I Am a Child Abuse Survivor
(Please note that some of the names in this story have been altered.)
I was only nine years old when it began. My stepfather, the man who was supposed to protect me from the monsters in my closet and under my bed... He became exactly that: A monster. I'm so glad I can't remember any of the details. I'm grateful to my subconscious for sucking in those memories and not giving them back, except for during the flashbacks.
I remember the shame, the pain, me begging him to stop, the terror, and the emotional scars I would bear for the rest of my life. I can recall his face, that fake smile, that facade of a caring father he put up around everyone else... But when we were alone... He was my worst nightmares magnified a thousand times and jumbled all together, only worse. I'd cry myself to sleep at night, clutching my pillow close, curling up in a ball and perhaps rocking back and forth as I whispered pathetic attempts at comfort to myself.
I hated him. I wanted to kill him. Every time I'd see the knives in the kitchen I contemplated taking one and I'd envision all the ways I could do so. But I never acted upon these visions -those dreams. I never said a word. I was too afraid to speak up.
It went on until I was fourteen. I was in eighth grade.
It was second period, I believe, and I was in history. I was called down to the principal's office and sat down before him and another man I could vaguely remember from the D.A.R.E. program in elementary school. Officer Nolan. He was a really nice guy, from what I could remember.
I didn't know why I was there. But then Officer Nolan started asking about my stepfather and I began to cry. I denied everything. I was too afraid to admit the truth. I was too scared to say, "Yes, he touched me. Yes, he raped me. Yes, it's all true." I just kept denying it. Through my tears, I knew Officer Nolan knew it was all true. I had been hurt by the man that was supposed to protect me. He knew, I knew, the principal knew. My neighbor who reported her suspicions knew, too. I never said "thanks" to her.
A while after school was over, they gave up on interrogating me. Officer Nolan drove me home without saying anything I remember.
Now, it's four years later and I'm finally speaking up.
April first of 2011 was the first time I'd ever told anyone what had happened to me. And thank God, the Universe, whatever higher power there may be out there, that I have her. I'm honestly convinced that the woman has saved my life. She's saved me from myself and from the misery I've been drowning in for half of my life. I could never thank her enough for what she's done for me. Who is she? Why, she's Miss Smith. She's the Easter Bunny. She's Rabbit. She's my best friend, my knight in shining polyester, my second mother, my savior, my rock and my guiding light. She's the greatest teacher and the most amazing person I've ever met.
I'd already hinted that something was wrong, but that I couldn't tell her what quite then. It had been haunting my dreams and eating at my soul for weeks. I had to say it. I had to get it off my chest. I had to confess. I had to tell the person I trusted most. I had to tell Miss Smith. However, she'd already warned me that anything I told her (at least in the context I'd put it) would have to be passed on to my guidance counselor. I'd already known that. I still had to tell her.
I'm a poet and a writer by nature. Due to everything I've been through, and my natural creativity (which most people attribute to my left-handedness, despite the fact that I'm really ambidextrous), writing just comes naturally. I've been writing since eighth grade. It was my only way to keep sane on those days when what that monster did to me was there in the front of my mind. Writing was my way of relieving stress. And so, that was how I finally said it. I never even said it at all; I wrote it. I wrote about how my stepfather stole my innocence and how I was too afraid to speak up even when I had the chance.
It was after school, like it always was when I had my talks with Miss Smith. We'd stay well after school was over, sometimes until four or five o'clock, and school got out at half-past two. But an hour passed on that day, then two, and I still hadn't handed her that paper. She told me she was going to have to leave and I finally forced myself to hand it over. She read the first side, which was a sort of preface to the truth I was about to show her. Her voice was stressed, and I could see the concern on her normally cheery face. Her smile was gone. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes weren't shining like they usually did. It sort of freaked me out. She asked if I was sure whether I wanted her to know; told me that she wouldn't flip the paper if I didn't want her to. But I insisted. I told her I had to tell someone; this had been kept buried for far too long already.
So she turned the page, and she read. A good three minutes passed before she was finished. And when she looked up, I felt my heart crack a little.
She looked at me with those adorable, deep blue eyes and I knew she was hurt. Those same eyes that glittered when she laughed were now broken and glazed over with tears she'd never shed in front of me. She kept asking questions, and I kept answering the ones I could past the lump in my throat.
Miraculously, neither of us cried.
Before we left (and usually we left together on days I stayed late) I stood next to her office as she got her things. It felt like a tremendous weight had been lifted from my chest. I felt... free. It was almost as if what that man had done to me couldn't hold me down anymore. Her voice snapped me from whichever zone I'd fallen into, and she was smiling again. I could tell this smile was forced, but I felt better either way. We exited the classroom and I stood looking down the deserted hallway while she locked her door.
"Bailey?" I heard her voice. I turned with raised brows. "Can I have a hug? I know you hate them, but given the situation..." She trailed off. I blinked at her and stepped closer. She knew, and wrapped me in a tight embrace. I sort of laid my head on her shoulder and I felt her press her cheek to the top of my head. "It's going to be okay, baby," she said softly. My heart swelled, and I knew I was going to be okay.
So, it's two months later, and everything's getting better.
I slipped back into my misery about a week after my initial confession, but I'm getting back on my feet.
My world's not spinning so much any more, and what Dave did to me doesn't have such a hold on me.
I'm still afraid of people touching my shoulders (which I know I didn't really mention) and of men (another unmentioned issue), and I still have flashbacks, but... I feel like I'm safer, now. Like... No matter what, as long as I've got Miss Smith in my life, he can't hurt me any more.
