Love In Colour

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: HOMELESS SHELTERS & PERSONAL SAVIORS

The first time I was sexually assaulted, I was eleven. One of the younger foster siblings I had, Jade, who was four years younger than I was at the time, confided in me. She told me about how our foster dad had been touching her over her underwear. He would come into her room in the middle of the night and touched her inappropriately.

Hearing that made me angry. Angrier than I was already. So I did what any sane person in my position would do: I confronted him. When my threats were laughed at not only by him but by his wife, I waited for the next visit from the social worker who was assigned to my case. I told her everything that Jade had told me.

I begged her to do something. To get the authorities involved. I firmly believed, and I still do believe, that Jade wasn't the first child he did that to. They tried to force me to play a part and look like I'm happy to be with them. I hated them. I hated everything and everyone. They just chalked all of that information up to me being a troubled child who didn't know what I was talking about.

To quote, that bitch of a foster mother; "She's just making things up. She's always lying." Her words made social services label me as a troubled child. The next night, my bedroom door opened while I was asleep. That disgusting pig slid in next to me and did to me what he had done to Jade and more. That night, at age eleven, that man took my virginity, he took my body and damn near took my soul. No amount of crying made him stop. Begging was of no use either. So I did what I could only do: shut my mouth, lie there, and just let it happen.

And that is how it's always been from one house to the next. I shut my mouth, lay there and just let it happen. Let them take what they want from me and then throw vile words at me when they're done. To them, I was a whore, a slut and a bitch who had too big a mouth that needed to be shut by them shoving their dicks down my throat.

When I turned eighteen, I was out on the streets with no home to go to. I was homeless for half a year. Doing odd jobs that would pay me just enough so I have something to fill my belly. Jumped from one homeless shelter to the next while finishing up high school. I didn't even go to graduation. I just went the next day to fetch my certificate.

By sheer luck, I found a job as a dishwasher at a small restaurant. Within a year, I had enough money to get a small room to rent at a motel. Through cold mornings, and late nights, I worked, and worked and worked. Not taking time off even when my body needed it. I worked until I got enough saved to have a registration fee at a nursing school.

They gave me a half scholarship, and I had to balance work and school. Every penny I had saved would pay for the half that I was responsible for. I cried myself to sleep most nights, but I did what I had to do. No one was going to help me.I learnt that a long time ago.

I met men who only saw me fit for sex and nothing else. The objectification from them, combined with my low self-esteem and hypersexuality, was lethal for my body and my mental health. A part of me felt like if I gave myself freely, then they would stay. But they never stayed. They took what they wanted and left. I thought sexualising myself would give me power.

I met Bentley and had him as a roommate in my small, dingy apartment. His friendship saved me in a way. He showed me that I can be someone of value and that my body wasn't the only thing worth something. I stopped dating. I focused on myself. I graduated from college, got an internship and eventually, a job at the hospital.

All of these are things that Zoe will never experience. She will never know what it's like to pray and hope that no one comes into her bedroom and makes her do things a child shouldn't do. They will never know what it's like to go to bed with an empty stomach. To pray for death, because that seemed to be better than living.

I prayed and screamed at an empty sky. God never came to save me. I had to fight and claw my way out of that hell. I came out with a fractured mind and a dead soul. God didn't save. He doesn't deserve credit for my own strength. 

I saved myself.