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      "body": "@@ -8504,26 +8504,65 @@\n e by\n-, but we never got\n+ since the pregnancy was found out. We never had a chance\n  to \n@@ -8569,37 +8569,26 @@\n speak about \n+i\n t\n-he pregnancy\n  or the abor\n@@ -8637,24 +8637,203 @@\n was \n-never left alone\n+rarely left alone. Perhaps, too, part of me didn't even want to talk to him. I was still emotionally reeling from the pain and heartache that my family was desperately trying to hurry up and bury\n . %0A%0A\n@@ -9052,80 +9052,124 @@\n n me\n-. I was scared. I'd been pregnant and endured an awful abortion on my ow\n+ and force me to terminate a pregnancy. I was more scared of them than ever. Emotionally, it was as if I as an orpha\n n. I\n@@ -9175,17 +9175,26 @@\n I spent \n-a\n+the entire\n  summer \n@@ -9229,20 +9229,19 @@\n thoughts\n- and\n+. I\n  really \n@@ -9304,16 +9304,21 @@\n ed. Sam \n+only \n knew I w\n@@ -9490,19 +9490,22 @@\n l th\n-at\n+e\n  pain\n- and\n+. Sadly,\n  tha\n@@ -9890,16 +9890,27 @@\n ion and \n+eventually \n quit tal\n@@ -9921,16 +9921,17 @@\n  to me. \n+%0A\n So I sta\n@@ -10109,17 +10109,16 @@\n  player.\n- \n  I excel\n@@ -10200,17 +10200,17 @@\n s. Nerds\n-.\n+!\n  I was s\n@@ -10251,57 +10251,116 @@\n and \n-since these kids were in a different band than me\n+because the last part of my freshman year at this new school was spent knee-deep in sneaking around with Sam\n , no\n@@ -10594,16 +10594,61 @@\n bortion.\n+ None of them had anything to judge me about.\n  It was \n@@ -10747,20 +10747,28 @@\n epted me\n- and\n+. Deep down,\n  that's \n@@ -10772,16 +10772,23 @@\n 's all I\n+'d ever\n  wanted.\n@@ -11181,17 +11181,41 @@\n lege. %0A%0A\n-I\n+Less than a year later, i\n t was as\n@@ -11259,28 +11259,25 @@\n ear \n-didn't exist anymore\n+no longer existed\n . To\n@@ -11305,17 +11305,142 @@\n ne a 180\n-.\n+ thanks to them and the forced abortion. Oh, and they had successfully destabilized my fondness for black culture! /sarcasm #1\n  I had a\n@@ -11568,53 +11568,54 @@\n ely \n-enjo\n+pla\n yed the \n-res\n+par\n t of \n-my high school experience\n+a %22good & normal white kid%22\n . I \n@@ -11628,16 +11628,23 @@\n o every \n+school \n dance. H\n@@ -11665,16 +11665,38 @@\n d a job.\n+ Watched Monty Python.\n  All was\n@@ -11706,27 +11706,27 @@\n nky-dory\n-. Of course\n+! Naturally\n , my par\n@@ -11863,16 +11863,19 @@\n sort. Ah\n+hhh\n , but he\n@@ -11905,17 +11905,25 @@\n s, right\n+?\n !\n+ Right.\n  /sarcas\n@@ -11923,16 +11923,19 @@\n /sarcasm\n+ #2\n %0A%0ASometi\n",
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      "body": "@@ -5266,17 +5266,17 @@\n . %0A%0AThe \n-p\n+P\n rocedure\n@@ -5328,26 +5328,74 @@\n ek. \n-Details are fuzzy.\n+The timeline is a little fuzzy after all these years. In any case,\n  I'm\n@@ -5551,20 +5551,20 @@\n idified \n-even\n+once\n  more. D\n@@ -5623,41 +5623,8 @@\n d me\n-, certainly not my mom or stepdad\n . I \n@@ -6412,21 +6412,21 @@\n ng from \n-the p\n+The P\n rocedure\n@@ -6721,16 +6721,23 @@\n ecrets I\n+'d long\n  kept bu\n@@ -6761,121 +6761,431 @@\n me. \n-%0A%0AAll these years since the sexual abuse at 6-years-old and I was the personification of every psychological norm\n+Further, the word *abortion* became taboo.  It was never mentioned, not even during those coveted social debates. No one dared utter the word. It became such taboo and such a painful reminder that I would shrink away from the word in absolute contempt. I carried the full weight of all its ugliness for years.  Shame, it seems, never left side. %0A%0ABy 15-years-old, I was the psychological archetype of every excepted outcome\n  of \n@@ -7288,12 +7288,12 @@\n ss, \n- bad\n+poor\n  dec\n@@ -7297,17 +7297,23 @@\n decision\n-s\n+-making\n , desper\n@@ -7926,17 +7926,17 @@\n t want m\n-y\n+e\n  back, o\n",
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      "body": "@@ -257,22 +257,16 @@\n  wasn't \n-about \n just abo\n@@ -289,18 +289,36 @@\n  or \n-fitting in\n+trying to fit in or be liked\n . Th\n@@ -430,23 +430,16 @@\n e loved \n-me for \n me. A fi\n@@ -1830,22 +1830,20 @@\n so many \n-people\n+guys\n  that pr\n@@ -1883,17 +1883,33 @@\n more\n-, so I di\n+. I became reckless. I ha\n dn't\n@@ -1917,19 +1917,27 @@\n give\n- it another\n+n pregnancy fears a\n  tho\n@@ -2102,20 +2102,22 @@\n g in me \n+*\n knew\n+*\n . What I\n@@ -2286,17 +2286,16 @@\n und out.\n- \n %0A%0AOn a S\n@@ -2472,16 +2472,27 @@\n eriod?%22 \n+ Obviously,\n  I was a\n@@ -2594,16 +2594,54 @@\n recorder\n+ I hadn't noticed sitting on the table\n . There \n@@ -3347,16 +3347,26 @@\n  It was \n+basically \n like I w\n@@ -3395,17 +3395,17 @@\n radition\n-.\n+!\n  Except,\n@@ -3526,24 +3526,27 @@\n ked into my \n+bed\n room, where \n@@ -3576,20 +3576,24 @@\n for the \n-last\n+previous\n  48 hour\n@@ -3607,19 +3607,18 @@\n ffer up \n-the\n+an\n  ultimat\n@@ -3636,20 +3636,19 @@\n  either \n-have\n+get\n  an abor\n@@ -3674,23 +3674,16 @@\n my bags \n-for me \n and drop\n@@ -4010,31 +4010,73 @@\n 't. \n- Well, not much, anyway\n+Like so many other times, I caved in to what was being done to me\n . %0A%0A\n@@ -4105,20 +4105,8 @@\n mom \n-woke me and \n told\n@@ -4268,16 +4268,48 @@\n the wall\n+ back when that was such a thing\n . She pi\n@@ -4413,18 +4413,45 @@\n t now!%22 \n-or\n+whilte also reminding me that\n  I'd be \n@@ -4467,16 +4467,28 @@\n e family\n+ if I didn't\n .  Throu\n@@ -4632,21 +4632,17 @@\n een \n-when I\n+that\n  call\n-ed\n  and\n@@ -4671,29 +4671,26 @@\n s done, but \n+i\n t\n-here\n  was enough \n@@ -4701,27 +4701,33 @@\n  to \n-have many\n+shed a thousand\n  more \n-crie\n+tear\n s. I\n@@ -4785,33 +4785,113 @@\n . I \n-longed to be with Sam and\n+think I wrote a letter to it in my journal. I longed to be with Sam and wrote to him as well. I wanted to\n  sta\n@@ -5079,16 +5079,197 @@\n ssness. \n+ And, the reality was, we were 15-year-old kids. There was never going to be a life somewhere new with him. But you can't convince a broken-hearted 15-year-old of truths like that. \n %0A%0AThe pr\n",
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      "body": "@@ -971,16 +971,19 @@\n Even my \n+MC \n Hammer p\n@@ -1007,16 +1007,22 @@\n re gone.\n+ NOOO!\n  My pare\n@@ -1947,28 +1947,12 @@\n ded \n-in over the phone. W\n+my w\n orri\n@@ -1978,16 +1978,19 @@\n pregnant\n+ to\n . That's\n@@ -2777,16 +2777,28 @@\n  I will \n+forever and \n always b\n@@ -2941,27 +2941,32 @@\n had \n-sex before and done\n+been having sex and said\n  not\n@@ -3450,43 +3450,8 @@\n out.\n- I sobbed for what felt like hours.\n  I w\n@@ -3840,16 +3840,31 @@\n want to.\n+ At some point,\n  I remem\n@@ -4241,26 +4241,29 @@\n s done, but \n-i\n t\n+here\n  was enough \n@@ -4262,16 +4262,21 @@\n  enough \n+time \n to have \n@@ -4511,24 +4511,31 @@\n g forced to \n+either \n terminate a \n@@ -4629,16 +4629,35 @@\n  a week.\n+ Details are fuzzy.\n  I'm not\n@@ -4820,20 +4820,22 @@\n n more. \n-Over\n+During\n  this wh\n@@ -4838,20 +4838,22 @@\n s whole \n-time\n+ordeal\n , not on\n@@ -4861,16 +4861,20 @@\n  person \n+had \n comforte\n@@ -5000,26 +5000,16 @@\n he nurse\n-, however,\n  that wa\n@@ -5384,16 +5384,101 @@\n bout it.\n+ More than the fact that I lost that pregnancy, this moment is what makes me tear up.\n  This st\n@@ -5593,20 +5593,18 @@\n me when \n-k\n no\n-w\n  one els\n",
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      "body": "@@ -594,17 +594,20 @@\n he music\n-,\n+ and\n  dressed\n@@ -616,85 +616,221 @@\n n a \n-similar style, and adored Michael Jordon. I finally felt I belonged somewhere\n+hip-hop style. I had posters of Michael Jordan in my room and loved basketball, Arsenio Hall, and In Living Color (Oh, the 90's!). I finally felt I belonged somewhere. My parents, racists that they are, hated this\n . On\n@@ -926,16 +926,25 @@\n all \n+my \n hip\n- \n+-\n hop \n+& rap \n cass\n",
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      "body": "A few weeks after moving to my new city and new school, I met a boy named Sam. I genuinely liked Sam and Sam liked me. We only casually dated at first and I still slept with other people (I told you I moved FAST), but he was something different to me. This wasn't about just about teen hormones or fitting in. This was perhaps my first REAL high school relationship and we eventually started dating exclusively. I loved him and he loved me for me. A first. Of course, it still wasn't accepted by most people, certainly not by my parents. At the time, I was immersed in black culture. I loved the music, dressed in a similar style, and adored Michael Jordon. I finally felt I belonged somewhere. One day I returned home from school to find that my Jordan posters had been taken down and all hip hop cassette tapes removed. Even my Hammer pants and shoes were gone. My parents were trying to strip all black culture from my life in hopes that I would distance myself from *blackness* and from Sam. Obviously their plan didn't work and, in fact, it probably only sealed my inevitable fate. \n\nDuring the summer between my freshman and sophomore year, I got pregnant by Sam. We were both 15-years-old. We'd been dating for probably 5 months by this time. We'd sneak to see each other during the day or at night whenever we could. Naturally, I lied to my parents about seeing him. By then, I'd had so much sex with so many people that pregnancy wasn't a real concern anymore, so I didn't give it another thought until about a month later when I started feeling really sick. By this time, I was visiting my mom for the summer and hadn't seen Sam at all, but something in me knew. What I didn't know was that my mom had been recording all my phone calls. I had a couple of friends that I had confided in over the phone. Worries that I might be pregnant. That's how they found out. \n\nOn a Sunday morning before church, after a week of  harsh morning sickness, my mother walked up to me and abruptly asked, \"Do you want to tell me why you haven't started your period?