"It's getting hard to breathe
Darkness in my head frightens me
I don't need this anymore
I've tied myself down to the floor
I need you to sing!
Sing for me my love
Sing the right from wrong
Here inside my mind
Truth is hard to find..."
-Sing For Me, Tarja

T

The letter T is my upper left arm again. It really is a mess there. From the top, sections one and two are both endless circles (told you there was a lot of those). Section three is backwards love or love going the wrong direction or misplaced love. Section four is a bad spiral going nowhere.

A

A is again skin, this time my upper right arm. From left to right, section one means nothing. Section two is twisting and turning but ultimately going nowhere. It also kind of looks like a vagina, but I'm going to leave that part alone. Section three is fragments of a whole. Section four is a jagged endless circles. There are a lot of endless circles, just to warn you.

K

So for a while at work I've been doodling with the letters of my name. Partway through I decided to make them mean something, something about me. First is K. The letter's design is a representation of skin (all the letters are). This particular one is my upper left arm. The first and second segments mean nothing. The third one stands for endless circles, which is what my life feels like. The third is an illusion of height or depth. Both are true in their own way.

It is just when I think I've locked all the shattered pieces of my heart away that another pops up to stab fresh pain into my soul. A look here, a word there, a small gesture of love that I used to be able to give...or receive. In the end it isn't the big things that hurt the most. It's all the little things, the ways I never knew they had touched my life until they no longer do.
And I don't know where to take my life from here. Up until I met him I didn't really have much of a purpose in my life. I wanted to graduate college and then...I had no plans, no goals, no nothing. And then I met him and suddenly my life had meaning! As I try to cut all the little bits of him out of my heart and lock them away, I wonder what I will be left with. I remember the person I was before I met him, before his love changed me in so many ways. That person is both too far away to reach and too close for comfort. One word defines her, a word familiar to this blog...darkness. And I don't want that again. And so I am reaching out for anchors, for stability, for familiarity, and I find myself reaching to the past far too often. Because those things existed in the past...but the person for whom they existed no longer exists. And I fear, and desire, and fear, that one of those things my searching hand will grasp once more is the blade. Because I remember who I was with a blade in my hand. The blood fed my mask, but yet, who I was inside was broken, and though I am by no means whole, I know that taking up a blade would only build an illusion of strength, and send me back into that darkness farther than before.
I have reached out for old friends, though I know that they were not the best friends for me, as I was not a good friend for them. Can a new relationship be built that is true friendship, that builds us both up? Time will tell. I have reached out for old counsel, though I knew it would be less than useless for me now. Still, sometimes an ear to listen is all that is truly needed. I am reaching forward, too, but in this my lovers' words have more than hit their mark. Lovers' words and old friends' as well. "In a multitude of counselors there is wisdom," the proverb says, and though it is Scripture that does not mean it is false. When people I deeply respect and love, people to whom I have shown the deepest parts of myself, seem to reach the same conclusions, I cannot help but give their words some weight.
And what have their words taught me? That I take and do not give. That I am broken. That I do not really know how to love. That loving me causes them much pain and no joy. That I am selfish. And their actions have taught me that I am unlovable, that I am fit only to be cast aside. I am the damsel in distress the white knight could not rescue and left behind in search of less broken maidens.
And so I'm reaching forward, but I realize I am nothing, I have nothing to give to anyone, friend or lover, that I might find. I would give my heart, but...I know now that that is not remotely enough.

