Almost Committed

That day began like every other day as of late. Nothing told me this day was going to be different.

After two weeks, I was still living at my friend’s house, the second house I found refuge in. After going to class that morning, I was called out of class about the 3^rd period to go to the office. In my innocence, I had no clue why I was being called down, nor was I afraid. As I rounded the corner, I saw my father and my assistant principal having a discussion. Fear immediately overtook me.

They asked me to stay in a holding area they had nearby. There were windows  and at times as I walked by or as I stood there reading lips I could barely understand what they were talking about- but it was not good.

Then I was confronted by my father and my assistant principal. Besides being accused of drug use, I was accused of being a whore, a cokewhore, a slut, a truant, and a social deviant. My father was livid and my assistant principal fed right into it. They both turned to me verbally attacking me, without mercy. During the attack I was frightened. The fear that I was going to be forced home, or get hurt, kicked in again. But what happened in some ways was worse.

After my father degraded me repeatedly and gave my assistant principal- who already disliked me- all the ammunition to make my life pure hell for the rest of high school, then they dropped the bombshell. They had called and were sending me to the psychiatric hospital. I was being involuntarily committed to cover up the rape and the beating.

There was no one there to protect me. My world began to crumble around me. My breathing raced as my heart beat out of control. Suddenly I had a thought. A desperate thought, but one I hoped would work.

Let me call my mom.

But you are under your father’s care, what he says go.

I am over 12 years old. In this state I can choose who I want to live with, and right now I am choosing my mother. Let me have the phone. I’m calling her.

The principal was trying to argue with me, but he had to relent. As much as living with my mother was hell, this had just gotten completely out of control. In choosing between an involuntary commitment at a psychiatric hospital and my mother, it was only slightly better to go live with my mom, but it was still better.

Oh God, Mom. Please answer.

The phone rang a number of times, and right before the answering machine answer a voice answered the phone.

Hello?

Mom??

Oh Hi Maggie.

Mom. Come get me now.

Maggie, are you ok?

No, Mom. Dad is trying to cover up Oran raping me and Dad and Sharon beating me by putting me in the state psychiatric hospital. They are going to try and commit me to cover it all up. You have to come save me now.

I’ll be right there.

Ok. Tell my principal that so they don’t send me before you get here.

Handing over the phone, I crumpled in nervous relief. Until I got away from school today I would not be able to relax. My father sounded like he had heard the craziest stories and believed them. My stepbrother must have been trying to cover his tracks by offering up this ridiculous story. What disturbed me was not that my father was overstimulated by bad information and emotions, but that my principal ate up all of this ridiculousness like it was the Gospel. The look in his eye scared me. He looked at me as if he was going to destroy me, then he set his jaw as if in stubborn resolve. It was as if he was happy to ruin me.

Within the hour my mother was there to take me home. That was how simply I could change custody between parents at my age. However, living with my mother was hardly a picnic. She was not coming to rescue me from my father; she was there to get my father’s goad. She never cared about me; this was a personal vendetta between my father and her. But in this case, it was necessary to enlist her help. It may have been the only thing that saved me.

Nonsense

 After that night I never lived or stayed at my father’s house again. Another family took me in the next night. Luckily I had many friends my parents did not know, so finding me was difficult. I learned my lesson the first time- I never called my brothers or family and told them where I was again.

The new family was so nice to me, everyone but the mom. She put up with me being there, but the undertone was obvious- she disliked me being there.

Making my stay as beneficial as I could, or at least as little of an inconvenience as possible, was an important undertone I naturally felt. You cannot help but feel like a burden or an inconvenience when you live with people. However, these people took me into their home and I felt relatively safe- an inconvenience, but safe.

One day a few days into staying with them our class pictures came out. I wanted so badly to get one. The son asked the father and the father gave him the money. Then the daughter- my friend- aked her father for the money, and he gave it to her. I nervously paced and avoided eye contact. How could I ask for so much from someone who was kind enough to take me in and put up with me? Yes it was a simple $10-20 item, but I could not be any more of a burden than I already was. But there he was, attention turned to me.

Maggie? Did you want one, too?

Yes! I would love one.

OK. – Wait I don’t have enough change.

Oh don’t worry. It’s ok.

Nonsense.

Then he had my friend exchange cash with him to get the correct amount of change for us to use. His wife tried to ignore the situation because she could hardly keep her bitter expression off her face.

Here you go, Maggie.

Thank you so much, sir.