\"  I was absolutely stunned by her words. And terrified. Then, without a word, she pushed play on a tape recorder. There my voice was, talking to my friend about my fears of being pregnant. I couldn't lie my way out of this one. The yelling started. The tears started. I can't remember the details of everything that happened that night, but I do remember crying myself to sleep. The following day, she took me to a doctor to confirm the pregnancy. When the doctor came back in with the positive results, she immediately burst into tears and said, \"the father's a [n-word].\"  I will always believe that his skin color was more of a concern to her than the fact that I was pregnant at 15-years-old.  After all, they'd known I'd had sex before and done nothing. Hell, my mom was a teen mom as was my aunt. It was like I was honoring a family tradition. Except, I dared to cross those taboo race lines and they were not going to stand for it.  Later that same day, my mom walked into my room, where I'd sequestered myself for the last 48 hours, to offer up the ultimatum: I could either have an abortion OR she'd pack my bags for me and drop me off at homeless shelter in Houston and I'd be out of the family forever. Then she walked out. I sobbed for what felt like hours. I was weak and so scared. I didn't want to have an abortion, but I also didn't want to lose my family. Shitty as they were, they were the only thing I had. I wish I'd been braver. I wish I'd stood up for myself. But I didn't.  Well, not much, anyway. \n\nThe following day, my mom woke me and told me to call the clinic to schedule the abortion. I immediately burst into tears. I didn't want to. I remember standing next to the phone on the wall. She picked up the receiver and began hitting me over the head with it while yelling at me to call \"right now!\" or I'd be out of the family.  Through sobs and with fear clogging my throat, I called the number she'd scribbled on a piece of paper. I don't know how many days passed between when I called and when the procedure was done, but it was enough to have many more cries. I apologized over and over to the fetus inside of me. I longed to be with Sam and start a life somewhere new with him, but there was simply no way. I was in a small town, miles and miles away, on my own and being forced to terminate a pregnancy or face homelessness. \n\nThe procedure was done a few days later. Maybe it was a week. I'm not going to go into details about that experience because it was awful. I do remember, once again, though, that my love for people of color was solidified even more. Over this whole time, not one person comforted me, certainly not my mom or stepdad. I was going through something huge and traumatic and was completely on my own. The nurse, however, that was with me during the intake process and the procedure, showed the only kindness during that entire time period of my young life. I kept crying and telling her that I was scared and that my mom was making me do this. She held my hand, called me *baby* and *sweetie*,  pushed the hair out of my face gently, and told me it would be okay. It still makes me cry to think about it. This stranger, a black woman, was the only person in my entire life who showed compassion towards me. She nurtured me when know one else would. To this day, I remember her face. \n\nThat afternoon, as I lay on the couch recovering from the procedure, my stepdad came home from work, looked at me laying there and said, \"So, are you de-pregnant now?\" and that was the very last time anyone said anything about the pregnancy for years. It became the walled up secret that no one spoke about. \nMuch like the other secrets I kept buried deep within me. \n\nAll this time, all these years since the sexual abuse at 6-years-old, I was absolutely living out the psychological norms of child victims of sexual abuse: promiscuity, low self-esteem, loneliness, feelings of worthlessness,  desperate for attention, etc., but I rarely thought about the molestation. I didn't necessarily forget about it, but it wasn't something I thought about with any sort of regularity. I certainly didn't believe it affected me. I was simply a trashy girl who loved sex apparently. That's the message I was given, anyway.  My parents even tried to hospitalize me for sex addiction. Yes, for real. The only reason I wasn't sent there, apparently, is because their insurance wouldn't cover it.  \n\nMy family wasn't sure what to do with me after the abortion. My mom and stepdad didn't want my back, obviously, and my dad and stepmom were also struggling because my stepmom couldn't have children and the fact that I'd just had an abortion -even though it was FORCED by my family who was ready to disown me if I didn't-  didn't sit well with her. So for the rest of that summer in 1991, I bounced from relative to relative while they figured out who had to deal with me. Eventually, it was decided that I would return to my dad's and start sophomore year as if nothing had happened.  By this time, Sam and I had lost touched. We never got to speak about the pregnancy or the abortion because I was under strict watch and was never left alone with a phone anymore. \n\nIt shames me to admit this, but when school started in the fall, I chose to ignore Sam.  I couldn't be with him and I knew it. My family would make sure we had no contact. Hell, they'd already threatened to disown me. I was scared. I'd been pregnant and endured an awful abortion on my own. I spent a summer completely locked in my own thoughts and really didn't know how to move forward with all that had happened. Sam knew I was pregnant because my family had called his and demanded they pay for half of the abortion, but beyond that? Nothing.  I suppose I wanted to distance myself from all that pain and that included him. He was obviously hurt and turned to bullying me. He'd yell mean things at me in the hallway at school, as would his friends. He'd throw stuff at me. I was heartbroken by everything and couldn't talk about any of it with anyone. No one at my school knew about the pregnancy or the abortion except for my best friend. Unfortunately, she didn't approve of the abortion and quit talking to me. So I started sophomore year already a social pariah and in absolute emotional disarray. \n\nIn a turn of events that no one saw coming, I remained a good student and a great trumpet player.  I excelled in band and was quickly moved to the honors band where I met new friends. Nerds. I was still relatively new to the school and since these kids were in a different band than me, none of them really knew me or my history. None of them knew about my small town slutiness or the school suspension. None of them knew I'd dated black guys. None of them knew I'd been pregnant over the summer or that I'd had an abortion. It was very much like having a fresh start.  Somehow, without rhyme or reason, these band nerds accepted me and that's all I wanted. They weren't the popular kids or the friends I would have necessarily chosen for myself, but they welcomed me and I absolutely found solace in that. Within a month, I was asked to homecoming by a fellow trumpet-player. The night of homecoming, he would ask me to be his girlfriend. I would say yes and we would continue to date all through high school and into our freshmen year of college. \n\nIt was as if all the awfulness from freshman year didn't exist anymore. To my parents, I had done a 180. I had a steady boyfriend, continued to do well in school, kept company with wholesome nerds (I was one of them now!), and genuinely enjoyed the rest of my high school experience. I went to every dance. Had friends. Had a job. All was hunky-dory. Of course, my parents knew that my boyfriend and I were having sex, but again, nothing was said.  No discussions about safe sex or anything of the sort. Ah, but he was white, so who cares, right! /sarcasm\n\nSometime before my 17th birthday, memories of the abuse began to resurface. I don't know why. I can't remember now what I was feeling about it or why those memories rose to the surface, but they did.  I decided I finally needed to tell someone and, for whatever reason, I decided I would tell my mom.  She came to pick me up to take me out for a birthday dinner. God only knows how the conversation came up or how I mustered the courage to finally say something, but I did. Over a Monte Cristo sandwich at Bennigans, I looked at my mother, found the words, and confessed the secret I'd been carrying for more than a decade. \n\nAfter telling my mom about what had happened when I was 6-years-old, she looked me dead in the eyes and said, \"I  know.\" I believe there must have been some small hint of sadness in her voice, finally a moment of compassion from her, but I couldn't focus on that. I couldn't focus on anything other than the fact that I'd heard the words, \"I know.\"  *Wait. She said she knew. She knows?!!! I...I...my mom knows about this?!* This whole time, all my life, my mother had known about the horrible abuse that had shaped my entire life and she did absolutely nothing. In fact, she would actually go on to make my life even worse in so many ways.  I remember feeling as if I'd been punched in the gut repeatedly. I couldn't respond to her. Even if I could, what was I going to say? I feared this woman and so, like all the other times in my life that were entangled in absolute emotional fuckery, we changed the conversation and acted as if it never happened.  It was her speciality, after all, and I was learning well. \nI wish I'd been brave enough right then to stand up to her, but I wasn't. Sadly, it would take a couple more decades for me to find that courage. \n\nI cannot began to articulate to you what it feels like to know that your mother truly doesn't care about you. Oh, sure. She said she loved me. She kept me housed and fed until I was 14-years-old. After I moved in with my dad, she'd call me and I'd visit her on weekends. We feigned some semblance of a close relationship, but in those moments, and in so many more that have since followed, I knew my mother didn't care about me the way a mother should. How could she? She knew her 6-year-old had been violated by a grown man, even knew the man who did it, and said and did nothing. No hugs. No counseling. No acknowledgment. No going after the man who stole my innocence. Certainly she was far too ignorant to realize that my rampant early sex life was a direct result of childhood sexual abuse. Instead of honoring her child and loving her child, she accused me of being a slut and allowed me to suffer alone for a decade. She then allowed me to continue to suffer alone after I thought I was being so brave in telling her. Mere seconds after feeling brave for probably the very first time in my life, it all faded.  