They try to salve their own consciences, they hold out empty hopes. "You can find someone else," they say. "This is a fresh start for you." No. He taught me to trust. He taught me to open my heart. And now they are reminding me why I never trusted, and what it feels like to be betrayed. Now they remind me why I had walls and masks and kept my heart tight shut. Do they think I will calmly go out and give my heart away now? Two years I've spent learning how to trust, and in a few weeks they've wasted it all.
Because I trusted him. I trusted him unreservedly. I gave him the most, the only precious thing I owned...my heart. My love. And perhaps it wasn't much, perhaps it was hardly anything but it was all I had. It was everything I had, everything I am, and I gave it to him. I held nothing back. But it wasn't enough. I am not enough. And now that they've convinced me of this, they expect me to just find someone else? It took me eight years to find someone to open the doors to my heart last time, and that was an entirely different hurt. The one person in all the world that I loved unconditionally, unreservedly, forever...took the heart that I placed into his safekeeping and threw it away. And then he stomped all over it, saying he still loved me, that I would find someone else, that this would be a fresh start for me. A fresh start for what? For me to realize that I can trust nobody? For me to build fresh new walls about my heart? For me to realize that love, like all else, ends? For me to realize that maybe it isn't better "to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all"? Perhaps they are right. Maybe it is a fresh start...just not the one they mean.

So listen to me, now. I've learned a lot the last few weeks. I've learned never to give my heart away. I've learned never to let love in to the innermost parts of my heart ever again, for if they are never warmed by its presence, neither will they be shattered by its departure. I've learned to trust neither love nor kindness. And if love is offered to me, I will never reject it, but it is unlikely that I will ever fully trust it either. This is what you have taught me, my Loves, Lovers, Beloveds...that I am only good enough to love when there is nobody else around. You both loved me once, until you had each other. And while a small, sad smile touches my lips at what a fine matchmaker I am, I realize I should have known better. i should have known that I am enough to love only when there is no one else to compare me to. Now I know. And given what you have taught me...how could I ever love again? I could not trust that I was actually loved, that I would not be cast aside the moment someone better came along. Relationships are not built without trust, and you have stolen that from me.
This is what you have done to me, O my Loves. You have made much of my faults, but tell me...what are my sins compared to yours?

Fettered Freedom

With each tear unshed
And each cry smothered
I place another brick in the wall
Around my heart

I am my own captor
And my own salvation
My walls my own prison
And my own fortification

Deep, Dark, Broken

Deep words, dark words,
Broken words, they drift
Hither and yon through
The corners of my heart

Deep corners, dark corners,
Broken corners, are filled
With the sighs of sorrow
The tears of my heart

Deep tears, dark tears,
Broken tears, they flood
The never-ending void
The silence of my heart

Deep silence, dark silence,
Broken silence, is lost
Amidst the cacophony
The musics of my heart

Deep musics, dark musics,
Broken musics, they sing
An empty, formless song
In memory of my heart

It feels like silence, like the end of all things. Yet there cannot be silence, for while I still breathe there will always be words. And yet again they are silent words, too rarely spoken aloud. They flow from my fingers, not my lips. Does anyone hear my silent words? Do their eyes listen for the anguish written there? I know they see them, but are they listening?
It is silence then, and perhaps then it is the end. It could be a beginning as well...but I dare not hope for that. The things I hope for have a habit of coming true...and disappearing. It is crueler, I think, than never coming true at all. My deepest hope, my dearest dream, my only wish, was to be loved. And so it came to pass that I loved and was loved. But now...the void, having once been filled, feels all the more desolate for being emptied once more.

I am Alive.

