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- #5,401
littleoc
MyPTSD Pro
This post is just for exposure because I can’t stop thinking about it, probably because I’m (practically involuntarily) trying to avoid it. Ads on the radio keep mentioning human trafficking, which is... good, I guess. They say to look out for it and then they don’t explain. So I’m sure that they aren’t doing anything, honestly. Most people don’t know what it looks like. Hell, I can barely tell you what it looks like. That’s why I’m writing this post. To say:
I am a survivor of human trafficking. I am a survivor of human trafficking. I am a survivor of human trafficking.
Analysis of emotions:
Typing that was hard. The third time I let predictive text do it for me. I looked away.
I immediately felt afraid. Afraid I was lying, afraid I was being misleading. Afraid I had the definition of human trafficking wrong somehow — I have the obsessive urge to go Googling to find out. I am choosing not to look because I think that’s the OCD. Or something.
I feel fear that saying that I am a survivor will get me killed. That he will track me down and silence me. Just casually show up in my yard again. Like he has done. I always have a little voice in my head claiming he can track me.
I’m afraid that someone who had it worse will immediately call me out.
I’m worried I am not a real person, but a toy. And my friends will discover this and disappear. Or worse.
Is there anything positive?
Yes. I called myself a survivor, not a victim. And that part feels right.
Have my friends disappeared? No.
Am I a survivor of human trafficking?
I can’t get myself to be affirmative. Saying I was is proof that it really happened.
And I feel it couldn’t have. The world would have ended. Some superhero would have saved me. An adult, the police officer at my school who I spoke to about him, would have done something.
I forgot I spoke to the police about this again. Damn, that’s really sad. My dad had the biggest crush on those cops. Gross.
Worst of all, my mom doesn’t know. I am not sure how else to word this. She knows I got... assaulted. I told her against my will, when I was not ready, by hospital staff, and I’ve never been able to talk to her properly since. I gained the ability to speak in school, and... yeah.
My mom was sympathetic at first. Still is but if she brings it up I quickly change the subject or even leave the room. It makes me so, so, SO angry to hear her be sympathetic.
Anyway, she yelled at me once, when I was a teenager, for not telling her sooner. I told her I had tried to tell my dad, not knowing he was the cause of it, despite SEEING it, and she got mad. She said, “What, so you told everyone but me?” I never responded. I was thinking, “Well, you were dying.” Nowadays, I just get angry.
Especially when I remember the pedophile standing in my yard. I locked the door and hid in my room. My mom came in and asked me, “You aren’t just saying it was him?” I found out later she meant to ask, “You aren’t covering for your father?” Too late, though. Damage done.
So I just never told her. The police report, had it not mysteriously left the face of the Earth, would be incorrect.
I never want to clarify it. I do not want my mom’s sympathy. It would make me angrier than anything for her to be sad for me. She doesn’t GET to be sad for me. Not unless shes on her own and I do dont have to deal with it. I’m not here to reassure anyone that they’re good parents.
And, deep down, this feels like a fallacy. If I did get “kidnapped” or “trafficked” or “raped” or “abused,” then my mom must have heard about it. She must have done something to prevent it. Right?
So, in conclusion. I can say I am a survivor, and that’s positive. It’s getting me somewhere.
The phrase “trafficked” is loaded in such an awful way. That is proof that no definition I look up on the Internet will ever, EVER satisfy this feeling that I’m lying. My brain I should looking for evidence. I need to address that if I want to be able to say “I am a survivor of human trafficking” without instantly needing to run off.
I am a survivor of human trafficking. I am a survivor of human trafficking. I am a survivor of human trafficking.
Analysis of emotions:
Typing that was hard. The third time I let predictive text do it for me. I looked away.
I immediately felt afraid. Afraid I was lying, afraid I was being misleading. Afraid I had the definition of human trafficking wrong somehow — I have the obsessive urge to go Googling to find out. I am choosing not to look because I think that’s the OCD. Or something.
I feel fear that saying that I am a survivor will get me killed. That he will track me down and silence me. Just casually show up in my yard again. Like he has done. I always have a little voice in my head claiming he can track me.
I’m afraid that someone who had it worse will immediately call me out.
I’m worried I am not a real person, but a toy. And my friends will discover this and disappear. Or worse.
Is there anything positive?
Yes. I called myself a survivor, not a victim. And that part feels right.
Have my friends disappeared? No.
Am I a survivor of human trafficking?
I can’t get myself to be affirmative. Saying I was is proof that it really happened.
And I feel it couldn’t have. The world would have ended. Some superhero would have saved me. An adult, the police officer at my school who I spoke to about him, would have done something.
I forgot I spoke to the police about this again. Damn, that’s really sad. My dad had the biggest crush on those cops. Gross.
Worst of all, my mom doesn’t know. I am not sure how else to word this. She knows I got... assaulted. I told her against my will, when I was not ready, by hospital staff, and I’ve never been able to talk to her properly since. I gained the ability to speak in school, and... yeah.
My mom was sympathetic at first. Still is but if she brings it up I quickly change the subject or even leave the room. It makes me so, so, SO angry to hear her be sympathetic.
Anyway, she yelled at me once, when I was a teenager, for not telling her sooner. I told her I had tried to tell my dad, not knowing he was the cause of it, despite SEEING it, and she got mad. She said, “What, so you told everyone but me?” I never responded. I was thinking, “Well, you were dying.” Nowadays, I just get angry.
Especially when I remember the pedophile standing in my yard. I locked the door and hid in my room. My mom came in and asked me, “You aren’t just saying it was him?” I found out later she meant to ask, “You aren’t covering for your father?” Too late, though. Damage done.
So I just never told her. The police report, had it not mysteriously left the face of the Earth, would be incorrect.
I never want to clarify it. I do not want my mom’s sympathy. It would make me angrier than anything for her to be sad for me. She doesn’t GET to be sad for me. Not unless shes on her own and I do dont have to deal with it. I’m not here to reassure anyone that they’re good parents.
And, deep down, this feels like a fallacy. If I did get “kidnapped” or “trafficked” or “raped” or “abused,” then my mom must have heard about it. She must have done something to prevent it. Right?
So, in conclusion. I can say I am a survivor, and that’s positive. It’s getting me somewhere.
The phrase “trafficked” is loaded in such an awful way. That is proof that no definition I look up on the Internet will ever, EVER satisfy this feeling that I’m lying. My brain I should looking for evidence. I need to address that if I want to be able to say “I am a survivor of human trafficking” without instantly needing to run off.