Only feelings of betrayal and profound sadness remained at the table. I closed up and went back to life as if nothing happened, as I had long been taught to do. \n\nHowever, that birthday dinner changed how I saw my mother forever. I loved her because she was my mom, but outside of that? I honestly don't think I had a viable emotional connection to her. It was as if whatever small threads of mother/daughter bonds that may have remained were completely severed. Sure, I called her weekly. We talked. We fought. We visited one another. I got married, had kids. Life moved on. But I never felt a maternal connection to her. I wanted to, though. Desperately. Despite all the pain she'd caused me, I still deeply yearned for her love and approval. I wanted her to finally see me for who I was as a woman and mother. But she never could. She continued to treat me as that lying, promiscuous 14-year-old that she offered up to my dad. Therefore, that emotional void could never be filled with anything other than more resentment. She would continue to randomly belittle me and put me down over the course of my life, well into my thirties when my husband finally had enough and stood up to her for me.  Our religious, social, and political differences would continue to widen that void until, finally, in early 2017, after decades of silence regarding my abuse and our relationship, it all came to an ugly head. \n\nAfter I'd posted a video on Facebook about sexual abuse victims and why they often don't come forward about their abuses, she and I had a private email conversation wherein she blamed me for my sexual assault because I was so sexualized as a child. She accused me of having sex at 9-years-old. She went on to write how she didn't understand how or why I could be that way and embarrass her so much. After all, she had tried everything in her power to raise me right.  \n\nOH. HELL. NO. I took that passive aggressive narcissistic bullshit as a child and as a teen and even into early adulthood. The truth is, I was always too afraid to speak my mind or to stand up to her. But this time? I fought back and it got ugly real damn fast.  What I didn't know at the time, is that all of this would send me into the worst throes of depression I've ever had in my life. All of the abuses I endured as a child, including by her fists and her words (and so many other things I haven't shared here), would flood back with ravenous hunger. These uncomfortable facts of my life would continue to gnaw at me until I finally allowed myself to sit with them -to sit in the pain and the hurt and the ache and the loss and the betrayal. For the very first time in my life, I knew I had to come to terms with my past. I could no longer ignore it or pretend it hadn't affected me. More than that, I had to allow myself to have feelings about the things that I'd been through. I had never done that before. I had always swept my pain under the rug and acted as if none of it affected or bothered me. I never allowed myself to feel sorry for myself or to feel deserving of compassion. I never looked at that wounded little 6-year-old inside of me because it was far too painful. She'd try to get my attention every now and again over the years, but I couldn't bear to look at her for long.  It hurt too damn much. And now this pain was suffocating me all over again decades later. This time, however, was different. Instinctively, I seemed to know that in order to pull myself up from this awful cesspool of pain, I had to stand strong. I had to face that little girl. I had to face myself. Most importantly, I had face my mother. I had to strip her of the power she'd held over me all my life. I had to strip myself of the all the ugliness that she and my stepdad had forced me to swallow. \nThis time, I had to fight back. \n\nAnd boy did I.",
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      "body": "In the weeks that followed losing my virginity at 14, I remained shackled to fear. Fear of pregnancy.  I went so far as to write a note to God begging him to not let me be pregnant. I probably atoned and promised all manner of good behavior if he could secure the no-baby-on-board.  I put the note on the highest surface in my room so he would have a better chance of reading it. It's okay to laugh at that. I do. It's funny! But  I think it also shows the naivety and, I suppose, innocence of still being a child. \n\nAs I previously shared, I lived in a very small town in southeast Texas. It's the kind of small town where everyone knows everyone and word of any and everything, even among kids, spreads fast. I made the mistake of telling a guy friend about losing my virginity. Looking back, it was clear he told everyone, at least the guys in the locker room. This was probably a couple weeks into my freshman year. I noticed a definite shift in the days that followed. The people that always said hi to me in the halls fell silent as I walked by. At the time, I didn't fully understand why, but part of me must have known deep down.  I walked the halls juxtaposed between sadness and shame. Very quickly into the school year, I found myself seeking a new crowd to hang with. Older kids. People of Color. \n\nA small detour to explain something about myself: from a very young age, I greatly disliked being white. As an elementary student and in day care, I remember having only Mexican and black friends. When my mom and I lived in the apartment in Houston, before we moved to the small town, most of my friends were black. Through these friendships, I met their families and it seemed that everyone of color had close family relations. Moms were present. Aunties and grandmas. These families actually talked to one another and seemed to have a closeness that was desperately lacking in my own weird family. So very early on in life, I associated people of color with genuineness and family. I coveted what they had. Also, it should be noted that 100% of the men & boys who abused me in those early years were white. I have to believe that this fact left a permanent mark on my psyche and in associating white boys & men with violence. \n\nMy move to the black kids table at lunch early into freshman year wasn't entirely shocking, EXCEPT this was small town Texas -I'm talking less than 1,500 people small town where the railroad tracks literally segregated the town.  It was simply NOT accepted that whites and blacks would hang out together off the football fields. And a white girl dating a black boy? Holy mother of all small town sins!!!! You became an instant social pariah. And I did. I was the only white girl in my entire school who sat at the black kids table and, if I'm honest, I felt a sense of celebrity in that. I certainly got the attention I craved. Even bad attention is attention, right? It wasn't long before I had a black boyfriend and then another. I became the white girl who had sex with black guys. They knew it. The school new it. I knew it. \n\nMy social life unraveled quickly. The fact that I had black friends was not accepted in my family. So I lied and snuck around. I hid things, or so I thought. Unfortunately, I was used and then tossed aside by these boys. To the child victim of assault remember that sex is a powerful tool: if I give them what they want, they'll like me! We know it doesn't work this way, but you can't see that when you're living it. Within four short months, I'd gone from being a virgin to having slept with 5 guys, although one of those was more closely related to rape than consensual sex. That particular situation remained blurry to me for years. I didn't consider it an assault and certainly not rape at the time, but as I got older and learned more about consent, I can look back and see that what happened was not consensual. I liked this boy. He was a football player and in band. Tall. Dark. Funny. He was a senior and I a lowly freshman. He showed some interest in me and I liked that. One day after school, he grabbed my hand and led me to a practice room in the band hall. I assumed we were going to make out and I was fine with this. However, once we were inside a practice room, he shut the door and locked it. I immediately got scared. Despite liking this boy, I wasn't ready for anything that required locked doors. He started kissing me and then trying to undo my pants. I pushed his hands away and said no. He persisted. I kept saying no, that I didn't want to, but he knew my reputation by then and my reluctance fell on deaf ears. I'd dated and slept with 2 of his friends by this point, so I must want it all the time, right? Well, I didn't. Not like that. I pulled myself away from him and tried to walk away, but he pulled me hard towards him and forced me down on the floor. In that moment, I knew. There was no use fighting it. He wanted sex and was going to take it. He towered over me and, if he wanted, could easily hurt me. Rather than deal with that, I decided to let what was going to happen happen. And it did. I didn't want to have sex with him and I sure as hell didn't enjoy it. I was simultaneously filled with shame and fear, but because I laid there and took it, I never thought of it as rape. I didn't fight. I didn't continue to say no. I shut up, laid there, and took what was happening to me as if it were par the course for my life. If I'm honest, there's still a part of me that's unsure how to categorize this event.  