Me, too… Those words sound so foreign coming out of my mouth. It’s like I’m watching someone else’s life play out; someone else’s days spent in the swimming pool with her childhood best friend… And him. Even now, I feel like I’m watching someone else write this; someone else is sitting on my recliner, drinking my latte. But, it IS me. It’s time to write, to use my voice, to speak my truth. MY TRUTH. It’s time to stand up for my Inner Child - the 11 and 12 year old me in that swimming pool making memories with her best friend. However, we rarely had the pool to ourselves. It didn’t matter how many times I squirmed or kicked or tried to block him with my hands… his fingertips still got inside. Those freakishly long fingers. His hand went down my bathing suit bottom SO MANY TIMES and always really fast, in and out, because it was only a matter of seconds until he got thrown out of the pool for “bothering” me. For “bothering” me?! HE FUCKING MOLESTED ME!! Over and over and over. And that giggle… Beginning the year I finally got to wear a two-piece bathing suit. Pulling it down from the back was “easier” and he usually got away with that. But, his big hand coming in from the front…touched the whole area. So many times his fingertips grazed the outer edge of my vagina and more often than I can count, his fingers went up inside me. I kept telling myself “It wasn’t rape, it’s no big deal.” Plus, it was so long ago. He was only “bothering” me. Even though we are the same age, I was still 11 years old and these assaults were my introduction to anything sexual. All these flashbacks have a weird detached, distant feeling to them. In one moment I went from being a typical middle school girl loving life in the pool with her best friend, to struggling in a weird fog filled with confusion and an unwanted foreign sensation taking over my body… And then, POOF! As suddenly as I left my body, all those weird, uncomfortable, embarrassing sensations suddenly and completely evaporated into thin air at the sound of my friend’s voice getting her brother kicked out of the pool. Stopping those assaults was a team effort. I’m so grateful she always yelled, even though neither of us fully understood what exactly was happening. My subconscious mind immediately buried each experience so deep in the furthest reaches of my brain, locked them away, as if they never happened. Oh, then it was “explained away” because he was “diagnosed with bi-polar and has blackouts where he doesn’t remember what he did.” Those blackouts always seemed perfectly timed. (I’ve been told recently that bi-polar doesn’t quite work that way.) Then in high school he grabbed a girl’s ass and she pressed charges. But, he was unfairly sentenced by a highly corrupt judge…which also made him a victim. And he was. But she was a victim, too. And me. I was a victim, too. I just didn’t realize it at the time. This whole concept is still hard for me to grasp. I was molested. I was sexually assaulted. Yes, it was by someone my own age…puberty…etc. But I made it clear I was uncomfortable and he made it clear with that fucking giggle that he knew he at least was getting away with something…even if he did (kind of) get in trouble for it, just by getting kicked out of the pool. This stayed buried for about 24-25 years until one day, my mom casually mentioned that he was back home in his parents’ pool. It was like I was saying the sky was blue, it came out so nonchalantly. “Oh yeah, his hand was down my bathing suit SO many times…” I didn’t even realize what I was saying until my mom lost all color in her face. We quickly changed the subject, clearly both a little shocked. Apparently, your subconscious has no concept of time passing. Now that I can see the full picture for what it was…my body is reliving the powerlessness, confusion and panic I felt in those moments. The only way through this anxiety is to use my voice. To take back my power. To take back control. I’ll never be in that situation again. He’ll never touch me again. He’ll never molest me again. He’ll never assault me again. He’ll never make me a victim again. I’M NOT A VICTIM WHEN I CAN TAKE BACK CONTROL. WHEN I SPEAK UP. WHEN I USE MY WORDS TO KICK HARDER THAN MY LEGS EVER COULD UNDERWATER. FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!! This is all valid. Everything I’m feeling. Sure as hell explains - now - why my whole body would tense up every time I saw him for the past 25 years. Really couldn’t figure that one out, especially as we became adults. He may be a firefighter who risked his life to save another. He may be a great husband and father. Hell, he could be the best person on the face of the earth; which is why I won’t call him out by name. Their family means too much to me. But none of that changes the fact his hand went where it never should have gone too many times to count when I was too young to speak up, when I didn’t have the vocabulary I do now. A few tears rolled down my cheek as I closed my eyes just now and pictured my Inner Child rising up out of the water and punching him in the face so hard he never comes too close ever ever again. YOU GO GIRL!!! I’m sorry you were alone with this for so long. But I’m here now. We’re fighting back. We are winning. I got you, girl. I promise. Let’s go do something creative. Let’s leave this place behind. We WERE victims. It’ll take a second to work our way through this, but WE ARE SURVIVORS. And we KNOW that. Because that’s who we are. That’s who I am. I am a survivor. We all are.

The Human Spirit

I created this mixed media collage with my own writing.

Art has a way of healing the spirit and bringing peace and tranquility to the soul. Art Therapy worked wonders for me. Highly recommend it. No artistic ability needed to experience the healing powers of creating.