There is so much of my childhood that I'll never understand. Over the years, I've had to face some of the things that have happened to me, but even when facing them; it didn't always bring about understanding.

There have been times when I wondered whether I had asked for any of it? Did I deserve what happened? Had I influenced it happening? Or even, was I cursed?

For it seemed, no matter how hard I had tried to just be a normal little girl, there were people who didn't want that to happen.

As much as I hated the Catholic school, I still used to pray. I prayed for Ivan to stop touching me, and he did. So I continued with the praying thing. But there was another reason why I continued praying—someone would come and pray with me.

This little old lady, would come and be with me just before my bedtimes. Her hair was always the same, as too, were her clothes. She would always come and ask me about my day. Not even to her, did I tell her of the things that were happening to me. But she always came, and we always prayed together on my bed.

To me, she was real.

To me, she had soft living flesh and a wonderfully warm smile.

To this day, I can still vividly remember her. Her hair was silvery white, neatly tied back into a bun. Her dress was Victorian, black and long with a white apron on the top of it, but it was her kind ways and her assuring smile that has always stayed with me.

It was only when I was an adult, did my mother and I talk about the old lady. Mum said she would often find me talking and praying all by myself. She figured I had just created an imaginary friend, but even now, I don't believe that.

To me, she still was real.

To me, she did talk and pray with me.

I remember that sweet and kind old lady, like she were in my life only yesterday. I like to think of her now as my very own angel. At a time when I needed support and guidance, she was the one to spiritually give it to me.

That is what I believe.

It's what I know.

At a time when I struggled to find comfort, that little old lady freely gave it to me.

Her comfort, saw me through some dark times.

Dark times, that I couldn't even begin to comprehend—only that they were dark.

For once Ivan was no longer touching me, others were.

But those 'others' weren't to be adults, they were to be children themselves.

I was small for a child. Even as an adult now, I still diminutively stand at only 4ft 11. As a little girl, I was treated like a doll; a doll that the other kids liked to play with—experiment with.

I always tried to stay away from the strange and the spiteful local children; preferring my own, or my brothers company, instead. But there were times when mum would visit her friends, and it was there that I would find my young self dreading to go.

At that dreaded place, there was a brother and sister. They were either born closely together, or maybe could have been twins. At first, they seemed very nice. But over time, while our parents were too busy socialising together, Maria and Mario would start taking me out into their shed, or into their bedroom wardrobes...or even under their beds.

Once hidden from view, they would tell me that we were playing a game; a secret game of Mummy's and Daddy's.

Both of them would take it in turns being on top of me, pretending to be the daddy who is having sex on top of the mummy. I used to lie there thinking what a strange game it was. And they were always so insistent that I never told anyone about our game. So, I never did. But just like with Ivan, their actions confused me.

Their actions always felt wrong.

As young as I was, I just felt like a plaything. No one cared about me or my feelings. No one cared about what they were doing to me.

Knowing that, kind of grew the inner strength I so youngly had. I was quickly becoming the strongest of fragile things. I was determined to make up for what I lacked in height, with the strongest of youthful spirits.

First Ivan, then Maria and Mario...the memories of them wasn't going to keep confusing and hurting me. So, I buried those confused and hurting memories deep. That was my strong spirit doing its very best to protect me.

Even amidst that age of innocence and the burying of memories, I felt different to other children.

I thought that I must have been different, because people thought it okay to touch me in ways that they shouldn't have been.

I was different.

A plaything.

All of those feelings and questions that I had, I always kept to myself.

I thought no one would listen. Or worse, I'd get another beating from my mother.

So, I kept quiet.

I always kept quiet.