When no one was looking that night, I cried. Something so simple meant so much to me. Thank you is truly hard to convey when it touches you so deeply.

Changing the World

Maybe mine is a special case. Maybe not. But admitting my first rape was not met with bleeding hearts and compassionate hugs. It was met with hostility, retaliation, and harassment. The reaction from my admitting the rape, in the end, turned out to be worse than the rape. The third rape was like reliving that nightmare.

The pain I have gone through, the hostility I have endured, the hardships I have survived, most people do not know I have gone through so much. Instead they see a pretty girl with a biting sense of humor and a mile deep of compassion. This is exactly what I want people to see.

What I have lived through has not killed me, but it has left me scarred. With those scars, I reach for people, I see hurting when others don’t, I love when others choose to hate and I choose to value moments that most people are not able to appreciate. Building walls is so much easier to protect yourself from others, but it takes an incredible amount of strength and courage to face the pain that I have felt. Yet, instead of me losing the most important thing to me, my humanity, my compassion, the ability to love and become vulnerable, the ability to get close to others, I stare and live in defiance of the pain I have endured.

Imparting any of this that I have learned has become critically important to me. Imagine one less tear? One less moment of pain that someone may have to feel. This world is changed one person at a time, so if we can make that commitment- the commitment to change one person’s life- then we essentially change the world.

My memories may haunt me, but the idea that my pain is being experienced by men and women all over the world stirs me to action. Since I have had such terrible experiences and I am trained professionally with the perfect skill set and personality traits, I want to help.  So that is exactly what I am going to do.

Not Safe

Before I opened the door I stopped. With a big breath I put my chin up and opened the door. Cops.

In shame I grabbed my things and quietly made my way out the door. Before I left, I looked them all in the eye: my friend, her brother, and both of her parents.

Thank you.

And then I put my head down and silently got into the patrol car.

Please don’t leave me alone with my parents. They will hurt me.

While we are there they aren’t going to hurt you.

But you have to leave at some point, what happens then? What do I do?

Your parents aren’t going to hurt you.

Will you stay to make sure I will be ok?

Yes.

I was nervous as they drove me. My own brother- my middle brother- had betrayed me. I thought I could trust him. What happened? Knowing my parents were not going to be happy about me telling the family secret, I didn't know what I was about to walk in to, but I was scared. There was not anything I could think to do. Since I had told the school, CPS, and the cops, I thought I would be safe. Yet, here I was being delivered back to the house to my angry parents by the cops of all people. My sense of safety had been challenged far to much in one day. Everything that I thought I knew about the world was being ripped away. There is no justice in the world.

What do I do?

As we stopped in front of my house, I again grabbed all my stuff in shame. Instead of shuffling quickly like I had everywhere else, I slowly stepped to my doom. I knew what faced me on the other side of this door was not going to be good.

Please don't leave me here. They are going to hurt me, I pleaded quietly one last time to the police.

Youre going to be just fine.

The officers knocked on the door. My parents opened it. They were upset, but not maliciously. The police officers walked in about 4 or 5 steps, not even fully into the etranceway of my house.

Well, it looks like everything is fine. Have a great night.

Spinning around in terror, I tried to catch the eyes of the two police officers to make one more silent plea. They never even looked back. The door closed. Then it locked. Both of my parents stared at me, their faces both contorting into rage. Suddenly neither one of them looked like the happy white family with problems they had first appeared to be. That's when I noticed we were alone in the house. My body went limp, all of my resolve draining from me.

Instead of confronting my parents, I tried to act nonchalant and walked into my bedroom to drop off my stuff. My stepmother followed me in to the room.

She must have held me down on the floor for over an hour and a half. She screamed at me and pulled my hair, slapping me when I did not tell her what she wanted to hear. All alone in my room, I knew there was not going to be anyone to save me.

Say it isnt true. Say he didn't rape you.

I cant. Its not a lie.

Youre lying. I want you to confess that you made it up.

I really wish I could, but Im not going to lie to you to make you feel better. 

SLAP

It happened. I dont care if you believe it or not. Im not going to start lying now.

Clumps of my hair were caught in her fingers because she had pulled so hard for so long. Again I would go to school without visible marks. CPS wouldnt believe me again. Part of me wanted her to beat me to a bloody pulp so someone would believe me. The rest of me wanted it all to be over, but it went on for what seemed like forever. My voice sounded further and further away as she berate me, trying to get me to crack, to admit it was all a lie. If I had to deal with it being true, then she had to too. Eventually I lay there motionless, all my energy gone. My eyes unfocused. My breathing slow and shallow. She finally let me be. 

