After giving it a lot of thought, I have begun writing again about the sexual abuse that I received both as a child and as an adult.  Having strangers read about the "secret" part of my life has not been easy for me.  Yet, I have been told by a therapist that it is important to continue writing in my journal about this.   I was not a willing participant to the abuse that was inflicted upon me when I was a child.  There was no way for me to escape this.  It started with a family member.  Because of her true motherly love, combined with a mental illness, I am able to forgive her.  I cannot say the same for those perverts outside of my family.   The older I became, the more easily I gave in to the demands of my abusers.  Looking back on it, I now realize that there finally came a time when I was no longer "forced" to give in to my abusers.  I willingly did whatever they wanted me to do, and let them do what they wanted with me.  It now seems to me that I was not exactly a victim, but a willing participant.   I can now see that my role changed throughout the years.  Although I have never abused someone else, I finally let a number of people have their way with me while I hardly gave it a second thought.  In my mind, it came to be a way of life.  I could not get away from it, so at some time I quit fighting and gave in.   As I look back, it seems to me that there was a point at which I actually looked forward to the abuse I was about to receive.  I was no longer exactly a victim, but I cannot think of a term for what I had become.   Someone has asked me how I feel now that I am getting this out of my mind and onto paper.  I feel some relief along with a mixture of loathing and self-hate.  I do not like what I have been put through, yet I cannot change the past.  I hate myself for what others did to me as well as for going along with them and eventually enjoying the same perversions that I had been put through.   I am filled with shame and embarrassment.  It is for these reasons that I can honestly say I hate myself.