“I’ve been home for a while now, trying to make sense of it all. What I do know….I don’t belong here.” ‘Tommy Yates’, Home of the Brave, 2006
I don’t know how old I was when I was first molested. I honestly can’t remember. All I know is that I wasn’t in double digits yet. I hadn’t even been able to become a teenager and be weirded out about my body and what it was doing naturally.
I don’t want or desire to get into the who because some of them I don’t clearly remember either. Yes, some of them. Because there were multiple repeat offenders. I know though, that the boys/men who did it know who they are. The ones who wouldn’t allow me to sleep at night. They know. The ones who told me that if I told I’D get in trouble. They know. What’s ironic to me is that now, the ones I know of all have families. Children. Boys and girls. Wives and girlfriends. Though I’m not around them to see, I’d like to know how they relate to those people. Those people that could be taken advantage of and told to be quiet. Those ones who could be scarred internally and only be able to keep going. I wonder what would happen if one of their innocents got their innocence taken from them in the dark.
*sigh* I’m not going down that road again. That’s the spiral that keeps me angry. I don’t belong here. Trapped behind this wall of what happened.
This is not where I was meant to reside (even though my tent has been pretty securely latched down for a while now).