Thursday, November 22, 2012

Adrien's Story

New story submission from our R.I.S.E. facebook page:

"I'm an adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I was molested by a step-dad from age 7-12, He was in his 40's and 16 years older than my mother. After I finally told and my mother divorced him, he married my aunt (my mom's older half sister
-who he is still with) & he later molested/raped my younger cousin by that aunt.

My cousin has done well in her healing, but I have struggled. I'm 33 now, and I still cry about the damage that was done. Some days are better than others but my strength lies in Christ. My Christian family has accepted me as I am, and God has answered so many prayers having to do with my healing process.

I've accomplished a lot in my adult life, and have grown to accept that I'm a survivor. I've learned that sexual abuse will forever be a part of who I am, but that I don't have to let it define me. I'm happy to say I love & respect myself now, and am taking life one day at a time.

Thank you to all of you at R.I.S.E. for all you do. Never stop encouraging us, because although many of us may not publicly respond, we all see and read your posts.

I know this is difficult for survivors to talk about because of how shameful we were made to feel by our manipulative abusers, but the cure to ending this tragedy is speaking out & making others aware.

-Adrien ♥"

If you have a story of your own to share, don't be afraid to message us. We will never share your story without permission from you.
Stay Strong, and Keep Rising!

-Kylie & the RISE team. ♥


You can also find R.I.S.E. at the sites below:
Website: avoiceforheather.tripod.com

Myspace: myspace.com/avoiceforheather
Blog: avoiceforheather.blogspot.com
Facebook:www.facebook.com/avoiceforheather
Twitter: www.twitter.com/VoiceforHeather
Email: VoiceforHeather@yahoo.com



Saturday, November 3, 2012

Free Form Writing - A Kiss.


I leaned against the leather couch, arms wrapped tightly around the plush pillow in my arms. The room was warm and cozy, an excellent counseling office if I do say so myself. My counselor sat a few feet away, relaxed, her blonde ponytail swaying gently in the air condition.

“So tell me, what do think about something small, like kissing?” She asked, her voice like a lullaby you hadn’t heard in a long time, gentle, relaxing, luring.

“Kissing? It’s so precious to me.”

“Why’s that?”

“When my abuse started, he tried to french kiss me. I was 10, that was disgusting back then. I always clamped my teeth shut and refused to give in. It pissed him off every time, but I didn’t care. I wanted to piss him off anyways. Eventually he learned I’d never give it up, so he just gave up with that. For a while anyways.” My voice trialed off, my smile at my defiance, slowly slipping.

“Then one day he figured out how to take that from me too.” I squeezed the pillow tighter, my legs curling close to me.

“By now he’s done pretty much anything you could think off at that age. It wasn’t right, but it was routine now. I knew generally what to expect and I just performed to get it over with. I was numb really. So he decided to try something new to get a rise out of me.”

“One day, while laying nude in the bed he climbed under the covers and between my legs. I remember staring at the ceiling, just waiting for it to begin. I didn’t expect his tongue down there.” I felt my cheeks redden.

“It felt good and I hated it. I hated myself for liking it. I hated that he made me like anything.” Just like all those years ago tears began to slide from my eyes.

“I hated him.” I blinked to try and gain control over myself, burying my head in the pillow for a moment to hide my shame.

“I didn’t want any positive feelings with him. As long as it didn’t feel good then there wasn’t any confusion. As long as it wasn’t nice I could block it out. So I gave in.” I pulled my head away from the pillow, leaning further back to stare at the lamp in front of me.

“I told him if he’d stop I’d give him a kiss. And he agreed. He took from me the one thing I’d held onto for years. The one thing I considered sacred. The one thing I refused to allow him to have. I felt…broken. Like I just lost the game. Like with that kiss he might has well have stepped on what was left of my soul.”

I stared at the soft glow of the lamp, and felt empty. Like it had happened all over again by just admitting it out loud for the first time. We were quiet for a long time as I struggled to unlock myself, to warm myself up from the cold numbness that taken over. Finally I left semi alive again I spoke.

“That’s why a kiss means so much to me now. If I kiss you it’s not just a peck on the cheek for fun. It has a meaning, a feeling, a showing of love, or caring for that person. Even though he took something great and turned it rotten that alone has still remained pure to me. Maybe it’s cause I fought so hard for it for so long. Or maybe it’s because it’s part of how it all began, I don’t know. I just know that for me a kiss is always more than just a kiss.”

