“I left home at sixteen, because my
mom’s boyfriend violated me in every single way and she didn’t give a damn.”
I was trying to keep the anger from
“I worked three jobs to pay for
myself to get through school, college and training. When I lived at home, I
used to sit in my room, cutting my wrists with a pair of rusted scissors. I
used to pretend that things might get better. And then he’d come in, the door
didn’t lock from the inside. He’d come in and abuse me. I attempted suicide at
fourteen, I thought that I’d finally cut deep enough. But it was only bad
enough for me to be hospitalised. When I was allowed to go back home, they only
complained about the trouble that I’d caused. He – mom’s boyfriend – said that if I ever told anyone about what
he’d done to me, things would get a lot worse than beatings and the…the other
thing-“ I couldn’t bring myself to say the word ‘rape’ it made it all too real.
“- he said that I wouldn’t need to try and top myself, because he’d kill me. At
school I was the freak, the manic depressive, the girl to either pick on or
ignore. So don’t tell me that I don’t understand!”
I failed to stop the anger from
flowing, like blood from a deep, scarring wound. It was scary, to reveal all
that in one sudden fit of anger. Years and years with a death-threat leering
over me had thought me to act as if everything was okay. It was just one of
those secrets that could tear your whole world apart if anyone found out.
People always say that when you tell someone stuff like that, you’re supposed
to feel better, but I just felt as if my secret nightmare had become reality. A
sick, twisted reality.
We stood in silence.