As she got up, I only remember her being frustrated at my responses. She slammed my bedroom door behind her as she left the room. 

After a moment, when I was sure she wouldnt return, I got up and combed through my hair with my fingers. Bigger chunks of hair came out. Slumping in fear and shame I crawled onto my bed and lay down. I pulled my knees to my chest and lay there crying in the fetal position.

The cops just left me. They didnt even check to see if I was going to be ok.

Grabbing the blanket, I pulled it up over my head, as if hiding would help. In a deep depression, I quickly lost consciousness.

In the morning, I awoke before my father even opened my door. The fear had startled me awake as I heard him walk towards my room. The last thing I wanted was to be punched again.

Again I stuffed my backpack, but this time I packed it without the thought of getting any other items from my room. After everything that happened, I knew I couldnt even trust my own brothers, my father, or the stepmother who I had wished was my real mother.

I am all alone. What am I going to do? I cant trust anybody!

My father and I did not speak in the car the whole way to school. This time as I got out of the car, I didnt say goodbye. All my energy was gone. Instead I closed the door behind me and stood still, listening as the car drove away.

Bye, Dad, I thought to myself.

Then I walked into class, a shell of my former self.

This time I didnt tell anyone what happened. What good would it do?

You Don't Matter

There I sat in the counselor’s office. Knowing what I had to say next and saying it were two different things. Once you said it, it really happened. She stared back at me and I know she could see my face stained by tears, eyes red from crying, hair disheveled, and my nose running. Staring back into her eyes I knew I could either remain silent and carry my shame alone, or tell her and lay shame bare for all to see. The ramifications of what I was going to say would ruin peoples’ lives.

I took a breath and began telling her what happened that morning. The details were shaming and painful to disclose. At times I had a hard time not sobbing, but I would compose myself and keep going. Then she asked me the dreaded question: Why? Nothing is worse than having to answer that question. 

Because I was raped.

So the story of why my father hurt me became the story of what happened when I was raped. When I finished I held my head in shame.

It happened. Now I’ve told the world. There is no going back now.

After I had composed myself, the counselor told me to go back to class. That was it. As I sat in class dazed, I got called back to the office. For some reason I was actually surprised to see the police and Child Protective Services. They took pictures- the redness on my neck had been gone for hours. There were a few scratches on my arms from the wall as I was dragged by it. My father had punched me square in the nose, so I had no black eye. Instead there was a bruise from where the cartilage of my nose had bent. Armed with only a small bruise, some scratches, and a detailed story, CPS sat me down and told me that unless there were cigarette burns or broken bones, because I was over 13, it didn’t matter.

I don’t matter? So even though he choked me and I almost passed out a few times, it doesn’t matter?

No.

So he can beat me all he wants as long as there aren’t any broken bones? That’s what youre saying?

Yes.

They told me that if I went home and it happened again, I would not be safe. They could do it again. It was "a personal matter." 

The feelings of fear and dread were overwhelming. The police heard my story of the rape. Few questions were asked. Looking back I don’t even remember if they gave me their business cards. As the day went on a friend contacted me. She said I could go home with her. Given the alternative, it was the only reasonable thing to do.

We went to her house and she introduced me to her parents. After over an hour I finally felt comfortable enough to relax. At some point I called my middle brother to ask him to sneak me over some clothes. After I hung up the phone, I got in the shower. It had been a long day and washing off the tears was the best idea I had to start over. The bangs on the door I could hear even from the shower. Then talking. Next a knock on the bathroom door. My stomach turned because I knew. Hurriedly I replied I would be out shortly. Drying myself off quickly, I dressed into my clothes. Before I opened the door I stopped. With a big breath I put my chin up and opened the door. Cops.

In shame I grabbed my things and quietly made my way out the door. Before I left, I looked them all in the eye: my friend, her brother, and both of her parents.

Thank you.

And then I put my head down and silently got into the patrol car.

Please don’t leave me alone with my parents. They will hurt me.

While we are there they aren’t going to hurt you.

But you have to leave at some point, what happens then? What do I do?

Your parents aren’t going to hurt you.

Will you stay to make sure I will be ok?

Yes.