I’m sure my counselor said something along the lines of ‘thank you for sharing’, but I don’t’ remember. I remember being in shock about those feeling because I’ve never said them out loud before. I also remember feeling slightly happy to have found that I still held some things precious to me.

Free Form Writing - Pinned.


The mat thumps as I fall back against it, heart pounding. Perspiration slides down my neck in the hot room, but I embrace it, enjoying the work out. Every muscle feels tight, tuned like fine tuned weapon.  I jump to my feet, blocking a punch, countering with my own. Everything feels in slow motion, like we’re in the middle of performing a perfect play. We’re actually in Karate class, doing self defense combos. This is my favorite subject, something that makes me feel stronger, braver; something that makes me feel like I’m not that frightened girl.

My partner smiles as we break prepping for the next lesson. She’s warm, inviting. A bigger woman yes, but that’s expected after having three children. The whole family is here, practicing, I smile over at her husband and oldest child, encouraged by their compliments. They’re Hispanic, but the sweetest people you will ever meet.

Daddy Carlos, waves from across the room, as Carlos, his oldest looks on.  It’s a little confusing in class having two people of the same name, but for short we just call Daddy Carlos, Daddy.  We’re given a five minute break and they walk over, chatting about what they need to improve on in that last move.

I offer to practice a few rounds with Daddy Carlos, helping him get the correct amount of power needed to accomplish what needs to be. My roommate shouts, telling us it’s time to continue with lessons. It’s time to practice holds and pins. My heart speeds us, this is a hard subject for me, but I’m excited about the fact that you also learn how to get out of them. I automatically slide to the floor in position; I’m the one that gets held first.  

There’s a brief moment of talking above me between Daddy Carlos and my partner, as I let my hands fall to either side of my head, waiting to be pinned. Suddenly Little Carlos is ontop of me, pinning my wrist against the mat. I perform the escape maneuver and it ends with me shoving Little Carlos off myself a little too rough. I jump to my feet, bowing to Becky, my instructor and I turn, just short of running for the bathroom. My heart is racing and my hands are shaking so bad I almost can’t open the bathroom door.

I stumble into the bathroom, jerking the door closed and locking it. There’s nothing but a toilet, a trashcan and an open sink, sticking out from the wall. I lean against the wall half sliding half falling down it till I’m sitting on the floor, knees to my chest. My mind is racing, flashing images of being pinned, a shadow of a face above me.  I might have screamed, but I don’t remember. I feel my normal guards falling, overwhelmed by the sudden overload leaving the scared little girl inside me vulnerable free to the nightmares. I struggle to rebuild them, but it’s like trying to stop a flood, it’s impossible.

Somewhere far away in the distance I hear banging on the door, only adding to my fears as I think the Shadow Man is coming for me. Becky’s voice cuts through my sobs as she asked to be let in. I forgot I locked the door. She’s calming, soothing, and familiar. Nightmare dance around me, frighting in the big empty bathroom. She calmly orders me to let her in. I open my eyes, tears still running and I realize I've somehow managed to squeeze under the sink, as though the small space will protect me. I slide out and reach for the door handle, unlocking it with a quick flick, before immediately sliding back under the sink.

Becky slowly enters the room, followed by my lady partner, who looks shocked to see me so obviously shooked up. Becky slowly slides to her knees in front of me, reaching out to touch me. I feel her fingertips on my knees and I jerk away, screaming at her to don’t touch me. I rock back and forth under the sink, trying to comfort myself and failing. I sound like a primitive animal caught in a bear trap. Seeing her, but not really seeing her.

I cry harder scaring myself, my eyes squeezing close as I pray they all go away. Becky talks softly to me, soothingly, bringing up inside jokes to laugh at. I focus on her voice, struggling to remember the joke and situation that went with it. It helps. Slowly I begin to remember who I am. I’m not the 12 year old hiding in her room, but the 17 year old in class. I’m not being raped, I’m being taught. I’m not alone, Becky’s here. I slowly open my eyes, latching around her hand, trying to find warmth because I feel suddenly cold. Becky gently pulls me out from under the sink. I feel scared to be so open, so vulnerable while I’m still out of it, so I latch to her, letting her protect me as my nightmares fade.

