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1 week ago · · Sexual Assault,
Let me start this by saying that I’m not writing this for advice, I just need people who will listen. I don’t have anyone I can talk to so I am turning to this as a chance to try and lighten the weight on my shoulders. I’m going to start at the beginning, my first full memory. It was the second to last week before school was over. I was 6 years old with not a care in the world. I was taking the bus home from school like I always did but this time someone noticed me. His name was Avery, he was 18, a senior at my high school. He came and sat next to me, complimenting my singing. I was way to young to understand that something was wrong. Avery then put one hand on my shoulder and the other on my leg, those hands then made their way under my skit and my shirt. But for I could get him to stop he started kissing me. It was never more than kissing but it was still 2 weeks of being used like his toy. I remember hoping that someone would notice something was wrong, that someone would stop him and protect me. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It only stoped after two weeks because the school year was over and we were no longer riding the bus together. That secret has been kept between just him and I for the past ten years and every time I pass his house I want to just give up and cry or scream and break something. To an extra fun layer to this experience I have known that I’m a lesbian for literal as far back as my memories go. For me this meant that every time Avery told me I had asked for this or told me I should like it I always thought something was wrong with me, that this was normal and my liking girls was what was wrong. I wish I could say that that was all I had to say but there’s more. You see, in those 10 years that I have kept me secret I have done nothing but get gaslight by my parents. The people who I thought were on my side betrayed me time after time. It started with little things like believing my brother if he came crying that I hit him. But, before I knew it, everything was my fault. If something was broken or someone was upset there was always some reason for that to be my fault. I could be on a school trip all week and come back to find that every broken dish, every forgotten item at the store was because of me, that I somehow cause that to happen. Then I hit middle school and I fell into the gauntlet of comparisons. I was never as popular as Taylor, never as skinny as Cassie, never as smart as Steven, never as talented as Amelia. I was never good enough, there was always someone better for me to be compared to. Eventually everything became to damn much for my and I attempted suicide. I might have been only 13 at the time but all my problems mixed with my extreme anxiety and depression lead to me chocking down a bottle of pills hoping to leave this life behind. Obviously that didn’t work, I went to school a few hours after I took the pills and came home 2 hours after that with a suspected stomach bug after I puked up the pills at school. Sadly that was not the last time I attempted suicide. I tried again when I was 14, yet again puking the pills up them ending right back at school. The final time I tried was when I was 15 during covid. The constant fighting and being around my family only worsened my anxiety leading to panic attack after panic attack. Not to mention the stress of being in a homophobic house hold where I couldn’t have an outlet to be my true self. After one especially bad fight, where I had tried to approach my parents about the way they had been treating me, I just snapped. I couldn’t do it anymore, for the third and final time I attempted to throw my life away with a bottle of pills when I puked those back up I found myself drawing a bath and then sitting in it as I slit my wrist was a razor. These days I try to remind myself that I am luck I didn’t cut deep enough to kill myself but some days I wish it had worked. End result of my final attempt didn’t even land me in a hospital. When I didn’t pass out and no one ever saw me sitting there with my bloody wrists I moved myself back into my bedroom. I sat on my bed silently crying while trying to clean up the cuts and hide them. That way my parents wouldn’t be able to blow up at me for them and for how they must be some kind of sick joke because their daughter doesn’t have any mental issues. I’m 16 now and have been counting down the minutes till I go to college since that incident. I have reached the point where I know that I once I finish college I won’t be coming back to see my family. While I’m in college and they know where to find me I’ll keep them happy but after that I plan on never telling them where to can find me. I wish that forgiveness was an option and that this relationship could be salvaged but there is just no way. Not when my home is the place I am most afraid to be, not when my home is there number one place where I can’t be myself. Thank you to anyone who read through this whole thing, it means the world to me that someone, anyone would take the time and actually listen to what I have been through and what I have to say. Thank you again for reading and I truly hope that you have been much more fortunate than me and if you haven’t that you have all the love and support you deserve coming your way in the near future. ❤️