Today is an anniversary. It isn't really a happy or exciting anniversary. Although it is, in some ways. It just isn't one that people would ever really want to celebrate with me. It's a personal anniversary, a time when I usually engage in some pretty intense introspection.
You can look at it two different ways, if you like. The first way is the more depressing way, and honestly the way I usually look at it. Three years ago today I tried to kill myself. Every year I look back and wonder and analyze and try to figure out why, and if I really wanted to die, and if I should have done this or that differently. I understand why most people don't want to celebrate this day with me (not that I've ever really asked). "Hi, wanna help me celebrate the day I almost killed myself?" "No, no, not really so much, no."
But there is another way to look at it, and this is the way I am struggling to see it this year. Three years ago today I tried to kill myself...and I didn't die. Three years ago today...I lived. This...this is something to celebrate. I am alive! And given what my life has been, before and after that day, and especially right now, that is something exciting. That is something extraordinary. I am alive. But no one really seems that interested in celebrating this with me, either. In fact, most people seem to think that I should forget about this day altogether.
Speaking of people, there are two people that I always think about a lot on this anniversary. One carries the honor of being one of the few people I have ever hated, though I think I do not hate him anymore. Certainly I cannot hate him on this day. Bradley Menne saved my life by calling the police on me. I can imagine how hard it is to do that; I myself have been in a position of talking to a friend and wondering if they are truly suicidal...and if I should call the police on them, and live with them being saved and hating me if I was right...or hating me for the false alarm if I was wrong. In the end, I've always done nothing. So I can imagine a little of what he went through. The other person is Officer Mike Hoyt of the Watertown Police Department. Officer Hoyt saved my life by sending me to hell...I mean, by sending me to Mendota. I know it wasn't an easy decision for him, either. And I thank them both for doing what they did. I thank them both for my life.
And now, I am going to celebrate being alive. I will celebrate alone, but it will be a celebration nonetheless.

Happy anniversary, Life.

Today has just been one of those days. I've been getting steadily more depressed as the time goes by but today has just been a haze of sadness. And then I tend to get angry at the littlest things when I'm depressed, which makes me feel guilty, which makes me more depressed...it's a cycle that never stops spiraling down.

Hyanda Ar' Agar

It has been a long time since i blogged here. But right now no other place is the right home for my words. Now indeed i feel the darkness everpressing. Now indeed i find myself trapped again on a downward spiral with no way and increasingly no desire to escape.

Hyanda ar' agar, i once called this blog. Few cared what it meant. Fewer asked. But one does not stop having favorite things when one sinks into depression (though perhaps the enjoyment of those things dims), and when i sought a name for my writings, i chose one that said much about me, i thought: Tolkien's Elvish for the language, "Blade and Blood" for the words.

It is Blade and Blood that i long for once more. It is that release, that feeling, that fierce second of joy that i crave, that i need. And how or why should i deny myself?

Excuses, Excuses

I feel like I've dropped a big bomb shell on my blog readers and then walked away. Sorry about that. I've been busy. We're preparing to move shortly, and I've been busy packing and stuff. Or more honestly, I ought to have been busy doing that but I've really been busy getting distracted by various things. The result is that I haven't done much packing and I haven't done any blogging. Sorry.
I'll try to get something up soonish, because I know how much you all look forward to reading my posts. </sarcasm> Peace out.

