I never would have thought that a mother could sexually abuse her child. But it happened to me.
I was six years old. I put my shoes on and told my mommy that I was going down the street to visit my grandma. But she told me to wait, that there was something important that she needed to show me before I left. So I listened to her and stayed where I was, poised to walk out the door the minute she was finished showing me whatever it was that she wanted to show me.
She came into the living room from the kitchen and walked over to me. She squatted down to my level and said once again that she had something important to show me; that it would make me feel good. Then she reached under my skirt and pulled my flower-print panties down. Her hands were …show more content…
I was never allowed to play alone with anyone, and never allowed near children younger than myself. I got dirty looks whenever I played with other kids. I cried every night and began shying away from my friends and playmates. I avoided younger children and started shutting myself up in my room. Once, when I was changing my shorts, my foster mother walked in on me. She accused me of masturbating and made me start spending my evenings in the living room. What was more, she had told her entire family about how I was "a dirty child molestor." So I had to sit there on the couch under her family 's dark glares. It stung each time someone pulled away a toddler who had crawled to the general vicinity of where I was sitting. I felt like trash, and all I wanted was to go …show more content…
But they had taken their toll. I had no friends at school and my younger sister and I were hopelessly estranged. I was bullied for being a loner, and a group of girls jumped me when I was thirteen. They said that I was a freak of nature; that I was worthless and ugly and that was why I had no friends.
I started cutting myself with shaving razors and popped pills. There was no rhyme or reason to it, I just took whatever I could get my hands on. No one noticed. My arms and legs were covered in scars, but I didn 't care. I liked the way it felt when the blood trickeled down my skin. It was my punishment for not being better. When I was fifteen I overdosed. After I woke up, I was vomitting for hours. After my stomach was empty, only stomach acid came up. I had a throbbing headache and I just wanted to die. I had no idea why I hadn 't. Why did I deserve to live?
I met Glenn a few months after I 'd hit rock bottom. I 'd let my previous boyfriends treat me like a slut, and that was what I expected from him too. When he didn 't try to pressure me to sext or do other things with him, I was confused. I didn 't understand why he 'd asked me out if he didn 't want sex. He kissed me and held my hand. He took me out on dates and treated me like a lady. Everytime he did something nice for me I was speechless. This must be a mistake, I thought. I didn 't deserve this. Why did someone like me deserve
I was six years old. I put my shoes on and told my mommy that I was going down the street to visit my grandma. But she told me to wait, that there was something important that she needed to show me before I left. So I listened to her and stayed where I was, poised to walk out the door the minute she was finished showing me whatever it was that she wanted to show me.
She came into the living room from the kitchen and walked over to me. She squatted down to my level and said once again that she had something important to show me; that it would make me feel good. Then she reached under my skirt and pulled my flower-print panties down. Her hands were …show more content…
I was never allowed to play alone with anyone, and never allowed near children younger than myself. I got dirty looks whenever I played with other kids. I cried every night and began shying away from my friends and playmates. I avoided younger children and started shutting myself up in my room. Once, when I was changing my shorts, my foster mother walked in on me. She accused me of masturbating and made me start spending my evenings in the living room. What was more, she had told her entire family about how I was "a dirty child molestor." So I had to sit there on the couch under her family 's dark glares. It stung each time someone pulled away a toddler who had crawled to the general vicinity of where I was sitting. I felt like trash, and all I wanted was to go …show more content…
But they had taken their toll. I had no friends at school and my younger sister and I were hopelessly estranged. I was bullied for being a loner, and a group of girls jumped me when I was thirteen. They said that I was a freak of nature; that I was worthless and ugly and that was why I had no friends.
I started cutting myself with shaving razors and popped pills. There was no rhyme or reason to it, I just took whatever I could get my hands on. No one noticed. My arms and legs were covered in scars, but I didn 't care. I liked the way it felt when the blood trickeled down my skin. It was my punishment for not being better. When I was fifteen I overdosed. After I woke up, I was vomitting for hours. After my stomach was empty, only stomach acid came up. I had a throbbing headache and I just wanted to die. I had no idea why I hadn 't. Why did I deserve to live?
I met Glenn a few months after I 'd hit rock bottom. I 'd let my previous boyfriends treat me like a slut, and that was what I expected from him too. When he didn 't try to pressure me to sext or do other things with him, I was confused. I didn 't understand why he 'd asked me out if he didn 't want sex. He kissed me and held my hand. He took me out on dates and treated me like a lady. Everytime he did something nice for me I was speechless. This must be a mistake, I thought. I didn 't deserve this. Why did someone like me deserve