My partner walks over and rubs my back gently, saying she’s sorry, for whatever just happened for the last 20 minutes she’s sorry. I nod, taking deep, calming breathes as inside I’m stopping the flood over memories. I was my face, and get myself together before exiting the bathroom. I’m shaky and still super jumpy, but I’m myself again.

Class is over and almost everyone has left except for the Carlos’s, Becky and I. I smile weakly at them, almost apologetically. Little Carlos comes over and apologizes to me and I shake my head saying it wasn’t his fault. I embarrassingly tell them that I was raped when I was younger and I just had a flashback. It sounds so much milder than it really felt. The either family’s face showed their shock and I look away embarrassed. I tell Becky to fill them in as I gather my things and change.

I walk away as she explains what just happened. In the side room I take a moment to punch the wall, angry at myself for losing it tonight. Angry that I was affected that bad. Angry that I was still affected after all this time and no somebody else had found out my secret. I slide my shoes on, tying them slowly.  I hated when people learned of what happened in class. They looked at you different, they were careful, scared to set you off again. I didn’t want that. I wanted to be just like them, normal, unafraid. I wanted to be treated just as they did before, not like a glass doll.  From now on the ease going friendship I had with the Carlos’s would be changed. Little Carlos would be afraid of scaring me again, so he would pass on being my partner anymore. Daddy Carlos would hold me gentler, making it to easy to slip from his grasp, not the way a real attacker would. And my partner would never see me the same, she would never against punch me as hard, or wonder like the rest of class why I had to sit out a moment while they practiced.

I stood up and grabbed my purse, heading back to my waiting classmates. It didn’t matter now, what’s done is done. I needed to focus on getting myself together tonight. I needed to focus on not screaming when the next person touched my back by surprise. I needed to focus on walking out to my car in the dark and not jumping at the shadows in my head. That’s what mattered now, that’s what mattered tonight.

Free Form Writing - Drowning.


The cold porcelain of the tub bit at my back, but I take no notice of it. It’s solid and real behind me, while my world is crumbling around me. The stark whiteness of the bathroom is comforting in a cool, innocent way. It’s still untouched, not ruined in my mind yet.

Tiny bruises cover my body, and they sting as the water sprays down on me, but I feel I deserve the pain. It’s a reminder that I am a dirty whore, in a way punishing myself for sins I didn’t commit. Bitter hot tears fall down my cheeks, mingling with the scalding water.

I want to scrape him off, remove him from my flesh but the shiny knife looks so intimidating, scary.  Why can’t I get him off me? Why am I such a coward? I grab the soap, scrubbing as hard as I can. My skin is raw and red under my soapy fingernails. Nothing.

His black and blue finger trails against my pale skin are still there. I toss the soap down letting the water wash away my fruitless efforts. I give up and lay down in the tub switching the shower to tap, slowly filling it. The heat soaks into my skin, but it hurts less than the shower did. If only I could drift away.

I wish I was floating away into nothing but the warmth that now surrounds me. Like a piece of driftwood lost at sea, just bobbing along soaking up the sun. It seems like such a far of dream right now.  I wish I far away from here. My parents don’t help me, my friends don’t know how, and  every time I close my eyes I see his smile and I feel his disgusting tongue on my skin. I feel so…alone.

Like the emptiness of this tub there’s just me and the evidence of what he did to me. There is no help, there is no rescue. When I look out at my life for the next several years all I can see is me sitting in this tub, trying to wash him away. It’s never going to end.

I asked for help and was denied. That was my last resort, my last fragile hope. I squeeze my eyes shut and my mother’s face swims to the surface. The look of horror, denial, disgust and rejection. She didn’t want me, she didn’t want to believe me. She would never accept me again, I have done something to horrible to be forgiven.

I should just disappear; I should just go away and just solve the problem for them. I should just die. Strangely that thought calms me, there is no more pain, no more sadness, just empty calm. I start going through the check list. Pills? I hate pills and I probably couldn’t take enough anyways. Slashing wrists? I stare at the bruises on my arm, that would hurt too much. Gun? I know where there is one, but when I imagine that cold metal against my head I chicken out.  I release a breath in frustration, swirling the water around me with my hand. Why can’t I die by water?....Wait drowning.