Lies: The Biggest Mask

Before I take off this mask, I'd like to point out a few things. I grew up Baptist. Honestly that is probably all that is needed to emphasize what a huge deal removing this mask is. But there is more. I am married to a wonderful man that I am still madly, spectacularly in love with. We have an adorable son. I wouldn't give either of them up for the world.
And now you are wondering, what do those things have to do with a mask I am wearing? I was a Baptist forever (it seems), I've been married for over two years, and I've been a mother for nearly that long. What recent mask could have anything to do with that? Well, I will tell you. Slowly. And with backstory.
I didn't exactly have a normal adolescence. At the age when most girls were discovering that boys were kind of cute, I had already been having direct contact with male genitalia for years. Indeed, it was during that time of early adolescence that I vowed I would never date or get married. So when my peers were talking about boys or makeup or dating I had zero interest. Occasionally I would find my eyes caught by a naked woman or too-tight clothing, but I always marked it down as being over-sensitive to sexual things as a result of being abused (though I did not, then or for many years, call it abuse). Being Baptist, of course, tends to heighten that sensitivity - bare shoulders can be as risque as cleavage for a normal person or ankles for a Muslim.
Much later, in college, when I finally found a counselor I trusted, that assumption was reinforced. I struggled with porn (etc) because I had become "sexualized" at too young an age. Eventually my then-fiance and I got kicked out of Maranatha because we couldn't keep our hands off of each other. Between then and when we got married over a year later, we had sex nearly every time we were together. In fact, our son was born just over six months after our marriage. It was pretty obvious that we both greatly enjoyed sex.
Except that we didn't. Or to be more accurate, I didn't. I enjoyed the intimacy of it. I enjoyed making my beloved happy, hearing the catch of his breath when I did something especially pleasurable. I enjoyed being pleasured, sometimes. But as time passed I became less and less involved in the act of lovemaking, more and more passive, more and more just waiting for it to be over. At first I put it down to memories of abuse, and to be sure those memories did pop up and ruin many an intimate moment. But I put those memories behind me and still I did not enjoy sex with my husband. Then I thought that perhaps this was just the way things turned out; after all, it was pretty commonly taught growing up that girls just weren't that interested in sex. And of course a lot of guys tend to joke about how hard it is to get their wives to have sex with them. But I knew that wasn't really that accurate for me at least because I was still incredibly horny all the time. I still visited porn/erotica sites almost daily. It wasn't sex itself that I wasn't interested in, it was sex with my husband for some reason.
I began toying with the idea of bisexuality. I knew of course by then that being gay or straight wasn't a choice, although I thought maybe it was sometimes. I thought of having sex with a woman and the idea was not repulsive to me. On the contrary, I found the idea quite arousing. Not being one to hide things from my husband, I talked to him about it. (I also had a blog post up about it briefly. I took it down pending further thought.) A few days later he sent me an email that has changed our lives completely.
It wasn't a very  long email, just a few words and a link. The link was to an article by a truly sweet lady ( I emailed her a few days later) about her journey of sexual discovery. Her story was eerily similar to my own. She had married her husband several years ago, enjoying for a time a thriving sex life. They even had one child as we do, a boy. Eventually, after working through massive amounts of depressions (sound familiar) and other issues, she became less and less thrilled about sex with her husband. Long story short, she came to the realization that she was not bisexual, as she'd identified herself for years, but lesbian. I couldn't ignore the similarities in our stories, not after all the other thinking I'd been doing. They were too striking, from our opinions on penises (fun to play with on our husbands but overall pretty meh, could do without) to our thoughts on sperm (yucky yucky yucky bleh).
Perhaps I should have realized it sooner. But then, our minds have an impressive ability to lie to us, as we've discussed already. But here is the big moment. I'm about to take off this mask I've been wearing only a few months and yet my whole life...
I am gay.

This is the final part, Part Four, of the series "Lies."

