I have no idea what triggers other people or not... but I'm going to talk about what happened to me... as much as I can so read at your own discretion.

How I got screwed up...

So when I was like 3-4 years old, I was being baby-sat by my mom's best friend. She had a son just a month or so older than I. According to my baby books we played well together. Anyway, one day... and honestly I don't know how old I was. He tells me to come play in his big sister's room. I told him I didn't want to. (I knew we weren't supposed to be playing in his sister's room). He wanted to show me a stupid bowling toy... where you wind up the ball (it had little feet) and it would waddle down to the plastic pins & knock them down.

He told me to jump on the bed with him - I told him I didn't want to. (we're not supposed to jump on the bed). He tells me to play 'Boxer' with him... you know punch each other and pretend to box. I told him I didn't want to. I don't know what I did want to do - but I didn't want to be in his sister's room jumping on the bed pretending to hit each other.

He tells me that boxers fight in their shorts - so we have to take off our clothes. And he procedes to strip down to underwear. I told him I didn't want to. He said I could just take off my shirt - so I did. He told me that boxers have to hug before they start fighting - so we do. And we 'box' for a while. Then he tells me that he wants to show me something in the closet... but I don't want to see anything in the closet. He says I just have to come in for a minute.

He has a flashlight (I think- I can't totally remember) and he wants me to look at his 'thing'. I don't want to look at it - so I keep my eyes closed. He tells me to touch it. But I don't want to touch it. So he grabs my hand and makes me. I pull back. I get out of the closet, and crouch on the side of the bed. I hear his mom coming down the hall. He comes out of the closet as I'm struggling to put on my turtle neck.

His mom comes in - yelling. We're not supposed to be playing in his sister's room. She sees him in his underwear... he's not supposed to be running around in his underwear. She slaps him on the back - HARD and he cries. I've got my shirt on. I follow them out of the room. I didn't get in trouble.

He's just a kid. God knows where he learned that kind of behavior. He didn't know any better. But I did... and I didn't want to do any of it.

Later that day we go to K-mart. We got our pictures taken (I don't remember this). On the way home - either with the baby sitter or my Mom - I don't remember which. They notice that my shirt is on backwards, and ask how that happened. I panic and turn it around - I don't say a word. I don't want to get in trouble.
So now I have a picture of myself... the day I got molested - smiling in my backwards turtleneck.

The Irony.
I'm in high school - in a new state. I'm talking to my mom about my baby nephew, and daycare. She asks if I remember the So & So family. I don't. She tells me where they lived (in the city where I grew up), just up the street from where I grew up. "I don't remember the house". She describes the house - just a block or two from our old house. "I don't remember it". "Anyway" she says - they were my baby sitters at the time. She says that when I was that age (2-3?) I'd started regressing in behavior. She took me to the doctor to find out what was wrong. Diagnosis - I'd been 'traumatized' or witnessed something traumatic. My mother's response was to immediatelly withdraw me from daycare in the So & So family's home... and sent me to be baby-sat by her best friend, and her son who's just about my age. I'm in shock. I've just been told that I was "traumatized" even before I was molested. And in an instant I remember the house... it was just a block up from ours. It was a blue house... I can see the back yard. I have a vague image of a TV inside. I remember sitting on my tricycle in the driveway looking out at my two older sisters standing in the street. That's all. I was speechless... I didn't know what to say. I think I managed to say once more "I don't remember that" before my mom and I continued our errands. We never talked about it again.

How do I tell my mom that her effort to keep me safe didn't work?

Later... I don't know when. I remember a vague image of sitting on my bed in my bedroom. I'm three? Younger? My sister is cowering on the floor and my father is beating her with a shoe (slipper?). She's screaming & crying... he's yelling at her. I don't know what's going on. Is this what traumatized me? Is this memory even real? I have no idea.

I never really talked to anyone about any of this. I get too upset, too confused... I don't know if this is why I'm so screwed up or not.

But it wasn't the last time.

In high school - I'm dating a guy. He's not that great to me... but he's a boyfriend, and he gets me out of the house. My father was never physically abusive to me... but my family was dysfunctional enough that anything was better than having to stay home in it. Even going out with a boy who wasn't very good to me. I'd set boundaries... he'd push them. I'd defend them. I didn't enjoy making out with him very much - but at least it was attention... and again, better than being at home. My boyfriend lies a lot... about stupid things... I don't know why he does it.

One day, we're at a friend's house. My boyfriend and I are wrestling around on the ground. I never like this... but get into a mindset where I just need to struggle against him. I can't ask him to let me up - I have to fight him. For god knows what reason my friend pulls out a set of hand-cuffs... you know - for 'fun'. My boyfriend tries to hand-cuff me. I struggle.

I can't say anything, I just know I have to fight him. He's bigger than I am.... and stronger... but I'm wiley... I squirm this way and that. I grab one of the hand-cuffs so he can't get it around my wrist. Eventually he does though. And he holds my arms over my head. "Give me a kiss and I'll let you up" I can't speak. I just pull my arms.... try to squirm out of the cuffs. "Kiss me and I'll let you go"... I can't do it. I can't admit defeat. Eventually he lets me up. I won't ask him to take the cuffs off me. I go hide out in the bathroom. I spend several minutes folding my hands up, trying to slide my hands through the cuffs... I rub my wrists raw... scraping the skin off with the metal. But I got them off. And returned to the living room. Silent... sullen. I didn't enjoy this game. "Forgive me?" he asks. I stare at him "whatever". We date for several more weeks - until he sleeps with another girl while I'm at church camp.

That's not the end of my 'bad luck' with boys.... but it's all I can handle typing right now. This is why I'm so screwed up. But I can't even talk about it with my therapist. I try sometimes... but I just freeze up... no words come out. I don't know if I'm ever going to get over any of this.