My Christmas Wish

Holidays are for families, so I am sure to find at least one wherever I live. Pretending they are my family sometimes is enough to help me through each holiday. Yet every holiday I have this nagging feeling of being lost, lonely and alone. More than anything, I want to belong.
This Christmas was supposed to be special. This was the first time I was going to have my own family- a family I could be proud of. A son who was given something more precious than what can be wrapped inside paper and placed under a tree. A husband that was loving and doting. One I did not have to worry about beating me or leaving when he had some selfish need to entertain. For the first time I was going to relax in the comfort of a man's arms that wanted me to be with him. Me. While I am a smart, beautiful, compassionate, cheerful and entertaining woman, I also have a history that makes most people cringe or hurt. As a person, I do not need to be fixed, but I do want to be loved in spite of the shame and pain I have lived through. What I want more than anything is to bare my soul, my scars and my fears, and still be loved in spite of all my failings. This was going to be the first Christmas I was going to experience that. For the first time in 16 years, I was going to belong.
Since I lost everything at the age of 15, the thing I have longed for most was love. That may not sound like much, but I find that so many people are ungrateful for what they do have. They miss what precious things they have because their focus is on perfection or small irritations. They get caught up in the dishes not being done, it being the other person's turn, in how a small remark that was said in innocence feels like a personal attack.
Losing everything repeatedly has changed me. Luckily I let it change me for the better. My nightmares may be horrible, but I make a choice to reach out and touch the people I know. I have hard days and rough days- not bad ones. Comforting people. Connecting with people. When I touch people I find there is so much more to life than this facade we are sold by our materialistic society.
Most people do not realize that things happen in their life- often out of their control. What we do have control of is how we react to them.
So, for me, for my Christmas wish, go home. Go to your family. Love them. Cherish them. Dont let stupid, petty issues take away from the experience you have of each other. Confront the issues while they are small- and then let them GO! Choose your battles; some things arent important in the grand scheme of things. Because looking back from the end of your life you will know then, but if you act today, you will be able to enjoy the most precious of gifts.
Love.
Its not an emotion. Its a choice. Its an act. Its an ongoing action.
Today I grieve the loss of my dreams. I grieve the loss of exciting possibilities. I grieve my son knowing what it is like to have a father. I grieve the loss of someone I love. I grieve having to let someone I love go for my greater good. I grieve the loss of that relief that I have waited my whole life for this and its here now. Its not. Someone stole it again. Someone stole much more from me than just a rape.
But dont worry for me. With how beautiful, funny, charming, compassionate, loving and intelligent I am, there will be someone that will love me, even the dirtiest part of my past. While it may be a hard road I walk, I do not walk it alone. Neither do you.
Learn to love each moment. You may never grasp at that moment how precious it is until it is gone.

