When I was six something happened to me. When I was eleven I realized it was molestation, the memories were repressed to a very large extent, until then I didn't even remember it had happened. Over the last few years I have realized it was probably nothing, looking back I realized there was never the expected reaction when I would tell someone about it was "oh I'm sorry, moving on...." or "oh ok" my therapists never really saw it as a big deal either. I don't remember the first person I told, according to my parents it was a babysitter, who in turn told them. My parents told the principal, the principal called me in and asked about it, I told her some of it. Rereading the only physical evidence detailing what happened that I got from the principal when I posted a bad review on google about my experience at the private school ( it's a religious private school too), I wasn't believed because my story changed, which is funny because he was still threatening me, I guess that never crossed anyone's mind of course. A little background, in first grade I had no friends, I was alone desperate, and he decided to be my friend. He played house with me, then told me to "trust" him. He was at most a year or two older than me, he was a classmate. Which means whatever happened wasn't a crime, legally and in popular culture (Josh Duggar anyone?). If he was five years or more older than me or I was a pre-teen or teenager or if he was an adult, then it would be a crime. Doesn't matter that he threatened that he would kill me if I told, or that he threatened me with a pocket knife, or that he gave me a scar on my arm that I have to look at every. single. day. No, I was making it up of course. It was all my imagination. I was telling stories to get him in trouble or get attention. Somehow something had happened that would make me think this stuff did happen. Ever since that year we were in separate classes, he still bullied me, no surprise there. I stood up to him once in fifth grade, the year he left. I realized what happened to me in sixth grade, maybe that's irony. But what happened to me wasn't important, probably wasn't even real, I have PTSD from it I get sick every time I have to think of it. But its all in my head. Even if it did happen, its not a crime in any court, and I'm the only one who sees it as a significant event that destroyed my life. An event that destroyed my faith in authority figures, taught me I can't trust my parents, taught me how much of a victim and how easily gullible I am. Doesn't matter he took something away from me I'll never get back, doesn't matter that he destroyed my innocence and childhood. Doesn't matter he made me hate my own gender, or that I still live in fear that he will kill me still to this day. But who cares, it was all in my head of course, its not a big deal at all, in fact its perfectly ok and normal! So yet again I've been delusional, just more of my craziness and stupidity.