* Possible Trigger Warning ⚠
My mother was at my desk today, when I got back to work after my lunch break.
I wasn’t expecting her, she hadn’t called me to say she was coming into town, which would’ve been fine…
Except she had someone with her.
Her best friend.
A woman I used to consider my second mom.
Who is also the mother of the boy, now man, who molested me when I was 16.
You – have no idea – what happens inside, when you’re confronted unexpectedly by one of the people who traumatized you so badly as a teenager.
Yes, she traumatized me.
By forcing me to confront her son immediately, as in within minutes of the attack, by not listening to me, by not believing me, by forcing me to listen to her speak about her son time after time over the years, trying to show me PHOTOS of him! Fuck!
And yet, I’m not allowed to say anything about it. I’m not allowed to bring it up, to say NO, when my mother does these things.
I loved this woman as another mother, & still care about her, because she’s my mom’s best friend.
But – they both hurt me, so much, 32 years ago, and they have continued to scrape open the wounds over the years, callously, because they refuse to acknowledge the damage that was originally done, and the damage they’re doing now.
I’ve got PTSD from the original experience, not just the molestation, but the way it was mishandled by his parents, and by my own.
No one wanted to believe me.
Everyone wanted to think I was either simply “having a nightmare” and being overly teen dramatic, or just flat-out lying.
There were times I wanted to fucking kill myself, because everyone called me a liar, and the inside of my head was so dark and hopeless.
There was a whole summer where I basically was driving myself off a metaphorical cliff, because I didn’t think my life was worth anything.
My parents thought I was on drugs.
Ha. I’ve never taken anything that wasn’t prescribed to me or over-the-counter, and I’ve never taken more than the prescribed dosages.
But what was the use of telling them the real problem, when they wouldn’t hear me? When – if I tried to talk to them, they shut me down, refused to hear it, and walked away?
There’s been so much in the news and on social media lately about why victims of abuse don’t report.
This is mine.
Because – when I told the truth at 16, I was called a liar by the people I trusted to keep me safe, so why would I trust anyone else to help me?
Maybe, just maybe, this is why I have so many issues with asking for help in any way, shape of form, from anyone, about anything?
Because when it really, really mattered…
I was left out in the cold – alone and hurting and vulnerable.
I made it through the rest of the afternoon at work.
Goddess only knows how.
I’m good at stuffing my feelings down.
But I cried all the way home.