That’s a good idea actually. I flip myself over, facing the water that mingles with my tears. I wonder what it’s like to drown? My arms fall away and I’m surrounded by water. I slowly push my breath out of my lungs, forcing myself not to hold on any longer. Just make it stop, make it all stop. For a moment I’m at peace, with everything, even excited by the thought that I got one up on D, that I stole myself away from him when no one else would. Then my lungs start to burn for air, I force myself to stay down, accidently swallowing some water. My body panic, jerking back to the surface and sputtering for air. I cough and hack as my body quickly gulps up precious air. I growl angrily at myself. I’m eleven, I don’t know anything about a body’s survival instincts.

Over and over again I try to make it work. I even climb out of the tub and fetch some material to help. I tie the knots, tightening them with my teeth. I return to the tub and climb in, face down, crossing the rope behind my neck, forcing my head to stay down. Each time I get so close. The air leaves, my lungs burn, black dots start to appear and yet every time I can’t figure out a way to stay under and I jerk up sputtering every time.

I give up to tired to cry and to frustrated to be numb. The water’s cold and unwelcoming as I sit in the tub, my hands tied in front of me. I can’t even kill myself right. I am pathetic. I have discovered my new drug.

Drowning will become my new obsession, I will drown myself every time I’m in the tub for the next 5 years, like a cutter that keeps on cutting, but never commits the killing blow. Was I any happier? No. Drowning, suicide was not the answer I was looking for. Help was, counseling was. My first counselor sucked, but I refused to give up. I kept trying till I found the right one. If you ever felt like this know you aren’t alone, know that it’s not the only option, if no one will help you, help yourself, go talk to a professional. 

Free Form Writing - Betrayal.


I wrapped the blanket around me as I stared blankly at the tv screen. I believe Power Rangers was on, but I hardly noticed, my attention was on much more important matters. D sat there, cross legged on the floor, completely ignoring my presence and for that I was relieved. I turned my attention to his friend whose name I’d already forgotten. He was a typical skinny white boy, short black hair and glasses. Nothing special at all, the complete opposite of D. D was built for the football team, super strong with almost platinum blonde hair. I turned my eyes back to the screen, swallowing out of nervousness. My throat felt dry, so dry in fact that it bugged me.

I stood and headed towards the kitchen, snagging a glass from the counter. I filled it up at the sink, staring out at the bushel of parents laugh and yelling at the football game on tv. I sipped the water slowly letting it sooth my throat and delaying going back into that room. I hated everything about this place, but I didn’t really have a choice. If I tried to hide out in the living room they’d just tell me to go play with the others anyways. Sometimes I really hated being ten.

I sighed and finished off the last of my water, turning to head back to the room. I wasn’t too worried today, there were too many people and D had a friend over anyways. Nothing was going too happened. I relaxed wandering down the hall to the last room on the left. Merely I stepped inside, closing the door behind me and automatically walking back to my spot. It wasn’t until I reached it did I notice something had changed.

Arms wrapped around from behind me, trapping me against a hard body, hands latching onto my chest. I may not have been fully developed, but there definitely was enough to grab onto. I froze, unable to make a sound. D’s mouth was close to my ear, his warm breath tickling it. His hands were rough, almost painful against me. I stared at the boy in front of me, still in the same position, watching the tv. He hadn’t noticed what was going on behind him yet, in the dark.

Why was D being so bold? He’s never done anything like this before and especially not in front of someone. I prayed that boy would turn around, would see me and question D. I prayed he would save me. In that moment he had gone from the boy I never met before to my only hope. Surely no one would stand for this if they saw it. I stared so hard at him I thought his brain would melt under the pressure. It seemed like ages before he noticed us, but it was probably one a minute, or two. D’s left hand slipped down my boy to my pants, sliding in under the edge of them before the boy ever noticed us.

He turned to see what had happened to his friends and for a moment he froze just like I had when he saw us. I locked eyes with him, secretly pleading for help, too make it stop. He stood up and walked over to us and I opened my mouth, for once I almost spoke, almost asked for help. And then his hand landed on my boob.