In any case, once he'd had sex with me, he didn't show much interest in me anymore and that was the extent of our relationship. \nHow cliché. \n\nIn the weeks that followed, my desperation to be accepted reached all time lows. I decided to roll with my growing reputation as a slut; a bad girl. I started bragging about sex as if that gave me more control in the situations I found myself in. I started talking about drinking, which I had never done, and smoking, which I had also never done. I figured if I couldn't fit in with the wholesome crowd, I'd damn sure fit in with bad crowd. I started sneaking out to go to parties or meet up with my 3rd or 4th boyfriend of the school year. I was moving FAST. Somehow, my parents found out about this. They didn't talk to me about it, though.  GADZOOKS, no! They simply nailed my bedroom windows shut. It's so strange to me how we never talked. Accusations were often made and punishments enforced, but there was never any talking. The last time I had tried to talk to my mom about my feelings sums up why I never felt safe going to her.  I had a wholesome boyfriend at the time, but was developing a crush on someone else. Mind you, this was the very beginning of freshman year and I was still a virgin. My boyfriend of the time wasn't even a real boyfriend. We had started \"going out\" the last day of 8th grade, mostly as a dare, and didn't see each other once over summer vacation. So when we started up back at school in the fall, there wasn't much to speak of in the form of an actual relationship, but we hung out and pretended we were more than what we were. Anyway, I wanted my mom's advice on what to do with all these twitterpations I had for a different wholesome boy. Instead of giving me the motherly advice/connection I so desperately wanted, she called me a slut and repeatedly hit me as I fell onto her bed. It was literally out of nowhere and it gutted me. This wasn't the first time she hit me on a whim. This had been her routine for years. But something about the fact that I was finally reaching out to her, naively thinking I could open up, and then being called such a harsh name and repeatedly hit because of it was incredibly painful, emotionally speaking. Just a couple weeks later I'd end up losing my virginity and begin my descent into becoming the town social outcast. If my own mother thought I was a slut before I'd even lost my virginity, what hope did I have of ever being seen as a whole person by anyone?\n\nIn December of freshman year, I made one more bad decision that ended up changing my life forever. It was a Friday night, which meant football. In Texas, football is LIFE. Like everyone else around me, I loved football game nights. Being in band, this also meant traveling and performing. On this particular night, I decided to bring alcohol to the away-game. My motivation wasn't to drink, but to be seen as the ultimate bad girl. Still desperate to fit in, I thought this would bolster me into high school stardom. It didn't. Obviously. Before we'd even left the school parking lot, I showed my best friend the concealed bottles in my backpack: a couple of wine coolers and a thermos full of Southern Comfort that I stole from my mom's stash. Mind you, at this point I still had never drank any alcohol other than what had been given to me on occasion by my mom (a sip of wine cooler here and there).  It was just a stupid bold move to be SEEN. And it worked for like 10 glorious minutes. For the very first time, I was popular in those moments. As word spread that I had booze, people would come up and ask for a sip, which I kindly handed over a la *like me, like me, like me*! Then it happened. One of the most popular girls in school came up to me. She would go on to become the valedictorian, so her high school cred was LEGIT. She asked for the thermos and I handed it over. What I didn't know at the time was that she was an alcoholic by the time time she was 17 and she downed half the thermos like a pro. The bus must have reeked of alcohol. She certainly did. Remember, this all happened VERY fast, before we'd even left the parking lot. Before I knew it, one of the band nerds ran off the bus to tell the band teacher what was going on. The cops were called. I was escorted off the bus and put into the back of the cruiser. I must have been absolutely terrified, but I can't remember at this point honestly. The funny thing was, the cops just followed the school bus to the away team stadium and I was allowed to return to sitting with the band in the bleachers. I mean, football must go on, right?! So I sat among bandmates with whispers bellowing. It was a strange feeling because I knew I'd done something really bad, but I was allowed to have fun and perform so there must have been a naive part of me that thought I'd gotten away with it. I didn't. \n\nThe cops stayed within eyesight of me until the end of the game, found my parents, and told them what happened. I can't remember anything of that weekend thereafter. On  Monday morning, however, I returned to school and was called to the principal's office during first period. Several students were already lined up to talk about what had happened on the bus that previous Friday night. The popular girl was there, too. I probably thought to myself that she and I would get in trouble together, bond over it, and become insta-best friends, finally catapulting me into the it crowd!\n\nNope. No one who drank the alcohol I brought, including the popular girl, got into any trouble. Just me. I was put into in-school suspension for 30 days.  For my parents, this was the final blow. There was no recovering from this. My mom and stepdad saw me as an absolute embarrassment to the family and to the small town. Rather than seeing my acts as a warning sign of my internal struggles or as obvious cries for help, they saw my reputation as unsalvageable and humiliating.  The only way to fix the situation, therefore, was to kick me out. Over Christmas break that year, after serving 2 out of 4 weeks of my in-school suspension, I was sent to live with my dad and stepmom in the suburbs outside of north Houston.  Maybe some part of them did think it'd be a clean slate for me; a chance to get my life on track.  But again, no one talked. We didn't talk about the alcohol incident or the sex or the sneaking out. They just washed their hands of me and assumed I'd turn myself around being in a new city and away from my sullied reputation.\n\nThey were right. Eventually, I did turn my life around and life with my dad and stepmom did get better. Unfortunately, it would take about 10 months, several more sexual partners, and a teen pregnancy over the summer between my freshman and sophomore year before it did.",
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      "body": "@@ -581,16 +581,45 @@\n st Texas\n+. It's the kind of small town\n  where e\n@@ -881,11 +881,14 @@\n y a \n-few\n+couple\n  wee\n@@ -1541,16 +1541,28 @@\n partment\n+ in Houston,\n  before \n@@ -1890,23 +1890,21 @@\n  my own \n-strange\n+weird\n  family.\n@@ -1998,18 +1998,29 @@\n coveted \n-it\n+what they had\n . Also, \n@@ -2238,13 +2238,9 @@\n . %0A%0A\n-So, m\n+M\n y mo\n@@ -2386,11 +2386,11 @@\n han \n-2,0\n+1,5\n 00 p\n@@ -2451,16 +2451,17 @@\n egregate\n+d\n  the tow\n@@ -2537,16 +2537,40 @@\n together\n+ off the football fields\n . And a \n@@ -2861,16 +2861,56 @@\n  craved.\n+ Even bad attention is attention, right?\n  It wasn\n@@ -3103,32 +3103,390 @@\n ly. \n-I was used. Tossed aside\n+The fact that I had black friends was not accepted in my family. So I lied and snuck around. I hid things, or so I thought. Unfortunately, I was used and then tossed aside by these boys. To the child victim of assault remember that sex is a powerful tool: if I give them what they want, they'll like me! We know it doesn't work this way, but you can't see that when you're living it\n . Wi\n",
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      "body": "@@ -5725,16 +5725,35 @@\n ol year.\n+ I was moving FAST.\n  Somehow\n@@ -6397,16 +6397,35 @@\n th grade\n+, mostly as a dare,\n  and did\n@@ -6596,22 +6596,16 @@\n  but we \n-still \n hung out\n@@ -6658,17 +6658,16 @@\n  Anyway,\n- \n  I wante\n@@ -6727,16 +6727,52 @@\n rpations\n+ I had for a different wholesome boy\n . Instea\n@@ -6788,18 +6788,17 @@\n ng me th\n-at\n+e\n  motherl\n@@ -6809,18 +6809,36 @@\n vice\n- that I so\n+/connection I so desperately\n  wan\n@@ -6912,17 +6912,16 @@\n bed. It \n- \n was lite\n@@ -6993,103 +6993,221 @@\n  she\n-'d bea\n+ hi\n t me on \n+a \n whim\n-, but something about my reaching out to her and being called a name and then\n+. This had been her routine for years. But something about the fact that I was finally reaching out to her, naively thinking I could open up, and then being called such a harsh name and repeatedly\n  hit\n@@ -7225,24 +7225,35 @@\n  it was \n-the most\n+incredibly painful,\n  emotion\n@@ -7257,23 +7257,24 @@\n ionally \n-painful\n+speaking\n . Just a\n@@ -11781,16 +11781,131 @@\n r before it did.\n+%0A%0A*I realize this chapter deviated away from sexual abuse somewhat, but it will circle back around to that shortly*\n",
