M
Morgan866912
I have never written or spoke of what happened to me, this will be my first. The closest I have gotten has been in stories I've written in which I have let my past trauma seep into my writing, yet I have never shown anyone for fear of judgement.
When I was fifteen years old, my parents were divorced. On the weekends I would go to my dads house. This particular weekend it was New Years Eve and I was excited for the celebrations; finally I was going to be treated as an adult and allowed to party in the living room with the adults and babysitting children in the back room. I was even more happy to find that a friend of my dads who was quite handsome would be attending. He liked to flirt with me. At the time I was too immature to see how wrong this was. I was allowed to drink and I drank to impress that man. The last I remember was about one in the morning, when he made a lewd remark to me in front of my dad who was too wasted to react.
I woke up the next morning in the same dress as the night before. My thighs ached horribly and upon using the toilet, I horrified, discovered what I could only describe as seamen coming out. I didn't know what to think, but that I was crazy. After thirty minutes in the toilet, I slowly entered the living room once more. It was only him, my dads friend. I look bad now and I still can't comprehend what his exact words to me were or where he got to courage to utter them, but I know he told me what he did in a joking manner. All I could say was, "It's fine," as if not bothered, but I promptly ran outside and vomited. I do not remember the rest of the day.
A few months went by and I knew I wasn't pregnant. By this point my mental state was questionable to say the least. I screamed at my mother, hoping that she would see something was wrong and force me to tell her because I could not do it on my own, but she equated my erratic behavior to usual high school drama. I was wreckless trying to get her attention; I threw things, I cried all the time, and she once even came home early to me screaming as loud as I could, alone in my room. I cannot see now how she didn't see I needed help.
I never told anyone about my pregnancy. I hid it through the nine months. I felt I couldn't tell anyone. I didn't want to be questioned or go over the details of the night it happened. I didn't want to be called a liar and I felt that is just what would happen. When it came time to have my child I went to the hospital and had them call my mom. I thank God now that my baby was perfectly healthy. I kept my daughter and my silence.
I feel so hurt that my mother never questioned my behavior or why I kept such a heavy secret. Or why to this day I mention no father and snap at the mere mention of that time of my life. She speaks to my brothers of it, she and most of my family; they all think I probably just slept around a bit and can't name a father for certain. After years of them talking behind my back and whispering their conversations about it while I'm still in earshot, I want them to know. And I want it to hurt them.
Tonight my mom made a comment about a girl in my hometown who shot herself. She said, "Oh please, at highschool age what is so horrible that that's nessesary? Did Brad not ask you to the prom?" I have never wanted to tell her what happened to me more that just that moment. I want to scream that she was such a horrible mother that she could not see how her child struggled and that worse, she did see and didn't care. I want to scream that she has only cared for herself and that while she was out speed dating her daughter was at home trying, for the forth time that day, to throw herself down the stairs in hopes of self aborting. And that all the while she had no idea, because her paying attention to her children didn't fit into her agenda of being fresh on the dating scene. I want her to know that in order for myself to be a good mother I think of her and I do the opposite. I want her to know that I too thought of ending it all, if only I had the guts. I want to tell her that that night never leaves my mind and that I'm constantly imagining what might have happened since I cannot remember. I want her to know of the countless nights that I cry alone in bed, for I cannot sleep from the memories that haunt me. I want her to see how my years of silence and sadness has slowly turned into rage as time has moved on. I want her to see how something she cared so little to notice, has equated in years of self loathing and mental illness that has ripped my life to shreds.
I hate her more than anyone and as I pack my bags to live in another country with my soon to be husband and my daughter, I want her to know what happened to me and the hurt I went through for years, as a child, alone.
When I was fifteen years old, my parents were divorced. On the weekends I would go to my dads house. This particular weekend it was New Years Eve and I was excited for the celebrations; finally I was going to be treated as an adult and allowed to party in the living room with the adults and babysitting children in the back room. I was even more happy to find that a friend of my dads who was quite handsome would be attending. He liked to flirt with me. At the time I was too immature to see how wrong this was. I was allowed to drink and I drank to impress that man. The last I remember was about one in the morning, when he made a lewd remark to me in front of my dad who was too wasted to react.
I woke up the next morning in the same dress as the night before. My thighs ached horribly and upon using the toilet, I horrified, discovered what I could only describe as seamen coming out. I didn't know what to think, but that I was crazy. After thirty minutes in the toilet, I slowly entered the living room once more. It was only him, my dads friend. I look bad now and I still can't comprehend what his exact words to me were or where he got to courage to utter them, but I know he told me what he did in a joking manner. All I could say was, "It's fine," as if not bothered, but I promptly ran outside and vomited. I do not remember the rest of the day.
A few months went by and I knew I wasn't pregnant. By this point my mental state was questionable to say the least. I screamed at my mother, hoping that she would see something was wrong and force me to tell her because I could not do it on my own, but she equated my erratic behavior to usual high school drama. I was wreckless trying to get her attention; I threw things, I cried all the time, and she once even came home early to me screaming as loud as I could, alone in my room. I cannot see now how she didn't see I needed help.
I never told anyone about my pregnancy. I hid it through the nine months. I felt I couldn't tell anyone. I didn't want to be questioned or go over the details of the night it happened. I didn't want to be called a liar and I felt that is just what would happen. When it came time to have my child I went to the hospital and had them call my mom. I thank God now that my baby was perfectly healthy. I kept my daughter and my silence.
I feel so hurt that my mother never questioned my behavior or why I kept such a heavy secret. Or why to this day I mention no father and snap at the mere mention of that time of my life. She speaks to my brothers of it, she and most of my family; they all think I probably just slept around a bit and can't name a father for certain. After years of them talking behind my back and whispering their conversations about it while I'm still in earshot, I want them to know. And I want it to hurt them.
Tonight my mom made a comment about a girl in my hometown who shot herself. She said, "Oh please, at highschool age what is so horrible that that's nessesary? Did Brad not ask you to the prom?" I have never wanted to tell her what happened to me more that just that moment. I want to scream that she was such a horrible mother that she could not see how her child struggled and that worse, she did see and didn't care. I want to scream that she has only cared for herself and that while she was out speed dating her daughter was at home trying, for the forth time that day, to throw herself down the stairs in hopes of self aborting. And that all the while she had no idea, because her paying attention to her children didn't fit into her agenda of being fresh on the dating scene. I want her to know that in order for myself to be a good mother I think of her and I do the opposite. I want her to know that I too thought of ending it all, if only I had the guts. I want to tell her that that night never leaves my mind and that I'm constantly imagining what might have happened since I cannot remember. I want her to know of the countless nights that I cry alone in bed, for I cannot sleep from the memories that haunt me. I want her to see how my years of silence and sadness has slowly turned into rage as time has moved on. I want her to see how something she cared so little to notice, has equated in years of self loathing and mental illness that has ripped my life to shreds.
I hate her more than anyone and as I pack my bags to live in another country with my soon to be husband and my daughter, I want her to know what happened to me and the hurt I went through for years, as a child, alone.
