By Sophie Lewis – The Grooming Files | The Indie Leaks | @realtalkrealtea

Disclaimer:
This story has been shared with full consent. The survivor has chosen to remain anonymous. All identifying details have been removed to protect her privacy. This account is based on her lived experience and is told in her own words and truth.

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It’s strange, really,
how you grow up thinking the people who laugh with you,
the ones you call family,
the ones you’d sit next to without a second thought —
they’re the safe ones.

They’re supposed to be the safe ones.

I was used to it —
all the noise, the drinking, the pretending nothing bad ever happened.
I got used to ignoring that sick feeling in my stomach.
It was easier than admitting it was still happening.

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There was one who hurt me without even trying to hide it.
Someone I trusted more than almost anyone.
Someone who was supposed to be my best mate.

I remember falling asleep on the sofa, thinking I was safe.
Thinking I could just close my eyes for a bit and breathe.

And then waking up to find him at my feet.
Rubbing himself against me.
Masturbating over my feet while I slept.

Like I was a thing.
A toy.
A joke.

I pulled my legs away,
but he didn’t even flinch.
He laughed.
Like it was funny.
Like it didn’t matter.

And the worst part is —
I laughed too.
Because it was easier to laugh than to fall apart again.

Later, I told someone.
Someone who knew him too.
And she said,
“Oh yeah, he’s done that to me too.”
Like it was nothing.
Like it was just something you put up with.
Like it was normal.

And I laughed again.
Because that’s what you do when you’re so used to it you don’t know how else to survive.

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It wasn’t just once.
It wasn’t a mistake.
It happened more times than I can count.
Late at night, early mornings, whenever he thought he could get away with it.

And I kept forgiving him.
Kept pretending it didn’t matter.
Kept telling myself it wasn’t real abuse because he didn’t, you know, do that.

But it was.
It was.
It fucking was.

Because when someone uses your body without your permission, it doesn’t matter what part they touch.
It’s still a violation.
It’s still wrong.

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There was even a time I wondered —
sick with doubt, spinning in my own head —
whether he could be the father of my daughter.
Because when your boundaries have been smashed that young,
you start questioning things you shouldn’t even have to think about.

That’s the kind of damage betrayal does.
It makes you doubt your own body.
Your own memories.
Your own worth.

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You’d think by the time you’re in your thirties, you’d spot it coming.
You’d think after everything, you’d know better.

But it doesn’t work like that.
Not when you’ve been groomed your whole life.
Not when you’re still looking for people to be kind to you.
Not when part of you still wants to believe that maybe, just maybe, this time is different.

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I signed up for driving lessons thinking that’s all it would be.
Driving.
Freedom.
A step towards a better life.

But he had other plans.

He started by being friendly — too friendly.
Saying I could have longer lessons for less money.
Saying he understood me.
Saying I reminded him of someone he loved once.

He used music too —
putting on Michael Jackson songs, the ones he knew meant something to me.
Pretending he cared.
Pretending he got it.

He took me to McDonald’s after lessons.
Bought me kebabs.
Made it feel like a friendship, like I owed him something now.

Sometimes he wouldn’t even bother pretending it was about driving anymore.
He’d just drive us around talking, taking the long way to nowhere.

At first, I thought it was nothing.
Just someone being nice.
Just someone seeing me.

But it wasn’t.
It was grooming.
It was always grooming.

He used me to lure other people into his kebab shop too —
telling me to bring friends, other girls, acting like we were helping him with his business.
Making me part of it without me even realising.

And when I finally woke up to it —
when I realised he wasn’t my friend,
wasn’t my teacher,
wasn’t safe —
he tried to turn it on me.

Threatened me with court.
Tried to make me the bad one.

But this time, I fought back.
This time, I wrote a statement so brutal, so true, that he never even showed up.

I never saw him again after that.

And maybe it doesn’t sound like much.
But to me, it was everything.
Because for once,
I wasn’t the one running.

He was.

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It doesn’t always look like violence.
It doesn’t always come with bruises and broken bones.

Sometimes it looks like laughter.
Like jokes you’re not allowed to be upset about.
Like music playing softly in a car while someone crosses a line you didn’t even know was there.

Sometimes it smells like kebabs and cheap aftershave.
Sometimes it sounds like promises — “I’ll look after you,” “You can trust me.”
Sometimes it feels like nothing at first,
and by the time you realise what it really is,
it’s already inside you, buried under your skin, stitched into your memory.

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There are people out there who will use kindness like a weapon.
People who will dress grooming up as generosity.
People who will make you doubt yourself for years before you even understand what they did.

I spent so long laughing it off.
Shrugging it away.
Pretending it didn’t matter because nobody else seemed to think it did.

But it mattered.
It all mattered.

And maybe back then,
they could make me small.
They could make me quiet.
They could make me think my body didn’t belong to me.

But not now.

Now I know what it was.
Now I call it what it is.

Betrayal.
Violation.
Abuse.

And no matter how many jokes they crack,
no matter how many smiles they flash,
they don’t get to rewrite it.

I was never broken.
They were.

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