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      "body": "In the weeks that followed losing my virginity at 14, I remained shackled to fear. Fear of pregnancy.  I went so far as to write a note to God begging him to not let me be pregnant. I probably atoned and promised all manner of good behavior if he could secure the no-baby-on-board.  I put the note on the highest surface in my room so he would have a better chance of reading it. It's okay to laugh at that. I do. It's funny! But  I think it also shows the naivety and, I suppose, innocence of still being a child. \n\nAs I previously shared, I lived in a very small town in southeast Texas where everyone knows everyone and word of any and everything, even among kids, spreads fast. I made the mistake of telling a guy friend about losing my virginity. Looking back, it was clear he told everyone, at least the guys in the locker room. This was probably a few weeks into my freshman year. I noticed a definite shift in the days that followed. The people that always said hi to me in the halls fell silent as I walked by. At the time, I didn't fully understand why, but part of me must have known deep down.  I walked the halls juxtaposed between sadness and shame. Very quickly into the school year, I found myself seeking a new crowd to hang with. Older kids. People of Color. \n\nA small detour to explain something about myself: from a very young age, I didn't like being white. As an elementary student in day care, I remember having only Mexican and black friends. Before we moved to the small town, most of my friends were black. Through these friendships, I met their families and it seemed that everyone of color had close family relations. Moms were present. Aunties and grandmas. These families seemed to have a closeness that was desperately lacking in my own strange family. So very early on in life, I associated people of color with genuineness and family. I coveted it. Also, it should be noted that 100% of the men & boys who abused me in those early years were white. I have to believe that this fact left a permanent mark on my psyche and in associating white boys & men with violence. \n\nSo, my move to the black kids table at lunch early into freshman year wasn't entirely shocking, EXCEPT this was small town Texas -I'm talking less than 2,000 people small town where the railroad tracks literally segregate the town.  It was simply NOT accepted that whites and blacks would hang out together. And a white girl dating a black boy? Holy mother of all small town sins!!!! You became an instant social pariah. And I did. I was the only white girl in my entire school who sat at the black kids table and, if I'm honest, I felt a sense of celebrity in that. I certainly got the attention I craved. It wasn't long before I had a black boyfriend and then another. I became the white girl who had sex with black guys. They knew it. The school new it. I knew it. \n\nMy social life unraveled quickly. I was used. Tossed aside. Within four short months, I'd gone from being a virgin to having slept with 5 guys, although one of those was more closely related to rape than consensual sex. That particular situation remained blurry to me for years. I didn't consider it an assault and certainly not rape at the time, but as I got older and learned more about consent, I can look back and see that what happened was not consensual. I liked this boy. He was a football player and in band. Tall. Dark. Funny. He was a senior and I a lowly freshman. He showed some interest in me and I liked that. One day after school, he grabbed my hand and led me to a practice room in the band hall. I assumed we were going to make out and I was fine with this. However, once we were inside a practice room, he shut the door and locked it. I immediately got scared. Despite liking this boy, I wasn't ready for anything that required locked doors. He started kissing me and then trying to undo my pants. I pushed his hands away and said no. He persisted. I kept saying no, that I didn't want to, but he knew my reputation by then and my reluctance fell on deaf ears. I'd dated and slept with 2 of his friends by this point, so I must want it all the time, right? Well, I didn't. Not like that. I pulled myself away from him and tried to walk away, but he pulled me hard towards him and forced me down on the floor. In that moment, I knew. There was no use fighting it. He wanted sex and was going to take it. He towered over me and, if he wanted, could easily hurt me. Rather than deal with that, I decided to let what was going to happen happen. And it did. I didn't want to have sex with him and I sure as hell didn't enjoy it. I was simultaneously filled with shame and fear, but because I laid there and took it, I never thought of it as rape. I didn't fight. I didn't continue to say no. I shut up, laid there, and took what was happening to me as if it were par the course for my life. If I'm honest, there's still a part of me that's unsure how to categorize this event.  In any case, once he'd had sex with me, he didn't show much interest in me anymore and that was the extent of our relationship. \nHow cliché. \n\nIn the weeks that followed, my desperation to be accepted reached all time lows. I decided to roll with my growing reputation as a slut; a bad girl. I started bragging about sex as if that gave me more control in the situations I found myself in. I started talking about drinking, which I had never done, and smoking, which I had also never done. I figured if I couldn't fit in with the wholesome crowd, I'd damn sure fit in with bad crowd. I started sneaking out to go to parties or meet up with my 3rd or 4th boyfriend of the school year. Somehow, my parents found out about this. They didn't talk to me about it, though.  GADZOOKS, no! They simply nailed my bedroom windows shut. It's so strange to me how we never talked. Accusations were often made and punishments enforced, but there was never any talking. The last time I had tried to talk to my mom about my feelings sums up why I never felt safe going to her.  I had a wholesome boyfriend at the time, but was developing a crush on someone else. Mind you, this was the very beginning of freshman year and I was still a virgin. My boyfriend of the time wasn't even a real boyfriend. We had started \"going out\" the last day of 8th grade and didn't see each other once over summer vacation. So when we started up back at school in the fall, there wasn't much to speak of in the form of an actual relationship, but we still hung out and pretended we were more than what we were. Anyway,  I wanted my mom's advice on what to do with all these twitterpations. Instead of giving me that motherly advice that I so wanted, she called me a slut and repeatedly hit me as I fell onto her bed. It  was literally out of nowhere and it gutted me. This wasn't the first time she'd beat me on whim, but something about my reaching out to her and being called a name and then hit because of it was the most emotionally painful. Just a couple weeks later I'd end up losing my virginity and begin my descent into becoming the town social outcast. If my own mother thought I was a slut before I'd even lost my virginity, what hope did I have of ever being seen as a whole person by anyone?\n\nIn December of freshman year, I made one more bad decision that ended up changing my life forever. It was a Friday night, which meant football. In Texas, football is LIFE. Like everyone else around me, I loved football game nights. Being in band, this also meant traveling and performing. On this particular night, I decided to bring alcohol to the away-game. My motivation wasn't to drink, but to be seen as the ultimate bad girl. Still desperate to fit in, I thought this would bolster me into high school stardom. It didn't. Obviously. Before we'd even left the school parking lot, I showed my best friend the concealed bottles in my backpack: a couple of wine coolers and a thermos full of Southern Comfort that I stole from my mom's stash. Mind you, at this point I still had never drank any alcohol other than what had been given to me on occasion by my mom (a sip of wine cooler here and there).  It was just a stupid bold move to be SEEN. And it worked for like 10 glorious minutes. For the very first time, I was popular in those moments. As word spread that I had booze, people would come up and ask for a sip, which I kindly handed over a la *like me, like me, like me*! Then it happened. One of the most popular girls in school came up to me. She would go on to become the valedictorian, so her high school cred was LEGIT. She asked for the thermos and I handed it over. What I didn't know at the time was that she was an alcoholic by the time time she was 17 and she downed half the thermos like a pro. The bus must have reeked of alcohol. She certainly did. Remember, this all happened VERY fast, before we'd even left the parking lot. Before I knew it, one of the band nerds ran off the bus to tell the band teacher what was going on. The cops were called. I was escorted off the bus and put into the back of the cruiser. I must have been absolutely terrified, but I can't remember at this point honestly. The funny thing was, the cops just followed the school bus to the away team stadium and I was allowed to return to sitting with the band in the bleachers. I mean, football must go on, right?! So I sat among bandmates with whispers bellowing. It was a strange feeling because I knew I'd done something really bad, but I was allowed to have fun and perform so there must have been a naive part of me that thought I'd gotten away with it. I didn't. \n\nThe cops stayed within eyesight of me until the end of the game, found my parents, and told them what happened. I can't remember anything of that weekend thereafter. On  Monday morning, however, I returned to school and was called to the principal's office during first period. Several students were already lined up to talk about what had happened on the bus that previous Friday night. The popular girl was there, too. I probably thought to myself that she and I would get in trouble together, bond over it, and become insta-best friends, finally catapulting me into the it crowd!\n\nNope. No one who drank the alcohol I brought, including the popular girl, got into any trouble. Just me. I was put into in-school suspension for 30 days.  For my parents, this was the final blow. There was no recovering from this. My mom and stepdad saw me as an absolute embarrassment to the family and to the small town. Rather than seeing my acts as a warning sign of my internal struggles or cries for help, they saw my reputation as unsalvageable and humiliating.  The only way to fix the situation, therefore, was to kick me out. Over Christmas break that year, after serving 2 out of 4 weeks of my in-school suspension, I was sent to live with my dad and stepmom in the suburbs outside of north Houston.  Maybe some part of them did think it'd be a clean slate for me; a chance to get my life on track.  But again, no one talked. We didn't talk about the alcohol incident or the sex or the sneaking out. They just washed their hands of me and assumed I'd turn myself around being in a new city and away from my sullied reputation.\n\nThey were right. Eventually, I did turn my life around and life with my dad and stepmom did get better. Unfortunately, it would take about 10 months, several more sexual partners, and a teen pregnancy over the summer between my freshman and sophomore year before it did.",
