Have you ever been afraid of your own name? The very thought conjuring up a relentless storm that won’t seem to pass, no matter how hard you try? It’s as if I’m caught in the eye of the storm, in a rowboat without any oars, waiting for the sun to shine evermore. That day is eternally etched into my mind. The sun was beginning to set over the horizon, the brightest lights on the street coming from my brand-new light-up Sketchers. This was the first time came face-to-face with you, The Boy with my name. I thought nothing of it. What child truly would? I was more focused on my shoes than anything else on the planet. I was only four and a half years old at the time, bright and so full of hope and wonder, ready for the world. But I wasn’t ready for what was about to transpire.

My name is Christian Paxton. While writing this, I am in my early twenties, as pale as the moon, as slender as a stick, and appropriately nicknamed “Twig.” I have freckles all over my arms as if I am an unfinished game of connect the dots. I have been contemplating writing this because, well, it’s terrifying opening up this much to people, knowing that people are not always lovely and kind. Still, I realized maybe it’s about time I write my story, even if no one ever reads it—just to get it off my chest. Hopefully, by sharing this with the world, I’ll help at least one person feel less alone. Our story begins in Ogden, Utah, roughly around 2005. My family and I had just moved into our first home. I was only four and a half years old, but still unbelievably excited. I was a small, shy, fragile-looking child. My face was also covered in freckles, which my mother referred to as “sun kisses” or “angel kisses,” which sounded delightfully whimsical to me. For my age, I had a huge vocabulary. Adults would have thought I was intelligent if I’d had the courage to share my thoughts. It wasn’t a giant house or anything of that nature, but being a kid, this was significant enough for me. I remember being so thankful to have a home with a yard and a room. The basement wasn’t finished at the time, so it was just a two-bed, two-bath.

My life seemed as though it was going amazing. I even made my first friend, a kid from the neighborhood named Mike. Mike was a great friend who only lived a few houses down. He was a small kid, but instead of having skin as pale as the moon that turned lobster in the summertime (like me), Mike’s complexion was more of a light brown. He and I would play video games for hours and hours and even build tree forts. Eventually, my family and I got acclimated to the neighborhood and started interacting with more of our neighbors. My aunt even lived across the street, which made it cool if I ever wanted to walk over and hang out for a bit. When I met the family next door to us, I couldn’t help but notice how their house stood out amongst the cul-de-sac. They had the only green roof on the block. The household consisted of a short, pudgy man: the father. This guy was someone you could just tell owned a truck. The mother was short and a bit on the rounder side. They had two children, a daughter, three years older than me, and a son, Christian, who was six years older. He was a slender-looking kid with dark hair and had every video game you could think of in the early 2000s. He was a prime example of a hermit, never leaving the house for much of anything.

As neighbors, we gradually started hanging out more. They used to invite me over to play games along with Mike. I didn’t think anything of it at the time; why would I? I was an innocent child—my only focus was on wrecking in Halo. I loved having that escape, until one day when everything changed, a day I will never forget. I was in Christian’s room happily playing Wizard 101 when the atmosphere suddenly changed. He turned to me and asked, “Hey, do you want to try this new game I saw online?” That phrase is carved deeply into my mind. Most things from my past are buried in secret filing cabinets labeled SUPPRESSED, but not this. Being an innocent kid eager to beat any video game, I replied, “Yeah.” Hearing this seemed as though it was the best news he had ever heard. Christian sprung out of his chair as if his legs were miniature trampolines and then proceeded to take his clothes off. Once he was fully naked, he told me to go on and suck him. I wish I would have run away or done something else, anything else—instead, it seemed as if I were an obedient little dog. Once he had enough, he proceeded to take my clothes off and suck my dick. I felt so powerless. I knew that was my “no-no square.” Still, I remained frozen and mortified. I remember him saying, “Don’t tell anyone about this, or I will kick your ass.” I was so afraid and utterly confused.

This went on for the next two years until I turned seven. It progressively got worse. He ended up calling his room the torture room. If Mike or I beat him in a video game or did something he disliked, The Boy would take us in there. I remember hearing Mike scream. I did nothing. There are some days I can still hear those agonizing cries for help. All I did was sit on the couch as if this were a regular part of life. Shortly after, Mike stopped coming by, and it was just me.

