The truth is, that at the precious age of 8 years old my paternal grandfather began to molest me with every chance he got. This was easy as I saw him almost every weekend for six years. He was one of my main caregivers. In 1983 at the age of 10, my grandfather raped me for the first time. He did this when my parents took a trip back home to Jamaica with my younger sister. My older brother and I were trusted in the care of my grandparents. My brother was sent away to our cousins’ house, while my grandmother spent most of her time at our family church that was run by her son-in-law. For two weeks or more my grandfather finally had me to himself. He took my virginity; he violated my trust; I lost my identity; I lost my sense of self. The truth is, I knew none of this at the time. The truth is, I thought it was normal. I thought I was special. I thought I was his favorite. He said if I told our secret that he wouldn’t be able to treat me “so nice” any more. He made me feel like I was his whole world. I loved him, but little did I know, because it was all a lie. He was the only one who made me feel special; and because I thought it was normal, I liked the way he made me feel. When I discovered that what he was doing was wrong, I was devastated but I was angry even more. Angry because this trauma controlled every part of my being for so much of my teenage years, and into adulthood.