the Morning my Life Changed Forever

Through my deep sleep I barely heard anything. It took a few minutes to awake from such a deep sleep and such a weird dream. Finally I noticed my dad yelling at me.
What? What? Huh?
I told you to get up already and you are still in bed- now you are going to be late for school!
What are you talking about? This is the first time I woke up.
No, You sat up in bed and said you would get up, and you never even got out of bed.
Dad, come on. You know I talk in my sleep. I seriously dont remember you waking me up and I was pretty heavily sleeping just now. It was really hard to wake up.
Stop lying. That is the stupidest thing I've heard.
No seriously dad, I've been known to sleep walk and talk over at mom's.
That is the worst lie I've ever heard!
What are you talking about? Just ask my brothers! Just because I havent lived with you for most of my life, doesnt mean it doesnt happen.
The fight went on for another few minutes. It confused me. I thought it was ridiculous, because now that I was awake, I needed to focus to get ready quickly, to make up for that lost time. Instead my dad went into my closet where the catbox was and proceeded to rant some more about the catbox needing cleaning. I lost it finally.
I'll Fucking do it!
I remember seeing his had twice as he swung at me. First he slapped me. Then he punched me right in the face. I was so surprised and shocked I just sat there gaping in horror. What could I have possibly done to deserve this?
I remember him dragging me in a headlock, me having to push with my legs because he was choking me. He dragged me into the hallway towards the living room, past his bedroom. My stepmother came out of their room and yelled at me. My father was yelling too. I couldnt hear what they were saying because I was so stunned. Everything was such a blur. Then my father dragged me back down the hallway past his room, then mine, and into the bathroom where he held me backwards over the sink. He was still choking me as he dragged me. As he held me backwards over the sink I struggled more to breathe. He was yelling in a furious rage. As he grabbed the brand new bar of soap and tried to shove it in my mouth I fought to keep it out. It was the perfect size to fit in my mouth with hardly any room. Since I was already struggling to breathe, I began to fight in what I felt like was for my life. I couldn't let that bar of soap in my mouth, I thought I would asphyxiate. My little brother had a bathroom on the other side of the wall. I knew he was in his room that morning. I begged and screamed for him to help me, but he never came to my rescue. I was all alone. My family own family was doing this to me.
Finally my father let me go. I fell to the floor gasping for breath, searching for reason why this had happened. As quickly as I could I got in the shower and under the water I began to cry. That's when I noticed the blood coming from my nose.
My own father punched me in the nose. Because I was raped?
The tension in the house had been building for over a week, but never in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined the father that refused to spank us would beat me and choke me. Especially because I had admitted I was raped!
Sobbing uncontrollably, I went into survival mode.
What do I do? Where do I go?
I got ready in a hurry. When I grabbed my backpack, I pulled out all the books- and it was Full that day. Grabbing a few change of clothes and basic necessities- toothbrush and deodorant, I filled my back pack and then grabbed all my books, carrying them in my arms.
How do I do this? He will know!
So I realized that to play it off, I had to act like a bad teenager; I had to play into this perception he had of me.
This was important. Otherwise he may beat me again.
With what little reserve I had I stiffened up and put on an act.
This is do or die Maggie. He cant know.
I barely spoke to him the whole ride to school. This was partly to play into the act, partly because I was afraid my voice would crack and give me away. Instead I played the part well- grumpy teenager with an attitude who thinks she's right. It wasnt me, but I had to pull off the facade long enough to get to school. Once I was there, I was safe. I remember telling him goodbye in a rude way. I knew I would miss him. I wanted to hug him and kiss him goodbye because I knew I would probably never see him again, but I couldnt give myself away. To be sure I didn't give myself away since my voice had cracked ever so slightly, I slammed the car door behind me. He drove away with an attitude, driving off too quickly and too fast in response.
Once I heard the car get far enough away, my whole body crumpled. I walked onto the soccer field for first period marching band. My spot on the flagline was at the very front side of the band and to get to it I had to pass over a hundred people, most of whom I had known for most of my life. Many I had developed a deep personal friendship with at some time or another. I got about halfway through the field before I started sobbing. Band practiced completely stopped.
I never cried. I was always the happy, positive person, no matter what happened. I was the person people came to to be comforted and cheered up. I never even made it to my spot when a friend reached for me. I collapsed into her crying. the band director asked for the girls to help me off the field. About half the flagline- all the girls on that side of the soccer field walked me off the field. A few walked me to the counselor's office.
Stopping in the hallway outside of the band room, I pulled myself together. Just as I was pulling myself together, one of only 3 people I've ever completely disliked in my whole life walked by. She stopped to laugh at me. Shooting her a piercing glare, I put my head up and walked into the counselor's office- walking through the entire school. Every step was incredibly painful as tears burned in my eyes. I dare not cry in the hallway.
The sobs will stop more classes and I won't be able to stop. There is already enough attention on me now.
Once I made it into the counselor's office, I sat down and told her everything- the rape and the beating. The cops and Child Protective Services were called as required by the law. I sat there and waited, all in a daze.
Out of everyone in the world, why did it have to be my Dad? I thought he was going to protect me.

It was Oran, wasn't it?

After my stepbrother left the house that day he cornered me in my room, I think I called my stepmom. Not to confess anything, I did not know how to do that, or what to say, but instead to warn her about him. Believe me, I wanted to tell her, but instead I sent her an awkward warning about how he had confessed to being on a cocaine binge. You definitely cannot call someone while they are at work and tell them over the phone that you had been raped by their son. But this would get the questions started. This would begin the conversations we would have so that I could tell them. After they knew what had happened, they would take care of me. My father would comfort me and make me feel better- like I had value. Then maybe this hoorible feeling of dirtiness and shame would wash away.
The tension in the house was palpable over the next few days. My stepmother had gone looking into her son, investigating what I had told her. One night she called me into her room. She began to question me about her son. Her questions sounded accusatory, as if I was the one on drugs, not him. Then she brought up the letters I had written him in prison. I had told him I wasnt a virgin when he had demeaned me. At the time I thought that was true because when I was in Kindergarten, my friend Christina and I had been playing Barbies. After playing mommy and daddy, we had our dolls have sex. Then we got naked in her bed and pressed ourselves against each other as if we could have sex. [Looking back- she knew way too much about sex. This is an incredibly huge sign of sexual abuse.] In my innocence I thought we had had sex. I confessed this to my stepmom. She told me that that was not sex. It did not count. In my relief I said, that besides that my only sexual experience was when I had been raped.
Oh wow. The cat was out of the bag now.
Who was it?? Who Was IT? she questioned for over a half hour. I just shook my head. How could I tell her it was her son?  
Was it one of Oran's friends?
I immediately answered her, No.
Oops.The way I quickly answered her said a lot more than I intended.
It was Oran wasn't it? It was Oran? It was Oran, wasnt it? It was Oran. It was Oran!
She repeated herself for a few minutes in shock and aggressiveness. I finally caved.
Yes.
Oh no. Just like he did to his sister, she mumbled to herself.