She made me...
Invincible.
I was only nine years old when it began. My stepfather, the man who was supposed to protect me from the monsters in my closet and under my bed... He became exactly that: A monster. I'm so glad I can't remember any of the details. I'm grateful to my subconscious for sucking in those memories and not giving them back, except for during the flashbacks.
I remember the shame, the pain, me begging him to stop, the terror, and the emotional scars I would bear for the rest of my life. I can recall his face, that fake smile, that facade of a caring father he put up around everyone else... But when we were alone... He was my worst nightmares magnified a thousand times and jumbled all together, only worse. I'd cry myself to sleep at night, clutching my pillow close, curling up in a ball and perhaps rocking back and forth as I whispered pathetic attempts at comfort to myself.
I hated him. I wanted to kill him. Every time I'd see the knives in the kitchen I contemplated taking one and I'd envision all the ways I could do so. But I never acted upon these visions -those dreams. I never said a word. I was too afraid to speak up.
It went on until I was fourteen. I was in eighth grade.
It was second period, I believe, and I was in history. I was called down to the principal's office and sat down before him and another man I could vaguely remember from the D.A.R.E. program in elementary school. Officer Nolan. He was a really nice guy, from what I could remember.
I didn't know why I was there. But then Officer Nolan started asking about my stepfather and I began to cry. I denied everything. I was too afraid to admit the truth. I was too scared to say, "Yes, he touched me. Yes, he raped me. Yes, it's all true." I just kept denying it. Through my tears, I knew Officer Nolan knew it was all true. I had been hurt by the man that was supposed to protect me. He knew, I knew, the principal knew. My neighbor who reported her suspicions knew, too. I never said "thanks" to her.
A while after school was over, they gave up on interrogating me. Officer Nolan drove me home without saying anything I remember.
Now, it's four years later and I'm finally speaking up.
April first of 2011 was the first time I'd ever told anyone what had happened to me. And thank God, the Universe, whatever higher power there may be out there, that I have her. I'm honestly convinced that the woman has saved my life. She's saved me from myself and from the misery I've been drowning in for half of my life. I could never thank her enough for what she's done for me. Who is she? Why, she's Miss Smith. She's the Easter Bunny. She's Rabbit. She's my best friend, my knight in shining polyester, my second mother, my savior, my rock and my guiding light. She's the greatest teacher and the most amazing person I've ever met.
I'd already hinted that something was wrong, but that I couldn't tell her what quite then. It had been haunting my dreams and eating at my soul for weeks. I had to say it. I had to get it off my chest. I had to confess. I had to tell the person I trusted most. I had to tell Miss Smith. However, she'd already warned me that anything I told her (at least in the context I'd put it) would have to be passed on to my guidance counselor. I'd already known that. I still had to tell her.
I'm a poet and a writer by nature. Due to everything I've been through, and my natural creativity (which most people attribute to my left-handedness, despite the fact that I'm really ambidextrous), writing just comes naturally. I've been writing since eighth grade. It was my only way to keep sane on those days when what that monster did to me was there in the front of my mind. Writing was my way of relieving stress. And so, that was how I finally said it. I never even said it at all; I wrote it. I wrote about how my stepfather stole my innocence and how I was too afraid to speak up even when I had the chance.
It was after school, like it always was when I had my talks with Miss Smith. We'd stay well after school was over, sometimes until four or five o'clock, and school got out at half-past two. But an hour passed on that day, then two, and I still hadn't handed her that paper. She told me she was going to have to leave and I finally forced myself to hand it over. She read the first side, which was a sort of preface to the truth I was about to show her. Her voice was stressed, and I could see the concern on her normally cheery face. Her smile was gone. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes weren't shining like they usually did. It sort of freaked me out. She asked if I was sure whether I wanted her to know; told me that she wouldn't flip the paper if I didn't want her to. But I insisted. I told her I had to tell someone; this had been kept buried for far too long already.
So she turned the page, and she read. A good three minutes passed before she was finished. And when she looked up, I felt my heart crack a little.
She looked at me with those adorable, deep blue eyes and I knew she was hurt. Those same eyes that glittered when she laughed were now broken and glazed over with tears she'd never shed in front of me. She kept asking questions, and I kept answering the ones I could past the lump in my throat.
Miraculously, neither of us cried.
Before we left (and usually we left together on days I stayed late) I stood next to her office as she got her things. It felt like a tremendous weight had been lifted from my chest. I felt... free. It was almost as if what that man had done to me couldn't hold me down anymore. Her voice snapped me from whichever zone I'd fallen into, and she was smiling again. I could tell this smile was forced, but I felt better either way. We exited the classroom and I stood looking down the deserted hallway while she locked her door.
"Bailey?" I heard her voice. I turned with raised brows. "Can I have a hug? I know you hate them, but given the situation..." She trailed off. I bl
So, it's two months later, and everything's getting better.
I slipped back into my misery about a week after my initial confession, but I'm getting back on my feet.
My world's not spinning so much any more, and what Dave did to me doesn't have such a hold on me.
I'm still afraid of people touching my shoulders (which I know I didn't really mention) and of men (another unmentioned issue), and I still have flashbacks, but... I feel like I'm safer, now. Like... No matter what, as long as I've got Miss Smith in my life, he can't hurt me any more.
She made me...
Invincible.
By:
BaileyInPieces
Age:
16-17
,
Female