My mouth hung open, jaw locked in shock. His other hand encircled my waist as he groped me, his head leaning forward to bite my neck. I gasped, not in pleasure, but in shock. My only hope was a traitor too. He didn’t want to help me, he wanted to hurt me like D did.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Hands ravished places they never should have and I stood there and took it, feeling stained with every inch they touched. How could he? How could he hurt me too? The questions pounded in my brain. I didn’t care what they did to me anymore, I only cared that I felt betrayed. I put my trust in a stranger, I put hope in him. I risked getting hurt more by almost asking for help and he threw it all away to hurt me as well. Is this all I was now? Some ragdoll for people’s pleasure? My throat closed up trying to hold back the sob inside. I never wanted this. I never wanted to share myself with D, now his friends? Just kill me please. Release me from this torture.

“Time to go!” My Mom’s voice echoing in the house. I blinked tear sliding from my face. I’m saved…

The hands holding me slowly release me and I jerk my clothes to their appropriate place. I didn’t look at them to see if they were disappointed. I didn’t look to see if that hard on I thought I felt behind me was really there or a figment of my imagination. I didn’t look to see if they were smiling at me. I ran.

I just ran.

I ran all the way to the car.

I grabbed me seatbelt and somehow managed to hold myself together for the whole 15 minute drive home. I ran to my room. I think I might have even jumped on my bed, but I don’t remember. I curled up in the corner of my bed, the one against the wall and I cried. I cried open mouth sobs into my pillows that night. I cried not for what happened to me, but for the fact that boy’s first thoughts were to join in and not help me.

Free Form Writing - The Box.


The Box.
Never open the box.
It’s an unwritten rule with sexual abuse victims.
The box can be real, or metaphoric, but every survivor has one.
It’s a container, a safe, a storage unit for all the crap that happened to you.
Some are big, some are small, some are different shapes, and some aren’t really even boxes at all. Some are bags, some are journals, some are painting and drawings, and some are even just a blocked off part in the survivors mind.
Once in a rare while the survivor will take that box down, open it, and stare at all the crap they lived through. If the survivor does this they are prepared, in control, securely handling the contents of their box so it can be examined and analyzed. So the survivor can heal, until one day they can maybe throw the box out, or the box merely fades away.
The box is something you made with a mixture of love and hate. It is something your poor some of your most vulnerable moments into. Something you cry over, something you smile over. A visual container to describe a part of you.
The problem comes when it’s not the survivor that opens the box.
The survivor becomes caught off guard, their walls unprepared for the crap that follows. The lack of control scaring them.
A child could stumble upon the box and ask a question.
A friend who didn’t know the circumstances behind that box could jerk it open.
A parent could force their way into the box.
You see the box, you the see the person that opened the box and time stops.
The first thing you’ll feel is anger.
Anger at someone finding something so personal to you.
Then the anger transforms into anger not at the person, but the person who made the memories you placed in there. You explode at the memories, furious that you even own a box because of them. Furious that you even had memories that need to be locked away.
The person pulls things out of the box, staring and analyzing, but not understand the objects purpose. They might joke, or mock the item, fueling your anger. Now, unintentionally they are laughing at your memory, at your pain and your joy in that box.
With every item they pull out another memory will slap you. It’ll crash through your carefully built walls and you will feel exactly as you did the moment that memory was made.
You will feel small, insignificant, dirty and stupid.
You will probably be unable to stand this and in a desperate attempt to make it stop you will jerk the box away from them. You will either close it and angrily dash away with it, or you will shut down. You will feel the cold numbness you used to succumb to take effect, desperately trying to regain mental control.
You will be quiet, the memories flashing behind your eyes, you aren’t seeing the person who accidently opened the box anymore, you are seeing acts from another place and another time.
I can tell you how I handled the opening of my box. I didn’t.
