I keep being told that basically my past of sexual abuse doesn't matter. That because, I wasn't raped it wasn't that bad. That I'm just being a pussy about it. But, I really really wonder if I'd feel better if it never happened. Or if I could have just left those memories in the back of my head. The reasons I remembered these things; somebody touched my thigh and I remembered the day mom went to Tennessee. I went to a friends house and remembered the girl I called my best friend sticking her hands in my pants when I was only nine. Or going swimming. And remembering how I should of just told my step mom I didn't want to go to Splash Village for my birthday. That damn counselor said that they can't really do anything. And none of those son of a bitches paid for it. I had to stand there and talk to a boy who makes me really hate myself, had to stand there and act normal and deny the fact I really just wanted to go back to the car and cry. And right when I got home I did just that. And I hate it. I have dreams about these things happening. Sometimes it's not even me. It's some other girl who's being grabbed at and harassed. I wake up and really wish, really really wish, that I could just forget it. Because, it's not important. It's not rape. So it's not too bad.
It gets easier each time I confess my past. And yet, the second I asked my brother if he could help me carry a few things upstairs, he complained. So I said never mind. And somehow he works these words in, "My dad thinks you're rude too. He just touched your legs."
How do you explain to a ten year old the meaning of trust? Explain that when I was ten just like him, his precious daddy rubbed up my child like legs with lotion from the fucking dollar store. Family is who you trust. And that man was no longer family to me.
I was not held down by any violent hands, but by words that asked me if I had ever had a massage. Words that begged to let him sleep in my tiny bed with me; that he was oh so fucking lonely, how I looked just as beautiful as my mother. Stupid little ten year old me gave up for the first time, laid down and tried to go to sleep while a thirty year old man who smelt of Budweiser laid beside me, held me and breathed so disgustingly onto my goddamn neck.
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She Who Must Not Be Named
Teen FictionRosalyn Levin is a young sixteen year old girl who in the center of her high school life has found herself in a jam of toxic love. Rosalyn is a broken soul to start with, but can you truly break something that's already broken?
