Unfortunately child sexual abuse is rampant in the United States. It is the reason for my PTSD. It is very hard to get over when such things happen to you as a child – as my seventeen years of therapy will attest to. I had always had snapshots in my head of the abuse but for years just thought them to be memories of bad dreams until I started having detailed flashbacks in my thirties. They first began with memories of being raped by the paperboy and his friend. These were very violent. They threatened me with a pocket knife held to my throat. As best as I can make out I was around the age of six when they would attack me on the way home from school and force me into the neighborhood sump. As is customary in abuse, they had earned my trust beforehand by visiting in my house with my mother and I. Morgan, the paperboy, would bring out his mouse and let it play and scamper on our kitchen table. They got to see the dynamics of my mother’s and my relationship. It must have been obvious that my mother didn’t care for me. Perhaps she even called my a liar in front of them, because they told me that she would never believe me if I told her about the rapes. So, I didn’t tell her. But, I eventually told my father who was kinder to me. He never reported it to the police, but the attacks stopped. I can only guess that he talked to them. But he now knew that the bloom was off the rose.