I was groomed as a child
And didn’t process it for seven years
I had just turned 13 when I joined a theater club at my middle school. It was my last year there, I had to choose a high school, prepare for my exams, all of that stressful stuff. Theater was a great way to let it all out. To have fun, find my voice, to be authentic.
That year some inexperienced writer had pulled together a musical focusing on all sorts of Disney movies crammed up together, which to this day I don’t really get the plot of. But I was attending an underfunded public school, the play was (apparently) better than nothing, and it seemed fun, so we went with it. We had a total of six adults making sure things were going smoothly: two teachers who didn’t really care, two musicians writing the songs and focusing on the musical part, our mentioned-above dramatist, and the director.
The last four were all between the ages of 24 and 27, the oldest being the writer, all of them more or less friends, studying together at some academy centered around music and theater. We all (the cast + them) used to meet once a week to discuss what wasn’t working, do some rehearsals, and just chat. Soon enough we all became friends, going out for pizza on Fridays, hanging out, and some of us meeting separately to rehears some lines.
All of the ‘’adults’’ aside from the teachers seemed to enjoy it. I struggle to this day to see what is so fun for a 24 - 27 year old in spending their days around preteens, but they seemed to have genuine fun. During rehearsals they’d compliment me, especially our director, telling me I was the true star of the show.
At 13 years old all 20-somethings look like adults to you. Heroes who have found their way through life and are following their hearts’ callings.
I don’t really remember when I felt like I could trust them, but I did. I was going through a lot and back then opening up to my parents just wasn’t an option.
I was a shy kid, basically the opposite of what I am now. I was struggling with my mental health, dealing with self harm and suicidal ideation, and was an overall mess. I needed someone to reassure me, someone whom I believed to be accomplished in life, to hold me and tell me I was going to make it too.
The director and one of the musicians were best friends. The first one was 25, the other one 26. Eventually I got close to them. It wasn’t as creepy as it sounds at first, but it quickly got creepier. We’d talk and listen, give each other advice. (RED FLAG)
They knew I was struggling with some really dark thoughts, and although they knew they couldn’t give me the help I needed — they were there to hear me out. The made it seem as if they could help and encouraged me to talk.
Around four to five months in, the director, whom we’ll call Jake for the sake of the story, started complimenting me on my stage outfits. I was playing Crudelia De Mon in that mess of Disney characters — so my costumes were all floor length, figure hugging, v-neck dresses. They weren’t too revealing or strictly inappropriate, but they also weren’t exactly what any 13 year old would wear to hang out with friends. It started with simple compliments about the dresses, which became compliments about how I looked in those dresses, which eventually turned into compliments on how well my body looked in them. One afternoon as I was changing into my stage outfit he walked in and asked to help me with the zipper, brushing his sweaty palms against my hips and back.
Now, I didn’t look particularly grown up, let alone sexy, at 13. (And none of this would have justified his actions) I was an above avarage height, but that’s really it. I wasn’t even particularly pretty and who is while going through puberty? But he made me feel like I was some sort of Jolie look alike.
So those compliments went on and on and Jake’s confidence grew more and more which each and every single one of them. He was hitting on me, which I was oblivious to, but he believed I was somewhat reciprocating his advances.
I invited him to my final exam — which yes is a thing for eight graders in Italy and other people can come and watch — because I needed some reassurance. He showed up three hours late, in his mother’s car (yes, his mom drove him there), but still found me at the school waiting for a friend of mine to get out. I was so mad at him for having missed it, I didn’t want to look at him. I had opened up to this man, trusted him. He was the one I was looking up to, the one I was counting on to help with my anxiety before the exam.
At 13 you don’t see people for who they are, you see them for what you wish they could be. I didn’t care he was living in his childhood bedroom with his mother, I didn’t know he was hitting on kids. To me he was a grown up following his dreams, sacrificing every commodity to be a musician, volunteering his free time at a middle school. To me Jake was someone who listened sincerely to my problems, someone who wanted to help.
I didn’t see him as a child predator, I saw him as a friend.
He pushed me into a wall — his face a couple inches away from mine — to get my attantion. I was 13, he was 25. I was scared shitless. He kept leaning into me and I kept moving back as far as I could. He told me something about how sorry he was, but I didn’t register a word. I wonder how crazy this must’ve looked for everybody else there. Yet, no one said a word. No one stepped in. Teachers were walking in and out of the school and we were right there by the door. I felt invisible to everyone but him. His best friend, the musician, who was there for some of his own students to attend their exams, later found me to tell me that I should let him know if ‘’Jake ever tries to put his tongue into my throat’’.
Eventually the whole cast got together for one final dinner. Jake drove me and my best-friend to my house, and I asked him if I could tell him something. The three of us stood outside his car as I pulled up my sleeves to reveal several cuts. I didn’t really know what I wanted to say, but it was exactly what it looked like — a cry for help.
Summer was upon us, and after that night we didn’t see each other much. We went for a walk in the park one day, just the two of us. He asked me how I was doing and all, but didn’t really have any advice. As a girl a little older than me walked past us, he made a comment about how maybe he should be with “someone better suited for his age”. Then turned around, got closer to me, wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me in. “But I wouldn’t trade what we have for the world”. To this day, that still sends chills down my spine.
I didn’t really know how I felt at that point, but kept in touch with him. He would often text me late at night, talking about how I should invite him to my 18th birthday. If I wasn’t dating anyone else by then, of course.
An afternoon I had a relapse and panicked. With one hand I was holding a towel over multiple cuts on my tight, with the other I was dialing his number. It took multiple calls for him to answer, but when he finally did and heard me out, his response was short and cold. “I can’t help you”. He hanged up, I cried. That evening he texted my bestfriend saying he will be contacting her mother to let her know about the things I was going through. (I was closer with my bestfriend’s mother than my own, at the time). I panicked and texted him saying if he does, I will never speak to him again. “Good.” Was his reply. Maybe he finally saw my problems for what they really were, maybe he realized I needed actual help. Whatever it was, I hope he got scared.
He never notified her mother and I never reached out after that. He tried contacting me in the following months, but I never answered.
Maybe he should’ve told her mother, he definitely should’ve notified someone.
He wasn’t a mental health professional and I should’ve never expected him to be able to help. It wasn’t right of me to expect anything of him.
But what he shouldn’t have done, yet repeatedly did, was using those weaknesses, my vulnerability and trust, to get with a 13 year old. The right thing to do was keeping things as professional as they can be in that setting, letting me know that there’s resources that can help me, that will help. Being straightforward and honest, saying he wasn’t my savior. Never creating that weird relationship in the first place, never asking if he can help with the zip of my dress.
He shouldn’t have acted as if he could’ve helped, as if talking to him was not only safe but also the road to healing. Nothing — not my naiveness, not the depth of my problems — can justify hitting on a child. Making her feel safe, just to pin her to a wall.
Years later, when I was about 17, he found my mother on Facebook and through her page he somehow got my Instagram. He reached out, asking how I was doing. I asked if he was serious, he said yes. I asked where’d he found the courage to contact me again, he blocked me.
He wasn’t the first and definitely not the last adult to hit on me in my (pre)teens but he was the one that scarred me the most. Only a couple weeks ago, at 20, and only thanks to a TikTok (I know) it all came back to me and hit me. I cried all the tears I haven’t cried back then, felt all the pain.
It still feels somehow wrong to talk about. A part of me feels guilty, as if I’ve enabled his behavior.
But the truth is I was 13 and hurting, he was 25 and well aware of what he was doing.
If you or someone you know is being groomed, abused, or struggling with mental health, you can find helped through these resources:
