Just back from running errands and while I was out, I thought of various things I wanted to write about. It kind of seems like that’s when I get ideas; when I’m somewhere I can’t write them down. Such as driving.
Someone followed my blog recently, so I went to check out hers. There was a post where she said something that indicated being raped was one of the lesser traumas she had been through. Yeah I can relate to that. It’s an individual thing. What twists one person up inside may be completely different than someone else’s nightmare. I don’t think that makes how the person feels any less valid. I was raped twice as a teenager. The first one I was passed out for most of it though, so if you don’t remember something, how much does it affect you? I guess that depends on the person too. I read about these slimeball football players getting these young girls wasted and raping them, and having the audacity to take pictures of it, and it makes me sick. I think the photos/videos must make it worse. What a horror show. Anyway, thinking about this stuff reminded me of lots of things.
When I was 19, I was hospitalized. They sent me there straight from ICU and I was not a happy camper. The catalyst had been a messed up love triangle where I was being pulled in two directions. So when we had to do the group thing, I said that’s why I was there. There was this head doctor who had a way of looking at me like a bug under a microscope and I think he knew I was playing them. Say what they want to hear so you can get out… or so went my reasoning. A week or two of this and they pinned me down. “Is that all?” someone asked. I said that was why I was there, but they kept pushing so I gave a brief history of me. I said I had been abused when I was little, and my mom had left when I was eight, then died before I turned eleven. My father was an abusive bastard who made my life hell. I had been raped twice. I listed these things sort of casually and this girl in the group started crying. I didn’t understand why she was crying then, so I stopped talking, but I think she was crying for me. And when I dissociated, the Doctor leaned forward and peered at me. I don’t know if he knew what was going on, but he knew something was.
When I was sixteen my father almost killed me. He had me down on the floor strangling me and I was losing consciousness. I knew that if I stayed he would kill me eventually, so I ran away. To Miami (from Maryland). However, this girl that went with me got scared and called her momma and the police snatched us up. Yeah I was pissed, but it’s probably a good thing they did. They took us to this shelter for runaways called ‘Miami Bridge’ and I told them I would just run again. There was a lady there that gave me the numbers to shelters in my home town that I could go to, so when I got back, I told my stepmother that if he ever laid a hand on me again, that’s exactly what I was going to do.
After that, I got a full time job, 4-12 after school, so I rarely saw him any more, and I moved out at seventeen, the day after I graduated. Anyway, this is the sort of thing my mind skips around to when something gets me started. I really don’t think that’s the sort of thing people want to read about, is it? All those nights hitch-hiking home from work in the dark, and the various creeps I encountered… there were a couple of cars I actually jumped out of. Being a teenager kind of sucked in a lot of ways. But there were good things too.