Making It Real

I’m going to have to back away from the “Story” for a minute and hit something different.

I have been going to counseling for a little over a month now for the whole “situation” and between that and my sister, I’ve learned a few things.

1. It really did happen. I was molested. Mo-lest-ed. What a sucky word.
2. I fit the pattern of a victim. Therefore, it did happen.
3. I need a support system.
4. I need to stop running from everything that scares me and face it square in the eye.
5. Its okay.
6. People survive.

From here questions start to arise. Should I tell my mother? How do you tell your own mother that you were molested? How can you simply say the one thing that breaks your very being? Could I ever put my mother through this. Someone made a perfectly strong point, of If you had a child and knew she was going through tremendous hurt, would you want to be there for them? The answer? I would give up my left arm if my child needed it. My mother is the same. I know she would want to help me any way she could, but can she?

Can telling someone really help me, or does it just leave me with the world knowing my story and making me stained. That’s how I feel most days, just chronically broken. Perhaps there is some sign that I can’t see on my forehead explaining “You should see the shit this girl’s been though.” And most men when they see it book it to the nearest ten cent ho.

Because I’m real. I’m for real, and sadly I jumped past the average “college freshman” moves. My problem is that for so long I wanted someone else to come along and fix me. I wanted them to see this sign and pick me up and wrap my hair behind my ears whispering, “tell me.” Of which I’d never but they’d hold me carefully knowing I only have a few breaks left until I’m done for. I’d fight it till the end because I’m stained, tainted, and at times extremely unworthy of such love. Then the time comes when I would have to decide do I prove these things to this man, or try and bury them away?

Oh my stomach churns as I think of these things. I now have stopped waiting for someone to come along with a large band-aid and instead have started trying to make one from scratch. It’s not easy, I’d kill to leave this job up to someone else.

The hardest part is getting past it, because then you have to admit it happened and move on.

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Filed under Introduction, Questions, Thoughts, Worries

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