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      "body": "In the weeks that followed losing my virginity at 14, I remained shackled to fear. Fear of pregnancy.  I went so far as to write a note to God begging him to not let me be pregnant. I probably atoned and promised all manner of good behavior if he could secure the no-baby-on-board.  I put the note on the highest surface in my room so he would have a better chance of reading it. It's okay to laugh at that. I do. It's funny! But  I think it also shows the naivety and, I suppose, innocence of still being a child. \n\nAs I previously shared, I lived in a very small town in southeast Texas where everyone knows everyone and word of any and everything, even among kids, spreads fast. I made the mistake of telling a guy friend about losing my virginity. Looking back, it was clear he told everyone, at least the guys in the locker room. This was probably a few weeks into my freshman year. I noticed a definite shift in the days that followed. The people that always said hi to me in the halls fell silent as I walked by. At the time, I didn't fully understand why, but part of me must have known deep down.  I walked the halls juxtaposed between sadness and shame. Very quickly into the school year, I found myself seeking a new crowd to hang with. Older kids. People of Color. \n\nA small detour to explain something about myself: from a very young age, I didn't like being white. As an elementary student in day care, I remember having only Mexican and black friends. Before we moved to the small town, most of my friends were black. Through these friendships, I met their families and it seemed that everyone of color had close family relations. Moms were present. Aunties and grandmas. These families seemed to have a closeness that was desperately lacking in my own strange family. So very early on in life, I associated people of color with genuineness and family. I coveted it. Also, it should be noted that 100% of the men & boys who abused me in those early years were white. I have to believe that this fact left a permanent mark on my psyche and in associating white boys & men with violence. \n\nSo, my move to the black kids table at lunch early into freshman year wasn't entirely shocking, EXCEPT this was small town Texas -I'm talking less than 2,000 people small town where the railroad tracks literally segregate the town.  It was simply NOT accepted that whites and blacks would hang out together. And a white girl dating a black boy? Holy mother of all small town sins!!!! You became an instant social pariah. And I did. I was the only white girl in my entire school who sat at the black kids table and, if I'm honest, I felt a sense of celebrity in that. I certainly got the attention I craved. It wasn't long before I had a black boyfriend and then another. I became the white girl who had sex with black guys. They knew it. The school new it. I knew it. \n\nMy social life unraveled quickly. I was used. Tossed aside. Within four short months, I'd gone from being a virgin to having slept with 5 guys, although one of those was more closely related to rape than consensual sex. That particular situation remained blurry to me for years. I didn't consider it an assault and certainly not rape at the time, but as I got older and learned more about consent, I can look back and see that what happened was not consensual. I liked this boy. He was a football player and in band. Tall. Dark. Funny. He was a senior and I a lowly freshman. He showed some interest in me and I liked that. One day after school, he grabbed my hand and led me to a practice room in the band hall. I assumed we were going to make out and I was fine with this. However, once we were inside a practice room, he shut the door and locked it. I immediately got scared. Despite liking this boy, I wasn't ready for anything that required locked doors. He started kissing me and then trying to undo my pants. I pushed his hands away and said no. He persisted. I kept saying no, that I didn't want to, but he knew my reputation by then and my reluctance fell on deaf ears. I'd dated and slept with 2 of his friends by this point, so I must want it all the time, right? Well, I didn't. Not like that. I pulled myself away from him and tried to walk away, but he pulled me hard towards him and forced me down on the floor. In that moment, I knew. There was no use fighting it. He wanted sex and was going to take it. He towered over me and, if he wanted, could easily hurt me. Rather than deal with that, I decided to let what was going to happen happen. And it did. I didn't want to have sex with him and I sure as hell didn't enjoy it. I was simultaneously filled with shame and fear, but because I laid there and took it, I never thought of it as rape. I didn't fight. I didn't continue to say no. I shut up, laid there, and took what was happening to me as if it were par the course for my life. If I'm honest, there's still a part of me that's unsure how to categorize this event.  In any case, once he'd had sex with me, he didn't show much interest in me anymore and that was the extent of our relationship. \nHow cliché. \n\nIn the weeks that followed, my desperation to be accepted reached all time lows. I decided to roll with my growing reputation as a slut; a bad girl. I started bragging about sex as if that gave me more control in the situations I found myself in. I started talking about drinking, which I had never done, and smoking, which I had also never done. I figured if I couldn't fit in with the wholesome crowd, I'd damn sure fit in with bad crowd. I started sneaking out to go to parties or meet up with my 3rd or 4th boyfriend of the school year. Somehow, my parents found out about this. They didn't talk to me about it, though.  GADZOOKS, no! They simply nailed my bedroom windows shut. It's so strange to me how we never talked. Accusations were often made and punishments enforced, but there was never any talking. The last time I had tried to talk to my mom about my feelings sums up why I never felt safe going to her.  I had a wholesome boyfriend at the time, but was developing a crush on someone else. Mind you, this was the very beginning of freshman year and I was still a virgin. My boyfriend of the time wasn't even a real boyfriend. We had started \"going out\" the last day of 8th grade and didn't see each other once over summer vacation. So when we started up back at school in the fall, there wasn't much to speak of in the form of an actual relationship, but we still hung out and pretended we were more than what we were. Anyway,  I wanted my mom's advice on what to do with all these twitterpations. Instead of giving me that motherly advice that I so wanted, she called me a slut and repeatedly hit me as I fell onto her bed. It  was literally out of nowhere and it gutted me. This wasn't the first time she'd beat me on whim, but something about my reaching out to her and being called a name and then hit because of it was the most emotionally painful. Just a couple weeks later I'd end up losing my virginity and begin my descent into becoming the town social outcast. If my own mother thought I was a slut before I'd even lost my virginity, what hope did I have of ever being seen as a whole person by anyone?\n\nIn December of freshman year, I made one more bad decision that ended up changing my life forever. It was a Friday night, which meant football. In Texas, football is LIFE. Like everyone else around me, I loved football game nights. Being in band, this also meant traveling and performing. On this particular night, I decided to bring alcohol to the away-game. My motivation wasn't to drink, but to be seen as the ultimate bad girl. Still desperate to fit in, I thought this would bolster me into high school stardom. It didn't. Obviously. Before we'd even left the school parking lot, I showed my best friend the concealed bottles in my backpack: a couple of wine coolers and a thermos full of Southern Comfort that I stole from my mom's stash. Mind you, at this point I still had never drank any alcohol other than what had been given to me on occasion by my mom (a sip of wine cooler here and there).  It was just a stupid bold move to be SEEN. And it worked for like 10 glorious minutes. For the very first time, I was popular in those moments. As word spread that I had booze, people would come up and ask for a sip, which I kindly handed over a la *like me, like me, like me*! Then it happened. One of the most popular girls in school came up to me. She would go on to become the valedictorian, so her high school cred was LEGIT. She asked for the thermos and I handed it over. What I didn't know at the time was that she was an alcoholic by the time time she was 17 and she downed half the thermos like a pro. The bus must have reeked of alcohol. She certainly did. Remember, this all happened VERY fast, before we'd even left the parking lot. Before I knew it, one of the band nerds ran off the bus to tell the band teacher what was going on. The cops were called. I was escorted off the bus and put into the back of the cruiser. I must have been absolutely terrified, but I can't remember at this point honestly. The funny thing was, the cops just followed the school bus to the away team stadium and I was allowed to return to sitting with the band in the bleachers. I mean, football must go on, right?! So I sat among bandmates with whispers bellowing. It was a strange feeling because I knew I'd done something really bad, but I was allowed to have fun and perform so there must have been a naive part of me that thought I'd gotten away with it. I didn't. \n\nThe cops stayed within eyesight of me until the end of the game, found my parents, and told them what happened. I can't remember anything of that weekend thereafter. On  Monday morning, however, I returned to school and was called to the principal's office during first period. Several students were already lined up to talk about what had happened on the bus that previous Friday night. The popular girl was there, too. I probably thought to myself that she and I would get in trouble together, bond over it, and become insta-best friends, finally catapulting me into the it crowd!