Today's post is a little different--
Below is a piece I wrote in an attempt to let go of some deep feelings of hurt. As an individual who has gone through a decent amount as of late, I would like to share some of my personal experiences through my creative writing passions- hence this short creative non-fiction essay I wrote in a collection of essays entitled 'Healing'. If you or a loved one has delt with a similar experience, just know we at UNDIAGNOSED see and support you. Please find your way to the 'Contact' page to find any numbers of importance if in need of help.
Reading Advisory Ahead- childhood trauma/potential SA
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You were nine when you sat in the half-furnished basement at your daycare. Watching old black and white shows that were simple and nice. Three girls laying on pillows two times their size, that janky laptop propped up and on blast during nap time, but you were old enough to stay up while the younger kids dozed during the midday lull.
You didn’t know it then, but this was the first time of many– those two girls, one older and one younger. Sitting next to you, hands drifting closer, into that personal space we were all so aware of, something sacred and meant to be your own.
However, it wasn’t quite your own when they were around, reaching for your skin near the hem of your pants, up and under your hand-me-down shift. All of this happening while Eddie Munster made a joke to his wife that was normal, but they laughed, and you knew this wasn’t all that normal.
You think about it from time to time but convince yourself it wasn’t real. That time in the upstairs bedroom where we weren’t being observed, when they sat atop you like it was their everyday, like forcing their hands down your pants while you sat silently was all part of the game.
You didn’t say anything, even if it made you feel gross– you just didn’t know how to say no. They were your friends, so it mustn’t have been real? Like some false dream you conjured up, but why does it bother you when it creaks out of the box it’s been repressed in for all these years?
Why was this not the only time another person did this to you? Why did you let them play house, forcing you to be the ‘man’ to their ‘wife’, as they placed their hands on you all over again. We were kids, but you knew.
Maybe I don’t like to think back too much, because when I did it was passed off as childish wonder, but I knew it didn’t feel right. I knew I had to say no, maybe I should have tried, but I knew I didn’t have the courage to do so.
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