Letters I'll Never Send

2

          I've always felt like people didn't really care about what I have to say. I always get ignored or interrupted. Or, if they listen, they forget the conversation a while later. I'm not a memorable person. I've subconsciously learned to not open up to people. Not to tell anyone my secrets or troubles. It's never worked out well in the past. You listened to me, though. You both did.

          In the third grade, I was molested by another girl in my class. I wasn't sure what was happening. All I knew was I didn't like it and I was scared. She would always threaten to hurt me if I told anyone, so I didn't. After all, she was taller and stronger than me. I had a difficult time gaining weight as a kid, and I was always shorter than my peers. It took me about 5 months (give or take) to finally tell my mom. When I told her, I started to panic and regret what I've done. I should've kept it a secret, because now she seems upset. And when she told my dad, he yelled at me. I understand now that they were only worried for me and frustrated I didn't come to them sooner. But, as an eight-year-old, it seemed like they were angry at me. It felt like it was my fault. And that feeling stayed with me. I was moved to a different class to get away from her, but I lost all of my friends in the process. I remember during recess another kid asked me why I transferred classes, and I was honest with him. He called me gross and never spoke to me again. Later, my principle took me to his office and told me to never tell anyone about it again. It has to be a secret. All I could do was cry. He seemed like he was angry at me, too. My parents never put me in therapy. Maybe they were hoping I would have just moved on? I wish I did.

          Looking back, I assume the only reason another child would know anything about that was if they were experiencing it themself in their home. Maybe they were molested, too. I feel bad for her. Maybe we could have been friends in another dimension and timeline. 

          I used to have such a difficult time telling this story about myself. It's gotten easier with time. I don't think I'll ever get used to other people's responses. They either look disgusted or embarrassed for me. Some people think I'm being too dramatic. Others think I'm making it up. I can't make anyone believe me. If someone asks, I will tell. But, it's not exactly on my list of conversation starters. People always look at me differently afterwards. I don't want that ill memory from my childhood to be the first thing people think of when they hear my name or see my face. 

          My guess is that you were molested, too, L. I wonder if you've ever told anyone. I don't blame you for keeping it a secret. I just wish you would've felt safe and comfortable enough to tell me. I wish I could've offered you a listening ear. I wish you would have let me comfort you as best as I could. 

          Maybe that was another reason why you liked me. You saw a bit of yourself in me. I could just be jumping to conclusions here, though. I'll never really know, I guess.