At the age of six, we moved into the country, next to a house with two brothers. Shortly after moving there, I was allowed to go down the hill to the creek with the two boys for a swim. I remember being in the creek running for my life, fighting and trying to get away. I was being raped. I have a strange memory of standing beside the creek watching my rapist carry me back to my house. When I got home, I got "grounded" for losing my underwear. That was the first time.
Later that summer, the younger boy talked me into going to their house. While in their house, he keep trying to get me to go upstairs. I wouldn't, thou I didn't know why, I wouldn't, I just wouldn't. Then the older boy started coming down from the upstairs to get me. I was scared, and remember a rifle leaning against the wall. I grabbed it and shot the older one in the leg,(his left leg mid thigh) he grabbed his leg and I ran like hell to my house. They came after me. I remember their faces pressed up against the windows. I don't remember what happened next, but we moved shortly after. I have reason to believe that that attack was brutal. He was pretty piss at being shot.
That started years of abuse, and many other perverts came along. From older men to older boys, to girls I have been molested by many in many different ways.
It was like I had a sign around my neck that said "Molest Me Please"
The worst of the abuse came at my own hands. I fits of self-contempt I would vicously rape myself for hours at a time. This went on for decades until I was set free to explore recovery.
There is so much more to this story, but that's the jist of it.