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Right now, I’m lying in bed. Resting. After taking a shower. If I don’t, I’m afraid I might die. This is my life. You might think I’m exaggerating; I’m not.
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Right now, I’m lying in bed. Resting. After taking a shower. If I don’t, I’m afraid I might die. This is my life. You might think I’m exaggerating; I’m not.
We would lie in his bed, watching TV and he’d fondle me. I don’t know if he penetrated me. I just don’t know. But I do know there were times that he’d insist that I return the favor. I remember what I think was the first time he unbuttoned his jeans and took my hand in his, pushing it under the waistband of his underwear, until it reached his coarse pubic hair. My tiny fingers reached his penis. It was warm down there. I pulled my hand back. He pushed it back down. That’s the last thing I remember.
Depression robs me of the things I like to do the most – both hobbies and spending time with my family. The thing is, that when someone gives me the push, or I find the motivation to engage in the things I enjoy even when I don’t really want to, I almost always feel better and I’m thankful that I did.
Alcohol and the grace of God, spared me the memories of the rape, but I’ll never forget the harassment I endured, after returning from my TAD trip.
I woke up in my hotel room, nude, sore, bruised. Thick, crusty, sticky goop – semen, on my legs, in my pubic hair, on my thighs, on the sheets. I sat on my bed in shock. I knew what happened, yet I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. Not to me. I had no memory. Who? How? My head was pounding and swirling. I could barely keep it upright. My tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth. I needed water. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were swollen and bloodshot. I clearly cannot hold my liquor.
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