I’m sorry about my intimacy issues. The fact that I can be touching you and smiling at all your jokes then somber and shy of any touching must get tiring. It is for me as well. I’m sorry I’m so edgy around you and men in general. Would you believe me if I said this all stemmed from being sexually assaulted?

Well, not all of it. I guess it all started when I was younger. Many men would “compliment” me, age 5 to now. I had gotten used to the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when a car drove by by age 8.  I had grown accustom to stalking at age 12. I skittered away from my older brothers’ friends, from my best friend’s siblings, my parents’ friends, so on and so forth.  I had gone through the involuntary groping, cat-calling, staring and messaging, but I thought that was normal. It didn’t hit me until my freshman year in high school that that wasn’t right. It wasn’t until then I had realized how sick to my stomach it could actually make me.

    I still remember it, being molested.
   It’s not how you’d think it is.

I remember him slowly edging the blanket off of my shoulder, past my waist, sliding off my ankles. I can remember waking up thinking “this isn’t real right? A prank, surely. Just. A. Prank.” I was paralyzed, cowering in my mind in fear. I was too afraid of retaliating because I was weak. What if he tried to hurt me? Or took it farther forcibly? I finally moved and he just left.

I made up so many excuses for what had happened that night. He was drunk. Maybe it wasn’t really him. Maybe I had imagined it. Maybe I was overreacting. I still do, sometimes. I pretended it had never happened while going to sleep with a baseball bat in my bed, “just in case”.

He didn’t stop there. He tried a few weeks later to record me taking a shower. I only noticed because the dumbass tried to do it by “accidentally leaving his phone” with his camera on. I had never felt so violated in my entire life. I still cannot find the words to describe the feeling it gives me just thinking about it. I can’t explain the terror and emptiness of it.

I’m still paranoid about taking showers. I can’t close my eyes for more than 5 seconds and I constantly check for hidden cameras. I lock the door as well. Going to sleep I keep my phone right next to my hand, and promise myself every night to scream if it ever happens again. I’m in another state and just the thought of him can make me cry.

I blamed myself for a while. Still do, deep inside. I cut off all of my hair because I thought it made me too pretty. I also cried after, wishing he couldn’t still control me the way he does. He controls me subconsciously, whether it’s me being uneasy when my male teachers talk to me and/or make eye contact, or me not being able to be physical in relationships.

What’s ironic is he has a beautiful, five year old daughter. I’ve heard him talk about what he would do to anyone that hurt her. It’s funny how I wasn’t anyone’s daughter. I wasn’t even a person in his eyes. His mind could make out a caring place for his daughter, but couldn’t give him the ability to treat me like a human being.

I’ve never told anyone. Well, no one besides you now. No one would think I’m telling the truth. Even I thought it’d never happen to me. Even if you did you wouldn’t understand. Unless you’ve been through it, you’d look at me as “Oh, she’s the molested girl.” I want to be seen for me, not what that bastard did to me.

One day he won’t control me anymore. One day I won’t feel sick about the vulnerability of going to bed with others around me. I won’t be afraid of bathing, or people's gazes. One day I may tell my mother and father what happened. Why I can’t visit part of my family.

One day I’ll be able to love you, pure and simple. Until then, please don’t hate me for my brokenness.