Who I Am

Who am I? That's a complex question with no easy answers. I am a woman who has yet to come to terms with her sexual abuse. I am the sister who is shunned, the daughter that causes shame, the niece who is labeled as trash, the wife who baffles her husband...in short, I am a survivor who hasn't yet learned to live.

My story begins with an innocent little girl. A little girl who grew up in a world that is not spoken of due to the stain it would leave on my family name. My mother was so depressed that she couldn't care for me. I ran wild from my earliest memories. Our home had drawn curtains, it was dark, it was quiet with the exception of my mother's crying. I learned to fix my own breakfast by the time I was 3-4 years of age. I grew up knowing that my being here had prevented my mother from her dream of being a nurse. It was my fault that her dreams were lost.

I was the apple of my father's eye except when I was too much trouble. Whoa to the one who had a differing opinion in my home. How can love and loathing be so intertwined? From my experience, very easily. From best friends to mortal enemies...it happens in the blink of an eye. All it took was one assumption and life as I knew it was changed forever.

I was molested by my aunt. When it began, she was a child, too. Our secret has only come to the surface on two separate occasions. The first time it was met with a blank stare and then a change of topic. The second, I was called a sick bitch. Hmmm, I'm a sick bitch? Yes, that is true but I certainly didn't ask for you to teach me how to digitally perform sexual acts at the age of four. I didn't ask to be taught to give oral sex to you. I was innocent and then, I was dirty and ashamed. I didn't ask for my family, my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles to look the other way while I was victimized over and over again. I'm not the one who chose to keep this secret that destroys me because it would be too hard for my mother to hear. God forbid that our good Christian family admit the truth. If you did, then I would no longer be solely responsible for what a child did to survive. You would each have to stand beside me and own your part of this sick play. A mother who didn't want her first born. A father who called his daughter a whore after she was raped because he projected his own sexual misconduct which resulted in my being. I didn't ask to be, you both invited me. "Let the dead bury their dead." I'm not dead, there is no correlation except in your own disturbed mind. Perhaps it would be easier if I were, but I am still here.

I am a drug addict who uses to keep all of the ugliness within from exploding in plain view. I function. I appear to be a relatively normal adult. I have a job, I attend church and feel like such a hypocrite, I even try to work a 12 step program and I cannot break free. I know Christ yet I am too afraid to step out on faith and quit smoking pot...my last means of quashing the memories. Instead, I put on the mask and pretend that all is well while I die a little more each day.

You taught my sister to scorn me. You've encouraged the competition for the label of the good child. I'm obviously not her.

It's easy to look down on those who have been slammed to the ground. Real love would be the simple extension of a hand to help me up. I won't hold my breath for that to happen. It's much more self-gratifying to tell me to get professional help. It's much easier to think that I should get over the past. Yeah, I choose to live here. *insert major eyeroll* Fuck you. Dumbass, self-righteous, pious assholes. As unkind as it is, I would love to give each of you a pinch of the pain and insanity that's come from all of these years of repressed emotions and memories and make you carry it as you've forced me to do: alone.

Welcome to my fucked up world.