Today is the anniversary of yet another trauma. Kind of an important one, in a way. It’s the day our neighbor sexually assaulted me. I was jogging home from the elementary school. He stopped me to ask if I wanted to check out the bike he was working on in his shed. He was cute. Blonde. 23. I said “sure.”
June 27th 1998.
It feels significant because it was the first time someone outside of the family hurt us. And (a year later) it’s the first time any of us actually told anyone about someone hurting us.
I told a friend who told a friend who told a friend who…you get it. Then, eventually, an older friend in college told my school guidance counselor who told the school psychologist who told the parents. They pretended to believe me in her office, but by the time we got back home, I was a “liar” and “attention seeker”.
My friends didn’t believe me. Or they were just shitty about it:
Things like that don’t happen to people like us.
Who would want to rape you anyway?
Well I wouldn’t have gotten myself raped in the first place!
I forgive them. The friends. We were all young and dumb. But the parents? Fucking assholes.
That school psychologist though. She was great. She told me I could tell her what happened, in as much or as little detail as possible. So I did. She believed every word.
And now we call her “Mom”.
Maybe we needed to go through that to find her. Perhaps that was our fate.
Idk. Feeling lots of mixed emotions and just wanted to share.