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Death of a Live Teenage Girl
I wake up to the sound of the alarm going off. Even though my brother is just a foot away from the alarm, he doesn’t hear a thing. I’m in bed cuddling with my blue star pillow and my old torn blanket; it’s my only source of protection from the outside world I have. I can hear the radio playing that I turned on before I went to sleep last night, so it was the only thing on my mind. Thinking about the night before is the only thing running through my mind that makes any sense. I continue to hear the alarm making a beeping sound, but can’t understand the meaning of an alarm going off, though deep down in my self-conscience I know it’s to wake my brother up. I don’t really know what’s going on in my head at this moment. There are thoughts flying everywhere, and they won’t stop so I can put them all together. It seems like there are only little bits and pieces that I can remember, and I can’t find the missing pieces, even though I know where the pieces go. I can remember the whole event, but something won’t let me put the pieces together. I can’t believe just yet, my mind refusing to give me the opportunity. I’m behind a locked door and can’t get to my problem. Finally, my brother turns off the alarm with one stroke of his hand. I now have evidence of my own that it wasn’t a dream, but if I want to be sane, if I ever wanted to be normal again, if there is such a thing, I have to make it a dream.
I’ve had only three people in my life that have died that I was very close to. But there has only been one person that I was so close to that I cried the day she died. I knew every little secret, dream, mistake, and every rollercoaster ride she had. When she wanted to give up, I was there. When her parents would tell her she was good for nothing, I was there. That girl had a special place in my heart because that girl was me. I lost control of everything around me. I didn’t know what “normal” was. How was I supposed to act? Was I supposed to know how to laugh because I didn’t know how? I lost myself in a couple of hours. I was so lost that I didn’t know how to live or even feel. I knew there was something that made me feel lost; my mind wouldn’t let me figure it out. My sanity and my dignity were stolen from me. But most of all, my childhood was stolen. I was a shamed of who I was. No one knew that I was lost, I was lost emotionally.
I knew what had happen, but I didn’t know how to cope in this type of situation even though I had been through it before. In the past, I pushed everything to the side, so I didn’t have to think about it. Here I was again, trying to push it away, but couldn’t. I had to deal with it, and there was no pushing it to the side.
June 5, 2005 is a day that I will never forget. I was three months away from my 16th birthday. It was the day my brother’s hands no longer were clean. He was no longer my Bubba, nor my best friend. He was just someone that shared the same father with me. June 5, 2005 was the day my brother molested me.
It had started off as a typical day. My father and I were making dinner. We had made a big pot of spaghetti. We would always make enough to put in the freezer to last for a few months. Steve came home after he had been gone for a few hours. I could tell he was on drugs because I knew he had gone to a drug dealer’s house. He was edgy. He had to go to the bathroom every fifteen minutes. He was different.
After dinner, dad and Steve put the leftover spaghetti into little individual containers and put them in the freezer. I hugged everyone, said goodnight, and headed to bed.
I've always had a weird way of sleeping, so when I got into my room, I put my P.J.'s on and laid down on both Steve's bed and my bed, half of my body on his bed, half on my bed. I found myself comfortable even though there was a foot in between the beds.
About 10:30 pm, Steve came in and grabbed his P.J.'s and went to the bathroom to change. When he came in, I told him I couldn’t sleep. So, he grabbed his pillow and laid beside my head, and we talked.
I don't remember what we were talking about because he started to massage my head. I became very quiet, because it felt so good. I also became sleepy. When he started to massage my shoulders, it felt even better. But when he started to rub my neck and started going down my shirt, I knew something was wrong. He didn’t stop there; he touched every inch of my body humanly possible. He was so close to my face that I could smell his breath. I felt his mighty yet soft gentle hands against my chest and my face, as if I was breakable. His heart beat and his breathing was inconsistent with each other. I was wearing my S.T.A.R.S. T-shirt and my Taz and Tweedy Bird boxers. I couldn't except that my "bubba" would touch me sexually. I told myself that this was a dream and every thing will be okay when I wake in the morning, but knowing that it wouldn’t be. I kept my eyes closed because he thought I was asleep, and I wanted it to be kept that way, so I didn’t have to face reality. I was shaking so much that I literally felt like I was having a mild seizer. I tried to control it, but I could only control so much.
One thing that I want people to know is that you can try and try to understand a victim of sexual abuse, but unless you have been in the victims exact shoes. You know nothing about how they feel. You will never know why they changed, you will never know why they keep the secrets they do. Sexual abuse changes you, sometimes for the better because sometimes you can finally get out of the house of abuse, and sometimes for the worse because it changes who you are, and who you think you are you’re not anymore .Abuse happens. It doesn’t matter who you are, what you do for a living, where you live, when you get up in the morning, or why you do the silly things you do.
I remember when I was younger I used to tell myself that if I was ever abused I would say something. But when it happened I completely changed my mind. Excuses came running through my mind: “What if they don’t believe me?” or “What if it’s a dream?” I was scared completely out of my mind. It took all my strength to call three people the next day, but I was always scared with what would happen if my parents knew I told.
I’ve lived in a tough household until I was 16 years old. My dad abused me physically and verbally, and so did my stepmom, and then my brother molested me. When I was five years old I was sexually abused until I was nine by another family member. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me because to tell you the truth I don’t like it when people do. You couldn’t stop any of it. If you were there and could have stopped it, and didn’t, then I would want you to say, “I’m sorry”. But you weren’t there.
When someone is abused they try different techniques to forget the abuse. I forced myself to make it a dream, so I didn’t have to face reality. I got to the point of not knowing if it was my imagination or if it was real. Then, I always forced myself to remember that it wasn’t a dream. You always know in the back of your mind that it wasn’t a dream.
I want to say that I’m stronger than I was before I was molested. I now can stand on my own two feet and say, “No, this won’t happen,” and stick up for myself. I’m able to have my own opinion. I now voice my opinion to my friends instead of saying, “yes” to everything they agree on. But by the Grace of God I hope I will be even stronger than I am now!