\n\nNope. No one who drank the alcohol I brought, including the popular girl, got into any trouble. Just me. I was put into in-school suspension for 30 days.  For my parents, this was the final blow. There was no recovering from this. My mom and stepdad saw me as an absolute embarrassment to the family and to the small town. Rather than seeing my acts as a warning sign of my internal struggles or cries for help, they saw my reputation as unsalvageable and humiliating.  The only way to fix the situation, therefore, was to kick me out. Over Christmas break that year, after serving 2 out of 4 weeks of my in-school suspension, I was sent to live with my dad and stepmom in the suburbs outside of north Houston.  Maybe some part of them did think it'd be a clean slate for me; a chance to get my life on track.  But again, no one talked. We didn't talk about the alcohol incident or the sex or the sneaking out. They just washed their hands of me and assumed I'd turn myself around being in a new city and away from my sullied reputation.\n\nThey were right. Eventually, I did turn my life around and life with my dad and stepmom did get better. 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      "body": "My god, the amount of similarities in your life and mine (and yet so many differences) are just astounding and yet so fucking sad. I think in some ways that I dealt with my own... shit... by just pushing it aside and thinking that it just wasn't even possible (the only way I knew to deal) and the way you write feels so similar, so recognizable to me. \n\nHell, our mothers were polar opposites in many ways... gah. I don't even know what I'm trying to say. The way you write is so cathartic, I hope it is helping you release some of the pain of all of this.",
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      "body": "@@ -12340,19 +12340,36 @@\n  a year \n-and\n+(7th-8th grade) when\n  he dump\n",
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      "body": "@@ -4208,11 +4208,8 @@\n  you\n-'ll\n  kno\n@@ -4684,18 +4684,19 @@\n ved and \n-it\n+sex\n  becomes\n@@ -4748,18 +4748,16 @@\n ims sex \n-a \n does bec\n",
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      "body": "@@ -3691,18 +3691,27 @@\n at ugly \n-sk\n+collared sh\n irt. Als\n",
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      "body": "@@ -3422,16 +3422,439 @@\n h me. %0A%0A\n+Me, 2nd grade. I know this because it's conveniently pictured on the board; however,  I don't remember any of these children or that teacher. Also, I find it sort of symbolic how I'm sort of a little more off to side than anyone else. Dressed by my mother in that ugly skirt. Also, I think sadness resides in my eyes.%0A!%5B2ndgrade.jpg%5D(https://steemitimages.com/DQmRDtDSYvP2os3ozB4TcF39UBepmEFRELGWqeeA8zi9syR/2ndgrade.jpg)%0A%0A\n What I c\n",
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      "body": "Our memories are incredibly emotive, even if we lose chunks of time due to emotional and/or physical trauma. Self-preservation means that our brains -the incredible machines that they are- will pick and choose what to store, what to hide, and what to keep accessible.  As I wrote in the last chapter, I do not have many memories of the year following the night of my molestation. I don't know where I went to school, who my friends were, birthdays, holidays, nothing.  In spite of that fact, there are a few things that I did/do retain. The first time I saw him after he violated me, for example. I believe the only reason I remember this is because, well, he became my monster and we tend not to forget those regardless of everything else that fades to black in our memories. I don't remember his face to be honest. He became nothing more to me than a monolith of fear. Towering. Faceless. Dark. Evil. And he was sitting in a recliner next to the large bay window when my mom and I went to her friend's house sometime after that night. I dared not look directly at him, but there was an incredible a sense of panic that no 6-year-should know. I felt extreme need to flee the room as quickly as possible. As Jenny said in *Forrest Gump*, \"Dear God, make me a bird. So I could fly far. Far far away from here.\" I was born long before that movie came out, but looking back, I can absolutely feel those words in that moment. \n\nI started have panic attacks at night very soon after the abuse. I had no idea, obviously that that's what these wear. In fact, for my entire life I didn't know. It wasn't until I delve into research about childhood abuse that I had that *HOLY SHIT* awareness moment and realized that my poor little self was suffering incredible PTSD. Several times a week, the same events would occur. The room would start to spin very fast (ever had 5 too many tequila shots and get the spins, as if you could float off into space if you didn't grab onto the earth? It was like that). I'd feel dizzy and pukey. Then suddenly, it was like I was above myself watching all this happen. I only had six years of life experience by this point, so I had no understanding of what was happening to me. In sheer panic, I'd call out to my mom, who slept in the room next door. Most of the time, she would answer me. Upon hearing her voice I'd feel more at ease and go back to sleep. One night, however, she didn't answer. I called again. No answer. To this day I distinctly remember thinking to myself, \"I'm going to call her one more time and if she doesn't answer, I'm running away!\" She didn't answer. So, I got up, stood on my bed, opened the window, and crawled out into the dark of night. AT 6-FUCKING-YEARS-OLD. Looking back, despite how fearful I always felt, I was also incredibly brave. Go little me! Anyway, I went to a neighbors and knocked on the door. It was the dead of night, maybe early am hours, so she was obviously alarmed at seeing this tiny child at her door. I told her that I thought my mom was dead. Another tremendous alarm for her, I'm sure. She called the police, who called the apartment manager. Together they unlocked the apartment and found my mom in bed with a man (the same man I'd found her sleeping with when she was still married to my dad years prior).  Apparently they'd gotten high or drunk and had sex all night, ignoring my cries for help. Once again, no one could be bothered with me. \n\nWhat I can tell you of my childhood thereafter, as memories begin to materialize, is that I had a definitive relationship with sexuality. The boys making me play pretend sex years before followed by the molestation had taught me my value: I was nothing more than a sexual trinket. If you know anything of the psychology of childhood sexual abuse, you'll know this is, sadly, par the course in our development. Most victims, males and females, develop strong affinities for anything that makes us feel valued and loved. In the case of sexual abuse victims, sex becomes an imposter to love and worth. It is very important to note, however, that it's not that victims understand sexuality or arousal necessarily, especially those of us that were incredibly young when our assaults occurred. Rather, we want to feel valued and loved and it becomes a false association. Certainly for some victims sex a does become a source of deep yearning. Power even. I don't know that I felt powerful or assertive, but I knew that I had something boys wanted and, in a way, that did give me a sense of power. This would play out in textbook form throughout my teens, as I will write about later. \n\nThe next encounter I'd have with sexual misconduct would occur when I was around 8 or 9-years old.  I'd been visiting my grandparents every summer since the age of five. During this particular visit, my (step)grandfather and I were watching television in their bedroom. This is actually more innocent than it sounds. It was the only room in the house with a t.v. and that's where everyone who visited hung out to watch.  On this occasion, as I was flipping through channels trying to find cartoons, one of the stations was playing a very raunchy sex scene. A woman was having vigorous sex with a man while yelling, \"rape me, rape me\" over and over. Deeply embarrassed, I quickly changed the channel. My grandfather, however, told me to turn it back and then forced me to sit there and watch this porn scene with him. I write \"forced\" because as soon as he told me to change the channel back to the porn, and I did so, I got up to leave. He told me to sit down. Naturally, I did. Again, I always did  as I was told for fear of physical retaliation -a lesson long ago instilled by my mother. Although this was the first time he would put me in an inappropriate situation, it would not be the last. \n\nBecause of the emotional, physical, and sexual abuses I'd endured at such a young age, I was an incredibly shy and lonely child. I was absolutely desperate for someone to see ME. Most didn't. I was easily disregarded. It didn't help that I moved to a new school every year until 5th grade. To this day, I have no idea why I went to so many schools, but it meant that I never developed long lasting friendships, never had female connections, no sleepovers, no big birthday parties. I was the kid everyone forgot because I was only ever a temporary fixture. \n\nDuring 6th grade, I finally I started getting attention. Although short, and only 12-years-old, I developed quickly and had the body of a female a bit more mature than me. Therefore, the attention I was getting was all the wrong kind. But it was attention, that thing I coveted so very much. Naturally, the boys noticed. So did that disgusting grandfather.  