I was 13, or 14 when it started. He was my father's tenant and was renting a room from him. Every time he'd molest me he would tell me that he loved me. Maybe that's why I have such an aversion to the word nowadays. It stopped the summer I was 15 because I finally broke down and told someone at the camp I was volunteering at, knowing I would also have to tell my parents. I begged them not to tell anyone, convinced them I didn't need to share what happened with anyone. Twelve years later, I can't help but be mad that my parents actually listened to me around that. I struggled with C-PTSD for 10 years at least and it's only been in the last few years that I don't feel like anxiety is constantly weighing down my every breath.
You might not want to talk about it, but keeping what happened to you a secret isn't good for your health. Find someone you trust and share with them, cry with them, let them help you remember you aren't alone.