Lies: My Lies

I have told a lot of lies. I have lied to strangers, loved ones, enemies, and myself. I am a very good liar. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? It is hard to say. I have survived when I might have died. But I have scars (in and out) that I did not need to gain.
For many years I told myself I was guilty of being abused. I told myself I had not been abused, that it had not been violent so it must have been consensual. These were lies, and I should have known better, but I was willing, for whatever reason, to believe that I was a horrible pervert. I believed that for some reason I deserved to be abused.
For many years I lied to everyone around me. I made a persona of a perfect little Baptist girl, one who participated in ministry extensively, who counseled her peers, who was strong and confident in her faith. My persona won Christian character awards, She was held up as a standard of Christian excellence. She never doubted, never struggled with her salvation, never spent the night in tears of agony. But she was a mask, nothing more. The real me was nearly her opposite. I was a Christian, to be sure, but I was by no means as confident or assured or good in that Christianity as outward Threnody let on. I struggled with depression. I had no real friends, no one I could even think of confiding in. By turns I hated and adored my God; by turns I served him and turned my back on him. Yet outwardly, my persona was a friendly, perfect, somewhat introverted Christian girl.
When I went to college I made a new mask, but I wore it just as well as the last one. College Threnody was no longer introverted; she had realized introverts are very lonely. So she became a bubbly person. She became the joker, the class clown, the prankster, always good for a laugh. And college Threnody gathered to herself friends. For the first time she was part of a group of friends, and that felt spectacular. Except...college Threnody was just as much a mask as high school Threnody, and the friends that college Threnody had gathered were friends with a lie, with someone who didn't exist. Meanwhile, I was still lonely, I still had no one to confide in. But who could I trust? And who would trust me? Confiding in someone was essentially the same as admitting I had been lying to everyone for a very long time. I tried counseling, but as I was unable or unwilling to ever completely drop the masks I wore, it didn't really go anywhere. I never lied to a counselor (save once) overtly, yet they did not see beyond the mask of passive lies I always wore. Sometime in there I began accumulating scars. College Threnody of course gave no sign of these; she could sit and joke and laugh and hold punching wars with her friends and never let on that I had been bleeding minutes before. If she wore boots and long sleeves long past what would have been normal, well, no one remarked on it or found it strange.
I talk much of masks, for that is how I have always referred to the myriad lies I told and acted. I am proud of my masks; they held up to the scrutiny of many people for many years. Of course that is not hard to do; people see what they wish to see. I need only set their minds on the track I wish them to take and their own preconceived ideas do most of the work. A few people saw through my masks, or at least parts of them. And yet, given a glimpse of the troubled, hurting soul inside, it was still easy to weave a new mask of their discovered truth and new lies. People do not know what to do with other people's pain, and so if given a chance, they are more than willing to ignore or discount that pain.
I fear I have drifted off track a little. I apologize. The point is that I am very familiar with lies and lying. Nowadays I try to do less of it, but sometimes I still must, both for my own sake and the sake of those I love. Even now I am wearing a mask. I have told very few people what is is. It is a fairly recent mask, in some ways. In others, it is as old as I am. Thankfully I will not be wearing it much longer. For all its brevity, it is probably the biggest mask I have ever worn. Deciding to take it off is perhaps the hardest thing I have ever done. That is saying something, as those of you who know even a little of my life should know. What is it? I will tell you soon.

This is Part Three of the series "Lies." Part Four, "The Biggest Mask," can be found here.

Lies: Big Lies

Everyone tells lies; we've established this. White lies, we call them, the little lies that we tell each other that make society run smoothly. But there are other, bigger lies. Some of them are good, some of them are bad. We tell them not to easy our way, but to manipulate the way the world around us operates.
Institutions like the Baptist college I went to tell lies to both their students and their supporters. They seek to present an appearance of holiness and conformity and will tolerate nothing that might tarnish that appearance, or "testimony" as they like to call it. This would be an example of a bad big lie, not necessarily because of the lie itself but because of the lengths they will go to in order to protect the lie.
Politicians lie. It has become so prevalent that we expect our government officials to lie to us. A "campaign promise" is nothing more than a lie. Yet not only do we expect these lies, we demand them. A politician who told only the truth would never be elected, because we demand to hear what we want to hear, even when we know we are only being placated. Of course we would prefer to hear the truth, or so we say...but we too are lying, if only to ourselves.
Speaking of lying to ourselves, we often tell huge lies to ourselves, damaging our own lives and selves much more than any external influence could. And it doesn't even make any sense, half the time. We tell ourselves we are fat or ugly or stupid or clumsy or untalented...or we tell ourselves that we are skinny or beautiful or brilliant or graceful or artistic. Of course these things are not always lies, but sometimes they are. Often, too, we are merely repeating the lies that we believed when someone else told them to us. But why do we continue to lie to ourselves? Why do we seek to convince ourselves that we are one thing when we are truly another? Why do we believes ourselves so inherently invaluable that we must be something other than what we are?
Religions lie. Whether you call yourself Christian or Buddhist or Hindu or Muslim or anything else, your religion has lied. Does that make your actual beliefs false? No, of course not. But religion, as an organized or semi-organized body of humans, is possibly one of the worst propagators of lies ever to exist. Religion's lies have been both good and bad. To some, they have granted peace and contentment in this life; others, they have sent forcibly out of this life altogether. Whichever, good or bad, I think we can all agree that religion's lies have had a tremendous impact on the lives of billions of people throughout history.
The point here is that lies, like all other words, have consequences. It is cause and effect, and you cannot always know exactly what the effect will be.