Most children at that age stress about what toy Santa Claus will bring them or what they want for their birthdays, but not me. I learned what gay meant from a classmate, and in kindergarten, I thought I was gay, and that something was wrong with me. It took several years into my adulthood to realize that it wasn’t my fault. To this day, I still feel as though I could have done more. Or maybe if I wasn’t so weak, I wouldn’t have let it happen to me. If you feel like this as well, I’m going to tell you the one thing I wish someone had told me: It’s not your fault. Don’t block the world out. Not everyone is going to hurt you.

Another thing The Boy did almost daily was measure and compare my dick to his. He would take me into the bathroom, where Axe Body Spray flooded the air and piles of dirty clothes covered the floor. He would pull out a ruler and tell me how superior he was compared to me. Honestly, out of all the sick and twisted shit he did over the years, it’s one of the few things I haven’t been able to move past. I’m still an insecure person because of that. Whenever someone laughs, I immediately assume it’s directed at me. It's frustrating. It screwed me up more than any amount of physical or sexual abuse. There are many more things that happened, but I have suppressed most of them. I get flashbacks and nightmares, but I feel as though my subconscious mind is trying to protect me.

One of those things was something I’d suppressed for many years—something The Boy’s sister had shown me. What triggered the memory was seeing my little sister’s bottle of invisible ink. I was roughly around sixteen when I saw my sister holding a bottle of invisible ink; then my mind began to race as memories poured in. I was spending the night in The Boy’s sister’s room. We played some games on the original Xbox for a while, then got ready for bed. She told me to get in bed with her. I obliged, as saying no apparently wasn’t my cup of tea as a child. We were lying in her bed, and one thing led to another. She took off her clothes so I could see her vagina, and I remember her grabbing invisible ink and telling me to watch as she dripped it on herself, which to me was weird.

The Boy also made me urinate in a two-liter bottle just to see me pee. His dad came downstairs while I was following The Boy’s instructions, and a part of me was so happy. My eyes were screaming: Please … please help me, let me go home. But all his dad did was yell at me. He thought it was my stupid idea and made me go home. This was still a win in my eyes. I got to go home, at least. Another incident that took place was naked sushi, where The Boy would make me strip and he would roll me in a blanket. The memory cuts out there. I hope that’s all that happened. It’s terrifying not knowing all the details. Apart of me wants to know, But at the same time, do I truly want to? The saddest thing about all of it was that I was still under the impression it was a game. There were times I was happy and eager to play this fucking game and would ask to play. I think that was one of the reasons it took me so long to get past it. I kept telling myself, You literally asked for this at times. You’re the bad person.

The Boy and his sister would pretend I was in diapers with the blanket by folding it around my crotch. I remember his sister saying, “We don’t have actual diapers this time.” I don’t know if this meant that they put me in diapers before. I have no memory of that. One of the last memories I have is of running away. I don’t know why I was running, but I ran from The Boy’s house in winter, back to my house. He came running after me, banging on the door, throwing snowballs at the window. After a few minutes of banging on the door and throwing snowballs, he gave up and went back to his house. Minutes later my parents came back from the store with heaps of groceries, yet no words ever left my mouth. I remember thinking, Is this the day I die? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I thought it would be peaceful and rather wonderful to not exist at such an early age.

I was eight or nine years old when I eventually stopped going over there—thank God. Shortly after, I remember a day in which a friend and I were bouncing in the bouncy house in my front yard, having a good time. My mom asked me to come to her; we stood a few feet away from the bouncy house, on our front steps. She seemed off, darting her eyes back and forth. She looked as though she were trying to figure out what to say … “Christian, the neighbor boy came forward and told his parents about what happened to him at that house. Let me know if anything happened to you as well.” I burst out into tears as if a weight had been lifted from my chest. It was such a pivotal moment in my life. I’ve always wondered, What would have happened if he had never come forward? Would I have ever come forward, or tried to forget about it? When I finally told my mom all of what my brain remembered at that time, she looked at me with pure sadness and ache in her eyes and softly said in a half-joking, half-serious tone, “So, do you want me to go hurt him then?” Without giving that sentence much thought, I looked at my mom, smiled, and said, “No, Mom, that would make us no better than him.”