The anger immediately turns into numbness and I begin to methodically go through my box. The damage was done, the box had been opened. I began to pull out the items that had been shown and explain their purpose. Hatefully I threw them to the ground trying to break them, break every memory that went along with it.
The person was shocked, confused, they wanted me to stop. I can’t just stop. Nothing just stops.
You can say stop, but once you start on the roller coaster, you can’t get off, not until it’s complete.
That’s the other part that makes you angry, they all want you to stop. Everyone, friends, lovers, parents, pick one. They want to poke, to prod, to ask around it, but when you actually start telling them what they want to know, when it starts getting to hard, to intense they all want you to stop.
Well I wanted it to stop too and it didn’t. I didn’t even want to know, but guess what I got it anyways. So don’t fucking ask me to stop. Either you want to know it all, or don’t ask me. It’s just to fucking hard to stop.
You know what it feels like when you ask someone to stop, mid-way in? It feels like you didn’t care after all, it feels like you really didn’t want to know the truth, it feels like another form of being let down, of being betrayed again. So don’t fucking ask me to stop.
That will snap my cold numbness faster than anything. And it did. It resparked that anger.
You know who my favorite heroine was? Anita Blake, a character from a novel. Not because she’s just cool, or badass, or does neato vampire things. No, that’s not why I respect her, look up to her. I like her cause whenever something horrible was happening she stared it straight in the face, because she know someone, somewhere had to live with it, so it was the least she could do was to hear it out, or to watch it happen.
There was this one book, where a friend of her’s son was being molested, and she was tied up and forced to watch it on a TV screen. She didn’t look away, she didn’t back down, she started it straight in the face and vowed to watch the whole damn thing because she knew that boy would have to deal with it for the rest of his life and she was the only validation he would have. She killed the chick that hurt him later, but that’s not the real point.
I feel like that sometimes. I know I do it to myself, but I’m willing to listen to any horrible bad thing that has happened because I know that person had to live with it, but in all honesty I don’t feel like others will do that for me. That’s one reason I stay so guarded. I can’t take that disappointment, that rejection if someone let’s me start to be vulnerable, and then forces me to stop half-way through.
That’s why I don’t share things. That’s why I don’t fully trust. That’s why the only person I do let get that close, my counselor, is because they aren’t allowed to reject me that way. They encourage you to tell more, not stop and hold it in.  
Anyways, I’m off track, back to the box.
After the person left and you are alone with that box you let yourself cry. You cry for hurting someone who didn’t know. You cry for the pain of reliving parts of that box. You cry for losing control. And you cry for the effect the memories can still have on you.
You might even throw your box, releasing your anger for one brief moment, but it does nothing. You aren’t doing anything to the box, to the memories. You are just frantically looking for a release.
And for a moment you’re broken again. You’re back in time once more. You shake your head and start rebuilding your walls, tightening the bolts and chaining up the memories one at a time. You carefully put them back in the box. You close it up and hold it sadly in your mind. You’re lost, what do you do with it now? Do you put it back and risk someone else finding it, do you place it somewhere new, do you throw it out, or do you just stand there and hold it?
It’s true it brings negative memories. It’s true you should rid yourself of negative things, but it’s hard. It’s hard because you put so much time, so much energy, so many tears into it.
I threw my box away.
My literal box anyways. My mental one is still there, will always be there.  For now it’s under a bed and it comes out for a controlled counseling session and then it goes back away. For now that’s where it stays until I know what to do with it.
We all have a box, not all of them are about abuse, that’s just mine. We each have things that are precious and close to us, things we don’t want to share. Things we want to keep for just us, things we want to share, but are scared too. We fear the rejection, the pain opening that box will cause. We fear the result of a box opened, but not by our hand.
But if someone can comfort the pain, if someone can accept the flaws of the person that has the box then real, true healing can begin.