This is Part Two of the series "Lies." Part Three, "My Lies," can be found here.

Lies: Small Lies

We all lie. The reasons are many and varied, but we have all lied and continue to do so daily. I am not saying it is a bad thing, nor am I saying it is a good thing. But it is something we all do.
Now I would guess some of you don't believe me right now. Some of you probably think of yourselves as honest people. I dare say, however, that even you lie, and lie frequently. Have you ever said "I'm fine" when you weren't? I think that is the biggest and most frequent lie people tell. I know it is for me. Have you ever found yourself rushing around the house cleaning frantically before a guest arrives? I know that seems a little weird in this list but why do you do that? In general it is because you want your guest to think of you as a neat, clean person...even though in reality you're not. Have you ever given an insincere compliment? Have you ever told someone you're too busy to do something with or for them even when you have absolutely nothing planned? Online, have you ever said "afk" or "brb" when you aren't actually going anywhere or have no intention of coming back, you just don't feel like talking anymore? I am sure you have done one or more of these things, just as I have. We are all liars.
Are these bad things to say or do? I think it depends. Society or culture or maybe just human nature punishes us for telling the truth in many of those cases. Most people really couldn't care less how you're actually doing when they ask (a form of lying in itself), and telling them the truth only drives them away. Everyone knows that nobody keeps a clean house all the time, yet we make character judgments if we visit a messy house. Insincere compliments are in general your own fault, as you aren't punished for not giving them. However, you are sometimes rewarded if you do. The last two essentially go together. We would like to tell the truth sometimes in those cases...but we can't, not without causing pain or offense to the person we are interacting with (or trying not to interact with).
So essentially, you see, we are all liars. We all lie. Even without pressure from society in certain ways, we would still be liars, I think. It is part of our nature. We all want to be accepted by those around us, and we all do our best to fit in. Invariably that means telling at least a few lies.

This is Part One of the series "Lies." Part Two, "Big Lies," can be found here.

A Few Thoughts On Depression

Depression is a devious and cunning master. It sneaks up and overtakes you without warning. Having emotions is normal, usually caused by some normal occurrence of life. So when you feel sad one day, you start trying to figure out why you're sad. By the time you realize there is no reason, it's too late, depression already has you in a death grip.

It teaches you that of all people in the world, it is yourself you can trust the least. There is not a thought process nor an emotion depression does not sink its shadowy claws into. Nothing is sacred, nothing is exempt. You can depend on nothing your brain tells you.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live without depression. I find it impossible to imagine. I have lived with this for a decade. There have been brief periods of respite, true, but somehow I've always known it would return again.

I wonder if I would be a better mother if not for this depression. 'Tis why I wanted to wait...it is difficult enough trying to take care of myself. Taking care of my son forces me past my limits over and over. It drains me completely and gives me no time to recharge before the next round.

Depression is master and lord whether it currently has you in its dark depths or not. For you spend the days of freedom dreading the return of those chains of shadow. Or if not, you spend those too-brief days or hours trying to pick up the pieces of the things you let slip from your weakened grasp as the darkness tormented you. There is never enough time to feel free, to feel truly, unreservedly happy. Or perhaps that is merely what the depression wants you to think.

Depression is the father of lies. It will tell you that your life is over. It will convince you that you are a curse to your loved ones, not a blessing. It whispers that you are alone - unwanted and unloved. And you will believe it. No matter how forewarned you are, no matter how deeply you know the truth, some part of you still listens to and believe that maybe, just maybe, it is right. For depression does not make up outrageous claims to control your mind, no...it takes all your hidden fears and doubts and magnifies them so they become more believable than the truth. After all, you already half believed them, so what chance do you have against the darkness now?

