Breaking the Silence: Unveiling the Hidden Truth

Chapter Six - Despair

I was desperate to get away. My life was wreckage, and I needed a way out—any way. I started modelling when I was 16; the photographers didn’t care as much about age in the past. At 17, I began taking act photography without showing too much (naked photography focused on lightning and shadows). I used one of my other last names, so you will not find anything by searching Kirsten Dale. I did well as a freelance model; as I’m short, I couldn’t be in an agency, but I still made some money. My boyfriend was okay with this, so there was no problem there.

At 17, I wasn’t so bright and as I already told you: I was looking for a way out. I was contacted by a man who told me I could make big money if I were willing to enter the porn industry. If I started practising now, I would do good when I was 18. I could move out and even buy a house at 19. He was willing to teach me and help me along. He told me the porn industry had changed in the last ten years. He glorified it. I had tried getting a job with no luck. The final bus home collided with the opening hours of the stores, and with no network, I didn’t have any to advocate for me either. I had no references or attests, nothing to show that I worked hard. I didn’t get my first permanent job until I was 27, and that was only because my father helped me get my first one. After that, I got multiple, two of them, without even applying for them!

Anyway. On vacation with my mum, I agreed to meet up to take photos. We were camping in a broken caravan without water or electricity in the forest, away from people and buses. I brought my bicycle and rode it for over one hour to get to the bus. I had talked to my boyfriend about this, and he was okay with me having this job and earning a lot of cash.

The man had a minibus. He drove into the forest and then took pictures of me. Then he did something we didn’t agree to. He said he needed to test if I could pose with others, and he opened his trousers and got out his p***s. This was a 50-year-old man with a foreign accent, and black hair, thinning at the top. He had a giant beer belly, not somebody I was attracted to. He wore a white shirt and black trousers; his shirt was tucked into his pants. I had told him about my chronic disease, which helped me not make what happened that bad. Still, something I wish never happened and have nightmares about that affects my life today.

I have something called urgeinkontinens. Usually, this is something older people get, but I was born with it. My bladder contracts when it’s not supposed to; this urges me to pee. If I don’t go to the toilet, the feeling intensifies until I pee myself. I still wake up in the middle of the night to pee, most nights only one time, but sometimes 2 or 3 times. On my worst days, I have been going to the bathroom seven times or more. To help me, I’ve had some liquid put inside my bladder wall by placing a small pipe into my urethra. I don’t need the medication anymore, but it’s no fix. There’s no cure for it. It only makes it bearable.

This is very hard to put into writing. To this day, I feel like this was my fault. I chose this. But I only did this to escape my parents and my life. I felt trapped, like I had no safe place to go. What he sold me on was not the money or the fame, but the possibility to get away. I would do anything for that.

He took pictures of me from behind. He was directing me to look sexy, like a porn star. To do things to myself. I was very uncomfortable. I didn’t enjoy one moment of that. But I only had to endure for a while. Take some pictures now, then some when I was 18 years old. Then I could get away and start doing something else if I wanted. I didn’t see him taking his zipper down; I only heard it. I heard that he told me he had to try to see what I would do if he put it inside since that was what I would mostly do. He put it in from behind. And I’m so glad it was tiny! That I didn’t feel that much. Not deep inside. It makes me sick to think about it. He was disgusting! The whole thing was revolting.

He asked me to turn around. I did. He continued, and I asked him to stop. I said I had to pee. I was pushing at his stomach, and I didn’t want more. I didn’t want him to finish. But he didn’t stop. I panicked, said I needed to pee again and pushed his soft, bear belly harder. I didn’t look up at him. I never looked up at him. I still can’t remember his face, only his body. The feeling of him inside me and my hands on his stomach that they sunk in rather than pushing him away.

But he did stop. He didn’t finish. I went outside to pee behind the minibus. I was sitting down so that he didn’t see me. I was thinking about which option I had. I was in the middle of nowhere and had no idea where I was. Could I run into the forest? Down the road? What would happen if I got inside the minibus again? Would he continue? Nobody knew I was there. My phone didn’t even have a camera, and I didn’t have money to call somebody. And who would I call? I sat for a long time, trying to stall. There was no good solution to my problem. And he had stopped when I asked him to. Maybe I was paranoid? Perhaps he truly was going to help me, that he really was what he said he was. If I just walked away, I would never get away from my parents.

I went back inside the minibus. He didn’t do anything more to me. I can’t remember if we took more pictures, but I don’t think so. He transported me back, driving up the dirt road. We drove for a long while, and he seemed shocked over how far I had travelled to meet him. I asked him to stop some distance from the caravan so that nobody saw the minibus. I never heard from him again.

I never told anybody. Not really. My boyfriend asked about it. I said it was nothing. He searched for him on the internet, and he found him. I told him not to do anything. To just let it be. Later he closed down his website, and there was no trace left. He took advantage of me, of my despair to escape. For a long time, I couldn’t decide if I was r***d or not. It wasn’t like the movies, he didn’t force me, and he did stop. But I didn’t want to do it. And he stopped when I told him to. But I was r***d. He was 50, and I had just turned 17. After years of abuse, I needed to get away, and he had the ticket out. I would never have met up if he didn’t promise I could escape.

I have never told anybody I was r***d. If somebody asked me, I told them no. Denying it made it seem like it didn’t happen. I couldn’t face the truth. And I didn’t scream. I let him, even though I didn’t want to. But I was still a child. When children are r***d, we never question if they said no or screamed. Because there’s someone older taking advantage of them, it’s r**e.

I did tell somebody when I was drunk. I don’t remember that. I fought with my girl friend, and she said I had told her. And then she screamed at me that I wasn’t r***d because I hadn’t done anything. That there was no way I didn’t want that because I didn’t scream or fight him. I was heartbroken. Those words have stuck in my head ever since, making it impossible to tell anybody. I’m terrified of getting the same reaction.

That sentence ruined our friendship. I still hung out with her because I had no other friends, but I never talked to her about anything anymore and didn’t trust her. Every time I found somebody new, I ditched her. I didn’t want to be friends anymore, but I didn’t want to be alone either. After this, my life spiralled out of control. There was no escape. My despair and feeling of perdition only grew from here.

In the following chapters, I have included entries from my diary. I didn’t write much, but it captures some of my struggles at the time and what was going on in my head after years of abuse, bullying and now r**e.