Free Form Writing - Hair Dye.


Hair Dye.

I've dyed my hair today, a deep reddish brown.

I'm always dying my hair, changing it.

I wonder if it is because I'm just bored with it, or if I'm telling myself something.

My hair changes as I change. I must be changing a lot because it hasn't been the same since I was 15. Blonde streaks, deep browns, golden browns, reds, pink. Always changing.

Long, medium, short. Changing.

My hair is like my emotions.

Blonde streaks; light, calm, peaceful, feisty. Deep brown; thoughtful, sad, deep. (Haha, I know.) Reds; angry, rebellious, fast, fun, amazing. (Everything I feel now.) Pink; crazy, shocking, outrageous, hip.

But what about golden brown, my natural color? I don't have an answer for you.

I have been what others have needed for so long I don't even know who I am. I'm trying to find out. Give me a break I've been this way for almost ten years. It's hard to break this habit, to kill this part of me. It's not healthy. I shouldn't have to feel like I'm trying to survive anymore, yet I am. So what happens now?

No one tells you what happens once you're done surviving. They really don't tell you a lot of things. They tell you how to get there, that's the easy part. Go get counseling, walk away from a bad relationship, blah blah blah.

They don't tell you that you're still going to be depressed and numb and everything you thought you'd get over when you do get help. They don't tell you that magic word that will make everything better. They don't tell you how to stop; you have to figure that out on yourself.

So when you come from a situation like mine how do you find yourself?

For me I make list. I say what I do know, my absolute truths. Then I list things I don't know, things that change. So here is my list:

Things I know:
I like the rain, specifically dancing in it. I like smiles and laughter. I like singing with the radio. I feel old and young at the same time. My perfect night hasn't happened yet, but I get close every weekend. I ramble, but I like being able to talk about absolutely nothing. I like driving with the windows down, no destination in mind. I like sporadic ideas; random dinners in the middle of the night, going to the park to play on the swings. Random calls from my friends, or my love just to show they care. I like living. I like blankies and pillows. I like late night movie marathons and popcorn. I like hanging out and reading a book. I like just being with people. I like painting my nails, removing the polish and painting them again just because I can. I like calling my mom, Mommy, and my dad, Daddy. I like slumber parties and late night gaming, even though I'm not very good. I like talking and helping people, even strangers. I like creating new styles and destroying old ones. I like sleeping in and staying up late with people I love.  I love learning, I hope I never stop. I love stories, good, or bad, any story it doesn't matter. I'm proud of being short. I'm proud of being stout. I'm proud of my thoughts and my beliefs. I love my friends so deep my heart physically aches when we don't' get along. I'm white, but inside I'm black. I love big black women and their whole demeanor. I hope I can be as strong as them. I'm afraid of commitment, but I want to try. I love to love, even if it's not reciprocated.

 Support makes me calm. Love makes me happy. Trust is the key to my heart. Fear is the lock that covers it. On my wrist are shackles, one is pain and the other is joy. One could not exist without the other and together they rule me. Will I ever be let free? Yes, once I love myself.  I just have to get there.

These are facts. These are things that make me happy, things I like.
Now for the confusing part…

Things I don't know:

Everything.

Other people's thoughts, feelings, opinions. I don't know how to break my habits. I don't know how to change my views about myself. I don't know how to say no. I don't know how to stop being so submissive. I don't know how to stop being abused by people. All I know how to do is to take the hurt and carry on. I don't know how to relax, to enjoy my happiness. I've been on guard to long. I don't know what I am interested in; maybe that's why I like learning, to figure it out. I don't know how to make tiny decisions, I'm too afraid of making the wrong one. I don't know how to walk down the street without looking over my shoulder, especially for him
I don't know what I would do if I did see him. Probably run away in a panic like I always do because I don't know how to stop. I don't know how I feel about him, my abuser. Do I love him, do I hate him, do I pity him? Do I run from him, do I face him, do I scream at him, do I just stare? Do I continue to deal with him alone, or with others? Is that harder, or easier? Am I a victim, or a survivor? Both? I don't know yet. I'm still learning to think about myself.

Am I worth this trouble, or not? Am I a good person, or not? Am I strong, or weak? Am I black, or white? My opinions of myself change daily and are highly bias on my behalf. Sometimes I know I'm right and other times I need a friend to remind me I could be wrong. I know I'm simple and overwhelming at once. Don't worry it confuses me too. I'm trying to work it out.
I'm getting better with time, experience, support and love. Overall I feel the happiest, the most secure, the most comfortable in my own skin than I have in years. It's all thanks to you my friends, my family, my loves.

Thank you.

Maybe I'll start with figuring out what color I want my hair to be.

Free Form Writing - Winter's Kept You...


Winter’s Kept You...
 Song – Kristy Are You Doing Okay? – The Offspring. 

She stared blankly at her hands, her breath visible in the freezing air. Soft, white petals of snow gracefully landed in her palms, vanishing at the touch. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she barely noticed, she was miles away inside her mind.....


There's a moment in time
And it's stuck in my mind
Way back, when we were just kids....


She was 16 again, smiling and waving at her friends in the locker room. She was running late, too much wasted time in the gym today.  The girls hustled along, promising to tell the teacher she was coming soon. She laughed and waved goodbye, turning her attention back to her locker. She pulled out her dress from earlier, a flowing white dress with a pink bow. She pulled out her textbooks, placing them on the floor at her feet while she prepared to change. She removed her shirt and short, shoving them into her locker, quickly pulling her dress down over her head. A door open and closed in the background. She smoothed her dress down, turning to see who had forgotten something in their locker. Jack stood before her, alone and dressed still in his gym clothes. She stared at him confused, this was the girl’s locker room, didn’t he remember? She lifted her eyes to his, preparing to correct him. Something in his eyes made her stop. Jack stared on, a sly smile sliding into place.....

