Young Writers Society

What the fuck do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you how his inexperienced hands of puberty stole my childhood? Do you want me to tell you that even though he was 16 and I was 7, it was probably both our first times? Do you wanna hear about how I could never trust my family again because everyone seemed to know about it, but no one did a damn thing about it? Not his parents, my parents, not even my own siblings. They somehow managed to bury it in the backyard with all of the other untold stories. My assault was not the first, nor the last to be buried.

Do you want me to count how many family events since then he’s been openly invited to? How many birthday parties I shared with him? Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, birthdays, everything was shared. I’m old enough to know now that I can say no to seeing him without feeling bad, but it still comes with a price, like missing my sister’s wedding.

My attempts at relationships have been eternally fucked. The first guy who ever told me he loved me cheated on me because I wouldn’t give him free reign of my body at 14. Like my body is just disposable; use and throw away, and if it doesn’t work, get a new one. The first guy I ever fell in love with used me for my body. And the only reason I let him is because I was scared he’d leave me too. I spent my entire life feeling alone; I can’t take it anymore.

I just spent 14 months with someone who told me he wanted to marry me and I wasn’t good enough in the same breath. I had to smoke my way into the cloud to run from the horrible thoughts and keep myself alive. His grandfather was a potential predator when he was alive, and that somehow equates to my sexual assault, so I wasn’t a real victim. I just wanted an excuse to be sad and hurt myself as if he wasn’t reason enough.

I can’t even explain to you. You wanna hear the truth, but the truth doesn’t even make sense. There are times where I need someone to hold me until I fall asleep, crying in their arms. I need someone to show me that my pleas aren't useless. And then there are times where I can't be touched because he broke me. How do I explain that to anyone without marking myself as a victim?

My hands ache from the pressure of my anger and angst. My bones are cracking from the weight of my insecurities. I have more emotions flowing in me than blood, and I feel the dam that’s holding my emotions breaking every time I write. My heart can’t handle this capacity, but I have no way to let it out without drowning in it. Do you want to hear about that?

Why don’t we talk about something that actually matters? Predators, rapists, pedophiles; they’re all hiding the crevices of our families. We all see them, but no one ever does a damn thing about it. The victims are too small or scared to speak up and everyone else wants to keep their reputation up. No one wants to be related to a predator. Well, no one wants to be prey to one either, but now I have because no one had the guts to stand up for a 7 year old. I’m prey to him every time I have to be near him. I’ve been gutted for years; my worth and safety, devoured.

Every week, I walk into your office, and you hand me a list of emotions. And the only one that ever seems to stand out is shame.