What?
Watching as the reality of it hit her, I saw it overwhelm her and take her energy. But then only about a minute later, she stiffened as if she had told herself no. That is when she shut down. She finished talking to me and went and used the phone. She called my stepsister in another state. They talked for over an hour. I went to bed because the emotionalism of the situation had drained me. Admitting to being raped is acknowledging that it had happened. I did not want it to be true. Saying that it is true changes everything.It makes your nightmare real and you have to relive it. Bits and pieces of the rape came back. It was overwhelming. Over and over again in my mind, he raped you, played whether I wanted it to or not. You cannot block it out sometimes. So instead I chose to sleep. There was not enough in me to listen to it any more. Sleep was the only thing that could turn it off.

Sick old men

 A couple weeks after the rape I had gone with an older (blood) brother and two of our friends to that warehouse to drink. I worried a totally different brother would rape me too, even though the idea is ludicrous. But no one noticed the way I stared into that room- the one I had been raped in. I went in there to see if the bed was still there. The stain of his cum was still visible and it upset me. But I had stuffed the rape into my subconscious; some part of me had died that night. Standing there, I couldnt drink the alcohol. The nervousness was there, but I had blocked out why I was upset. All I knew was I had an intense sense of dread while I was there and I avoided that room after only taking two steps across its threshhold. I never wanted to be in that room again.
Roughly three months had passed since it happened. When my stepbrother came by I was alone in the house. He was supposed to be able to come in and use the phone or whatever any time he wanted. Although I was always told to avoid him, my stepmother failed to mention that he was a pedophile. I was still in my pjs when I answered the door. He came in and I went back to my room to avoid him. There was little about him that I had liked; he's the type of person that gives people a bad name. As far as character of men, I always thought of him as a dog- the lowest of the lows. But he was my stepbrother. I called him my brother. You do not get to choose your family.
He knocked on my bedroom door to ask me for razorblades. Then he drew me into this long conversation about how he had binged for the last three days on cocaine. The last thing I want to talk about is a bunch of drug use with a person I have no respect for. Staying as far as I could away from him in my room, I avoided answering his questions or interrupting him because wanting him to go away was more of my prerogative. As I sat alone in my house with no brothers and no parents or stepsister, alone with this monster of a stepbrother in my room, I began to feel uncomfortable. That is when he asked me.
When do I get to stick it in again?
What?
I didnt get to stick it in all the way. When can I stick it in again?
What are you talking about?
And then I remembered. All the memories came flooding back. I turned white and started shaking. You didnt want it?
I heard my voice, but it didnt feel like mine.
It's ok. It's ok.
Truthfully I don't know who I was telling that to- whether it was him or me, but I had to get him out of my room as fast as possible. There was not anything I had to do; when I came out of my daze I noticed he was already gone. All I could think was what kind of sicko thinks a 15 year old girl wants to have sex with a 27 year old man- a disgusting one at that? I had never come on to him. I called him my brother. I disliked being around him, but I was trying for my family's sake to bond with him. I never touched him or hugged him. Before all this happened, I had only kissed a guy. Surely I did not want to have sex with this guy, even if he was not family. This same guy had a list of women that he kept- a record of who all he slept with. According to him, he had already slept with over 100. The thought turned my stomach. And then I remembered. My stepmother had asked me multiple times to write her son while he was in prison. She included an awkward picture of me when she sent it. He had shown it to me when he met me and told me how beautiful I was. In his return letters he demeaned me by saying how I was so young and I didn't know anything. So I made up some stories when I replied about how I wasnt stupid. That I had experience. That I was not just some stupid kid.
But what stuck with me was the picture. The comment he made about it. Looking back, I can only imagine what this sicko was thinking about a 12 year old awkward girl to call her beautiful in a low long way- as if enchanted.  Especially since he was a grown man.

the First Time

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