of this nature, I knew it was wrong. I started to try and cover myself up and that is when he said “Don’t worry, this is what you’re supposed to do.” I didn’t move after that.

He began to lift my shirt but then his aunt called for him. “Don’t move, stay here, I’ll be back.” I ran to the closet and pulled my pants up, and fixed my shirt before walking out of the room. I went over to where all the other women were sitting as they ate sliced-up green apples. They asked me if I’m ok, and I assured them I’m fine but that I was going to go home. As I walked out of their apartment tears flowed down my cheeks. At that exact moment, my dad opened the door, and my mother was coming back from sitting at the park across the street. They saw me crying and asked me “What’s wrong!” I respond “nothing, I’m just sad because you and baba(dad) are fighting.” Looking back, how did I know to lie? I was only 6, yet I knew telling them something as severe as that would have some serious ramifications.

Looking back, I wish I had spoken up. My parents may have been more protective of me, instead of living in the dark. I had no idea that the incident would spark a lifelong road of self-sabotaging, and make me question every day why my life is the way it is. That’s why I decided to tell my story, in hopes that others will see they aren’t alone to suffer in silence. As a Muslim person, I know I will get a lot of backlash and threats made at me for exposing the dark secrets of the culture, and all who follow it. I want this to be a safe haven for people to come and share their experiences.

In order for you to understand me, I have to walk you through my life. At 32, decades since it all started, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and PTSD that stemmed long-term childhood, and adult sexual trauma. The following posts are going to be dedicated to the year where all the pieces of the puzzle finally came together, the events that led up to this discovery, and the current struggles I face. Full disclosure: I don’t hold back, I’m blunt