After this, I was brought into a room with a woman with a puppet. She wanted me to describe in detail what happened, but I kept using words such as “privates,” and she would politely say, “What are your privates? What other words can you use?” It felt weird to use the word dick in a sentence with an adult; it felt as though I was going to get in trouble. We met with my attorney who I don’t recall many details about other than the date on which I had to go to court. April 28th, 2010. My tenth birthday.

But before court, I remember going to my grandma’s house with some of my aunts and uncles. My parents told them the gist of things. Because even my parents didn’t know the full story. I remember being in my grandma’s room, wanting the horrible nightmare to be over when a familiar face opened the door. It was my dad, a six-foot-five, gargantuan, tattoo-covered man. A man who had a striking resemblance to that of your stereotypical felon, but he is one of the nicest and most intelligent people I know. He came and sat beside me. I remember trembling, thinking, What if he’s going to yell at me for not speaking up sooner? What if he’s going to …? Before I could even think of any more possible ways that I could have let him down, he began to cry and said he wished he could have protected me. To this day, that is the only time in my life I have ever seen that man cry. And there I was, thinking I was going to get a beating or yelled at. But I was met with so much love and care. I guess I never realized how much I was loved until that day.

A few weeks later, the day I dreaded the most came—the day of the trial. I had to spend my tenth birthday in court. I know what you're thinking: That sounds like an awesome birthday; I’m jealous, as you should be. On the bright side, some of my family members who showed up to support me had presents ready afterward. The one I was particularly excited about was the first three books in the Percy Jackson series, so that was a small bonus.

I remember sitting on that stand, completely overwhelmed, asking myself, How did I get here? Is any of this real? The other lawyer kept badgering and hounding me. I had to take so many breaks; I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. Imagine for a second that you are ten years old, and you are being berated with questions from a lawyer about a subject that will stick with you until the day you die. It left an impression on me. I remember being made out to be a terrible kid by The Boy’s lawyer, asking me if it kept happening, why go over to the house repeatedly? I thought about that for a long time. Finally, I said, “At first, I went over for the video games, but I stayed because I was scared I would get hurt more.” The judge ruled in our favor. But since The Boy was also a minor, I believe he only got a light punishment. I honestly didn’t care; as long as I could close this chapter of my life, I was happy.

At the time, I never realized that event would quickly imbed into my personality. Having not only a significant impact on my life but on other people’s as well. After the trial, I remember going home. I had presents to open and candles to blow out, but it didn’t feel like it was my birthday anymore. The childlike wonder, the spark of birthdays, was gone. In its place was a void filling in my stomach. It felt as though it was just another day. I remember going into my room, and not a soul bothered me that night. I pulled out the first book in the Percy Jackson series; the smell of paper flooded my room. As I began to read the first chapter, my eyes began to water, and droplets dripped onto the page. Yet my mind was blank. I didn’t know why I was crying. I thought maybe what I had just read was sad; I re-read it again and again, but the book was not the reason the tears were flowing. As a response to the trial, my brain just shut off. I still knew what I had gone through, but in order to cope, my brain made me think everyone goes through something similar and it was no big deal. I was only ten and had already forgotten so many things that would later ravage my mind like a hungry wolf.

There was a house on the farthest side of our cul-de-sac that was The Boy’s family’s friends. Two heavyset, butch lesbian women. They would always give my family and me dirty looks every time they would drive past, as though I were a criminal mastermind. These two women were convinced that Mike and I were doing all of this for attention. They tried spreading rumors about us, saying it wasn’t assaulted and we were just experimenting with our sexuality. (This made me question my own reality for such a long time.) Soon after, The Boy and his family moved away, and Mike and his family moved as well. Then my aunt sold her home and left the neighborhood. It felt as if I were a relic of a past everyone wanted to forget, and yet I was still chained to it.

I eventually started clinging to humor and becoming obsessed with South Park, because this show took serious issues and made light of them. I wanted to be able to do the same and bring smiles to people’s faces. I began to watch old episodes over and over because they made me laugh and feel a sort of temporary happiness. That dark humor was set into my mind and became my alter ego, Paxton. Childhood trauma is something many of us struggle with, but the day you are willing to say that your trauma does not define you as a person, and are willing to seek an open ear, that is when your journey can truly begin.