My molester was my counselor, hired by my father. He came highly recommended. He was a Yeshiva teacher, and his father could best be described to be to the Hasidic sect of Bobov what Carl Rove is to Bush. His father basically owned tens of thousands of Hasidim. He pulled the strings, and they danced.
To a broken and unloved child of a family of 12, he seemed like a godsend. He told me what I’ve always believed — that I was special. ”Your parents don’t understand you,” he’d tell me. “They think you’re a bad kid. The truth is you’re just too creative for them.” He gave me an exercise that I will never forget. He asked me to take a piece of paper and write about myself, my fears, my joy, things that made me happy and things that made me sad. I only managed to write down one sentence: “I’m a child who loves to be special and I love special things.” That was all I wrote.
He was the first person who was ever kind to me. He also sexually abused me.