3.31.2005

Archives

On the eve of my departure, I've truly (I think) become to realize the importance of my move here/my leaving. I've been going on and on and on about my built family and my loyalty to my friends and all that that means: and yet, I've been hanging out with--get this--MY REAL FAMILY.

A few days ago, my sister related to me that she had three rather large boxes of memoribilia from my childhood. Now, most of this, I intend on/have thrown away, but there are a few items that I can't, now that I know again that they exist, do without. I found, amoung a bunch of crap, my old flair collection, some old girly transformers, and what I was truly hoping to find--all of my notebooks from the ages of 9-15.

Here's why this is important--here is a piece I wrote at 14. It literally scares me to read.

It's hard sometimes, to be honest with yourself. I mean, on the most basic, primal and instinctual level it's so hard to sort through what you want to do, and what they want you to do.
My skin still quivers like silver fish from his touches, I can still feel it coming--that sickly seeping feeling of pain; that regret that makes you want to cry and cry and stop eating until you finally die, but instead, you just look into those brown eyes and fake something close to a smile to try and ease the same pain that you hope to god that he is feeling as well. Of course, however, he's not.
Of course you wanted that to happen, of course you said yeah, but not then, not then, because then you're really in for it, you'll torment yourself until you can no more and hope to god it goes away but it never does, not for a long, long, long fucking long fucking time and you can tell yourself a million times that one more shower, one more shower will make it all right, but you find yourself once more curled on your side in the corner of the tub, getting scalded by the streaming water, your own salty tears flowing with the hot water, hitting your arms, back, legs like searing hot pokers.
1, 2, 3, a million fiery tounges licking you all over, taking things from you you never knew you had and then, just as quickly as it came, they stop, leaving you crazy and dead and hoplessly hopefully alone.

I don't have a date for this, but it was from a couple of weeks after the beginning of my sophomore year of highschool, just a few hours after my vey first invasive sexual experience. Notice the immediate and unintentional change of tense; it makes it reek even more of the dteachment I wanted to have from my sexual assault by a classmate; all that happened that one late night at his house when his parents were out of town. Now I am so detached from it all, I can barely remember what it was like. I merely relate the tale as some sort of cautionary story to young women who both have and have not experienced this fate, as if reguardless, everyone should know--especially because there are still people who were there, who I loved and went to school with and saw every day--who to this day do not believe me. I guess that is and will be my lot in life--and yet, somehow, I am finally not afraid.
--M

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