Cause your eyes told the tale
Of an act of betrayal
I knew that somebody did....


He stepped forward, breaking the moment. She opened her mouth to speak and he was there, suddenly much to close. He placed a hand on either side of her, closing her locker in the process, the metal slam echoing in the empty room. He leaned forward and kisses her, shoving his tongue into her mouth. She gasped in surprise, for a moment giving him even more of an advantage, before jerking her head to the side breaking the contact. She turned to give her back, hoping to block him from trying again. A hand slide into her hair, jerking her head back slightly, her fingers curling into the metal grid beneath her palms. Her tired muscles strained in panic to escape, but she was no match for his strength. She could feel her thin dress, ridding up her back. Weak muffled screams escaped her lips, knowing they would make no difference now. ....


Pain.


Cold Steel against her cheek.


Blood.


Hot tears against her hands.


Shock.


Time suspended in a moment of terror.



Echoes of pain in the distance.

She runs away in her mind, refusing to acknowledge it.

Oh, waves of time
Seem to wash away
The scenes of our crimes
But for you this never ends....

She wasn’t sure when he released her. She wasn’t even sure when he walked away. She timidly returned to the present wincing as she struggled to focus. Everything felt so cold, so numb. She couldn’t seem to think. Where was she? Wasn’t she supposed to be somewhere?


Can you stay strong?
Can you go on?
Kristy are you doing okay?
A rose that won't bloom
Winter's kept you
Don't waste your whole life trying
To get back what was taken away

With a jolt her mind kicked into gear again. Class, she had to be in class. Clinging to the familiar thought she gently raised herself off the floor. Her weak hands, smooth her dress down, struggling in vain to rid it of the wrinkles he’d made.


Though the marks on your dress
Had been neatly repressed
I knew that something was wrong
And I should have spoke out
And I'm so sorry now
I didn't know
Cause we were so young

She put one foot in front of the other. She picked up her textbooks and fleeing the locker room, flashes of memories ringing in her mind. She bit her lip to distract herself, running to class. No one knew the real reason she ran, they just thought she was late. She stumbled into class, interrupting the teacher. She froze for a moment as startled by her own appearance as well.....

Oh, clouds of time
Seem to rain on
Innocence left behind
And it never goes away

Her eyes scanned the room soaking in the people staring at her. She felt her secret was stamped on her face, obvious to anyone who bothered to look. She told herself that was stupid as she hugged her books tighter to her chest. Her eyes finally landed on Dexter, her friend and crush, though he didn’t know it. His eyes were locked with hers, reading her secrets.


Can you stay strong?
Can you go on?
Kristy are you doing okay?
A rose that won't bloom
Winter's kept you
Don't waste your whole life trying
To get back what was taken away

For a moment she forgot how to breathe. Then a hand landed on her shoulder making her jump. She almost screamed, until she saw the teacher standing beside her. She was promoting her to take her seat. She nodded and turned away from Dexter, sitting down in her spot. She felt like throwing up, but that would raise to many questions. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep from crying. She needed to focus to not raise suspicion. She reopened her eyes, mindlessly opening her book to the appropriate page.


Oh, clouds of time
Seem to rain on
Innocence left behind
And it never goes away

Everything felt so wrong. She felt lost. What was she supposed to do now?....


It never goes away....


Nothing. She could do nothing. Her throat ached to cry out, but she had no voice for her pain.


Can you stay strong?
Can you go on?
Kristy are you doing okay?
A rose that won't bloom
Winter's kept you
Don't waste your whole life trying
To get back what was taken away

She kept her secret for 5 years. She was 21 now, sitting on a bench in the snow, without a coat. The cold reminded her of her pain, beautiful and cold, like her. She jumped as a warm coat wrapped itself around her shoulders. She looked up, staring into familiar eyes.


Don't waste your whole life trying
To get back what was taken away.

  
Dexter smiled sadly down at her, a thumb wiping away her tears. No words needed to be said, the promise was already made. He would make up for those years. He would warm her, and melt her pain. She wasn’t alone in this anymore.