During what would be one of my last summer visits with them, my grandfather tried to touch my breast while we were sitting in the car. I slapped his hand and looked him dead in the eyes and yelled,\"DON'T!\" Naturally, he fumbled over his words saying he wasn't trying to do anything; that he was simply trying to pull a piece of hair off my shirt. Yah. Absolute bullshit is right. Unfortunately, I never told anyone in my family about that or about the porn a few years prior until recently. \n\nHere's the thing about victim silence. The words are fucking hard to get out. It's not like we'd feel comfortable enough during family dinner to say, \"Oh, hey. I forgot to tell you that a man had oral sex with me when I was 6 and grandpa Bill touched my boob and made me watch porn.\" It doesn't work like that. There's also tremendous shame and embarrassment tethered to sexual abuse victims. On top of all that, there's the added turmoil of knowing that you might be disregarded or not believed. It's your word, a mere child, against that of an adult. Back then (the 80's) it was a different atmosphere and adults didn't seem to put much stock in anything children said. So we kept uncomfortable secrets and exceptional pain locked deep within. In doing so, we didn't realize that the trauma was being fed over and over again by repeat abuses and silence. Like an out-of-control vine taking over a dilapidated home, these pains would take over and suffocate us completely. Only, it was from the inside out. \n\nI was 14 the first time I had sex. It was with one of the boys from my childhood. Oddly, not the one who used to make me pretend to have sex with him at 5 and 6-years old, but the older brother. My mom and I were visiting them as we did every 6 months or so (they'd moved to a different town by this point).  I didn't want to have sex with him. It was not planned. In fact, I was sleeping on the floor in a bedroom with my mom when he quietly crawled in and tapped my foot to wake up. He kept whispering for me to get up and come with him. I repeatedly said no. He was relentless and refused to leave until I came out with  him. Out of fear of my mom waking up and yelling at us, I went with him. Once we were in his room, he grabbed and started kissing me. I wasn't sure how I was feeling about this. He wasn't someone I was interested in, but I felt ill-equipped to handle the situation. Perhaps, too, there's shred of honesty in the fact that I was 14, he was 17, and he actually wanted me! Again, my desperation to feel valued and loved was sending off alarms to my emotional self. Eventually, he led me outside to the garage where he told me or at least strongly implied that we were going to have sex. I said no, that I didn't want to and that I was scared. I asked if we could just kiss. He said no and persisted that we have sex. Reluctantly, I gave in. I don't know if I feared him hurting me or raping me anyway if I continued to say no, so I figured giving in was my best option. He bent me over on my knees, on a dirty garage floor, and we had terrible sex. I distinctly remember saying, over and over, \"please don't get me pregnant, please!\"  I was so relieved when he was done. As I put my clothes back on, numbness took over. Next to the oil stains on the concrete, my virginity was left there in a puddle of shame. Instantaneously, I was thrust right back to *sexual trinket* mode, feeling as if that was my only value in this life and so I accepted what had been done to me. I now look back in sadness and anger at the entire situation and the fact that I didn't refuse, or wake up my mom, or do anything more effective to prevent it from happening. But I also have understanding of my mindset at the time. The fear of boys and men. My \"value\" long established. The low self-esteem. It was the perfect storm to create the situation.\n\nObviously, I'm skipping over many parts of my story that were playing the background. Being accused of things by mother, being beaten. One night, during 8th grade, I was huddled on the floor of my bedroom while she hurled kicks at me because she thought I was lying about not having sex. I wasn't. At this point, the above situation had not yet happened. I had a lot of different boyfriends, yes, but it was nothing more than kissing in the hallways and sappy love notes being sent back and forth. You know, those two-week infatuations that snuff out as soon as someone else shows interest. But, my mom didn't believe me. She assumed I was having sex and drug me out of bed one morning to make me pee in a cup. I assume to check for pregnancy? When that came back negative, she took me to a doctor to be drug and pregnancy tested again. Again, I was still a virgin, never drank or smoked a damn thing, and by all accounts, was a good kid despite the abuses, the neglect, the beatings, the loneliness. Somehow, I was hanging by a thread of  miraculous virtue. So why all the attacking from my mom? I had my first broken heart and was crying a lot and not really giving two shits about making effort to look good. Not looking good was a SIN in my mother's eyes because appearances were everything. I'd been dating my boyfriend for about a year and he dumped me for someone else. I was a devastated teen girl with my first taste of puppy love heartache. To my mom, though, this was clearly a sign that I was either a slut or a druggie or both.  Being judged and treated as promiscuous, combined with all that internal sexual trauma meant one thing: promiscuity was inevitable and just around the corner.  \n\nMore to come.",
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      "body": "oh I'm very much looking forward too reading it! I hope he gets  some sort of punishment",
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      "body": "@@ -390,24 +390,27 @@\n estation\n-. B\n+, b\n ut I \n+do \n remember\n@@ -410,20 +410,16 @@\n emember \n-the \n bits and\n@@ -443,20 +443,28 @@\n p th\n-e\n+at\n  moment \n+-\n th\n-a\n+e momen\n t my\n@@ -825,23 +825,8 @@\n ouse\n-, my godmother,\n  to \n@@ -1312,20 +1312,16 @@\n do type.\n- But\n  I guess\n@@ -1817,20 +1817,9 @@\n . %0A%0A\n-I remember w\n+W\n alki\n@@ -1846,16 +1846,27 @@\n t, fear \n+swelled up \n in my li\n@@ -1917,15 +1917,8 @@\n Rock\n--n-Roll\n  mus\n@@ -1978,16 +1978,22 @@\n  bottles\n+, too,\n  strewn \n@@ -2002,15 +2002,18 @@\n out \n-a\n+on\n  table\n+s.\n  I d\n@@ -2096,16 +2096,12 @@\n  if \n-our moms\n+they\n  wer\n@@ -2151,16 +2151,17 @@\n  night. \n+%0A\n And that\n@@ -2226,16 +2226,26 @@\n er to me\n+, mind you\n . The pe\n@@ -2318,19 +2318,31 @@\n ere the \n-boy\n+two male friend\n s who we\n@@ -2576,27 +2576,36 @@\n al. \n-The boy\n+However, my friend\n s were\n- no\n+n'\n t \n- \n told\n@@ -2649,19 +2649,17 @@\n ng that \n-tha\n+i\n t wasn't\n@@ -2663,21 +2663,17 @@\n n't fair\n-! But\n+.\n  I didn'\n@@ -2759,49 +2759,40 @@\n , I \n-did just that without incident. I think m\n+went to lay down without fuss. M\n aybe\n@@ -2861,28 +2861,159 @@\n   %0A%0A\n-And then it happened\n+What happened next is THE pivotal moment of my childhood. Mind you, there were other very unpleasant moments/abuses, but this one changed....everything\n . Th\n@@ -3236,37 +3236,30 @@\n  as \n-I know it might be difficult.\n+you continue to read. \n %0A%0AAt\n@@ -3338,16 +3338,20 @@\n  didn't \n+yet \n open my \n@@ -3644,16 +3644,84 @@\n ppening.\n+ It was real. And no amount of pretending was going to change that. \n  Even as\n@@ -4140,16 +4140,24 @@\n le girl.\n+ On me. \n  I'm not\n@@ -4190,19 +4190,21 @@\n vey the \n-fea\n+terro\n r that p\n@@ -4439,28 +4439,275 @@\n ed. \n-But remember, he had\n+In hindsight, it feels like a lifetime that I lay there having my soul shredded into pieces. In reality, it likely lasted only a few minutes. Funny how a few minutes is all it takes to dislodge your innocence before it's even had time to bloom. %0A%0ARemember, there were\n  oth\n@@ -4747,24 +4747,74 @@\n not \n-see thei\n+remembe\n r faces.\n+ I'm not even sure I saw them before going to bed. \n  I d\n@@ -4863,21 +4863,27 @@\n riends, \n-there\n+in the room\n , too? I\n@@ -5014,17 +5014,41 @@\n onally. \n-A\n+I could hear them. And, a\n t one po\n@@ -5816,69 +5816,72 @@\n t.  \n-As previously written, I don't know how long this lasted. But\n+It was as if my body was awake, but my mind went black. However,\n  I d\n@@ -5962,18 +5962,19 @@\n Tim put \n-my\n+the\n  panties\n",
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      "author": "soitgoes",
      "body": "Thank you my friend. Writing is definitely bringing me some sort of peace that I haven't found in therapy or in reading, so I'm going to stick with it until my brain's finished purging. \nFunny, too, I didn't know that my experience wasn't the norm for everyone. Everyone I knew, boys  & girls, seemed sexually advanced (looking back, I can see this clearly) and then as I got older, I blocked it out for years and never gave it a thought, so it was a non-issue for me as far as thinking about it, but all the behaviors were there.",
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      "author": "soitgoes",
      "body": "Exactly. I've done quite a bit of reading on childhood sexual assault, have been in therapy for a year, and currently volunteer at a non-profit for child assault victims. The brain knows how to protect us, but unfortunately, in that process, we lose so much. Thanks for reading. <3",
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      "author": "soitgoes",
      "body": "Thank you so much.",
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      "author": "soitgoes",
      "body": "Holy moly! Thanks for this update (and for reading)",
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