Dear X,
 
Do you want to know when everything went wrong?
 
When I was six, my mother died. She was sick. I don't remember much but, I think she had some sort of kidney or liver disease. Anyway, she died just a few months before I turned seven. My step-brother, from my dad's side, who was older by sixteen years, began sexually abusing me after her demise. I don't remember the exact month it started. I must have been around seven by that time. My earliest memory of the abuse was when I woke up one morning and my underwear was on one side of my thigh. I didn't understand why or, how it happened. The abuse continued for years. About five or six years. So, for months unending, I had to deal with a grown man, who would come to my bed at night, slip down my underwear and, rub his penis against my clit till he came. I couldn't scream. The best I could do was fight him off but, most times would wake up and find him already in the act and when I did, I would lay still and pretend to be asleep till he left, and then, I would cry. Sometimes, I enjoyed it. It is something I am ashamed to say. The feeling was surreal. You know, that moment when you've got a nice cock, gliding up and down your clitoris. Sweet as honey but, there's a clause. This man was my gad-damn brother. He was over twenty and he was rubbing his genitals on his seven-year-old sister. Fuck man! Fuck! The painful part was that he did not stop. He never did until he moved out of the house and I never spoke up! I never did until I was sixteen. I told my step-mom while I was sixteen. It was as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. 
My step-mom told my father and then, they both took me out to a nice restaurant, far away from home so, we could discuss it. I remember my dad eating two wraps of fufu and Egusi soup while I had a meat pie and juice in front of me. My parents were calm. They didn't have the tint of god-what-the-fuck in their eyes. Even when I told my stepmother, she was calm as well. She didn't burst into tears or told me that she was sorry for what I went through. Nothing. Anyways, I remember my dad asking me if we (my brother and I) had done it again since he moved out. Man, what the fuck! 
Then, he asked if he(my brother) had asked forgiveness from me. I told him ‘NO’ because truly, the bastard never spoke about it. It was as if it never happened. 
In conclusion, I was asked to stay away from him, to not ask him for anything. To not visit him at his house e.t.c. And that was it. Case closed. Finito. The END.
My step-brother still comments shit like ‘my queen’, ‘my baby’, ‘my love’ on my posts on Facebook. I get anxiety attacks anytime I see it. I have been scarred. 
 
My father remarried in December of 2007. I was too young to understand everything that was going on but boy, was it wild. My new mother, a.k.a step-mother abused the hell out of me, emotionally. You know, I wish I was beaten severely while growing up like, the rest of you were. I don't have any scars from being beaten. I don't have any story to tell about how I was wiped with a belt or, a spatula. I was a real obedient child you see. I was never rebellious. Always followed the rule and was damn scared of breaking them but then, no one is 100% perfect. I still messed up sometimes and I was corrected with hurtful words that left scars in my soul. My stepmother would hurl pernicious words at me and, I'll cry. I'd cry until I got tired of crying. The smallest mistakes came with the most horrendous words. My father is not left out. He too abused me emotionally. I grew up thinking I was unloved and unwanted. My father was a motherfucker. My step-mother too and of course, my step-brother as well. Oh, and for the sake of clarification, my step-brother is not my step-mother's son. My father was a real macho man in his prime.
 
As I grew older, I became depressed, had severe mood swings, coupled with hardcore anxiety that affected my health- my stomach would hurt like crazy whenever I got anxious. I even had to go see a doctor, to get checked. 
My looks didn't help matters. I wasn't pretty. I was deadpan ugly as fuck, as hell. My lips were too big and my check bones protruded way too much. My overly long neck was like salt on an injury. I never felt pretty as a young child and even as an adult now, I still struggle with accepting that I am somewhat beautiful.
 
I contemplated taking my life a couple of times. I even used to slit my wrist just for the sake of it. I was a mess. Pardon my use of past tenses. I AM STILL A MESS, DAMMIT. 
 
At fourteen, I had my first boyfriend (Good God, someone found me attractive enough to date). Jude was a former classmate from primary school. I was in SS2 at that time we began dating. He was not my first love. My first love was a boy called Romeo who lived in my street. 
Jude was not my first kiss. My first kiss was from a boy whose name was either Temple or Wisdom. I am not sure. 
Jude was not my first sex either. My first sex was my  7th or 8th boyfriend, Leonard. You see, I did not have the luxury of sharing my firsts with the same person. 
Jude was just my first boyfriend. He and I didn't last for very long.  I don't think it lasted for more than a month. 
My oldest relationship to date is just four months.
After Jude, I went on to date thirteen other boyfriends; Ubon, Leonard, Treasure, Ejovi, Micheal, Chisom, Abel, Adebayo, Frank, Stanley, Lotanna, Chukwunalo, Desmond. These are the names of the ones I can recall at the moment. I may have dated more. You know, I was looking for acceptance. I wanted to be loved and adored. I rarely ever said no to anyone who asked me out. Out of the fourteen listed here, I only had sex with four of them. Meanwhile, I have a body count of about fourteen or more. This essentially means that I have had sex with ten different men with who I was not in a relationship with. I know you don't need the statistic but, I am only trying to give you a glimpse of how despicable, how unholy and, how much of a filthy slut I am. I mean, I'd have sex with you if you ask nicely enough because I am horny 50% of the time.   
 
I am 22-years-old now, a student of a well-known university in Nigeria. I am also a well-known writer. I have a handful of lovers of my works who, never cease to sing my praises. 
 
At 22, I still have a severe case of mood swings, seasonal depression, suicidal thoughts, insecurities I never tell people and, a learning disability that I haven't been able to get a medical diagnosis for.
 
This is a small amount of everything I really have to say. I don’t remember much. My ADD has made sure I don’t. So, when did it really go wrong? I’d say 1999. The year I was born. I should never have been born.
 
-Anonymous