Cherish, Accept

Cherish sunlight
Though it lasteth
But a little time

Accept darkness
Though thou fearest
That which it imparts

Cherish friendship
Give all your heart
Hold thou nothing back

Accept betrayal
Though it pain thee
Learn thou from thy grief

I Survive

I am a survivor.

A little over a year ago I stopped making a secret of that fact. I stopped adhering to the law of "we will never speak of this again" laid down by my parents a decade ago. I published my story, on Facebook, and on two of my blogs. It did not go well. Two of my brothers have just this month started talking to each other again. The one who abused me does his best to convince everyone that I over-exaggerated and that I was at the age of 9 essentially a slut...based on the fact that I'd been abused twice already. My parents still blame me for the fact that my eldest brother will no longer speak to them.

I have spent the last year blaming myself for the problems within my family. I have spent the last year feeling guilt that I ought not be feeling. Although I suppose realistically I spent the last decade doing those two things. I talked to my mother over this weekend; she reiterated for the millionth time that the fact that they did not know what to do and so I ought not blame them for how they treated me during that decade. I accepted that excuse for a while, but it no longer holds weight. You see, my parents know people. My dad was a Baptist pastor for many years; even now I cannot visit a Baptist church without running into a mutual acquaintance. There were many people they could have asked if they did not know what to do, but they refused to.

I am not responsible for the fact that my eldest brother took what I told his wife and twisted it into an offense against his family. I am not responsible for the the fact that he does not talk to my parents nor allow them to see their grandchildren. I am not responsible for the fact that he and another brother did not talk for a year. I am not responsible for being abused when I was four, or when I was seven, or when I was nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

Abuse is horrible in and of itself. It causes intense mental and emotional issues that, even if discovered and dealt with early can still take years to fully overcome. It does not especially matter how often the abuse occurred, or how long, or how "consensual" it was, or if it was violent or not. All of these things of course contribute to future problems in their own way, but abuse can be a one-time, five-minute, non-violent occurrence and still cause immense trouble in the life of its victim. I say this because the one who abused me the longest (four years) does not see himself as an abuser. He was never violent, he never forced me to do anything, indeed he even stopped (for a while) several times when I asked him to. We did not even "have sex," so far as the strictest definition (vaginal penetration) goes. Does that mean that I was not abused? Does it mean I ought not carry emotional or mental scars to this day? Does it mean that, as my parents and the counselor I "confessed" to believed, I bore equal guilt for something I never asked for or desired? No.

It is hard for parents to know what to do when one of their children is abused. I understand that. It is even harder when the abuser is within the same family and indeed only a few years older than the victim. But as I said already, they had resources. They had people they could have turned to for help, if they had so desired. They certainly had more opportunity to seek help than I did at the tender age of twelve. Instead, not knowing what to do, and not willing to sacrifice their precious testimony in order to seek help, they banned the subject altogether. They thought if nobody mentioned it, it would simply go away. Everything would be as if it never happened. Except for the fact that even in their minds it never went away. They could not refrain from mentioning it every time I did something wrong. "We know we can't trust you because of what you did before" was a phrase I heard more than once. For you see they blamed me. Even more, I think, than they blamed the one who abused me. I think it was because I was the one who told, who turned their lovely little Baptist home upside down. That is merely conjecture, of course; I do not know for certain. However, it is true that they believed I had sinned just as much as he had. Browsing through old emails the other day, I found one from my father counseling me that the problems with my thought life I'd been having (which are now easily explainable by the fact that I was 17 and horny, thank you very much) were a consequence of my sin. This attitude of my parents, that I was not a victim but equally complicit in my own abuse, had its own consequences. One of them was the fact that I believed them. I believed that I was dirty, broken, worthless. I believed that many of the problems in my family were my fault (for many of them started after I broke the silence the first time). I believed that as a young girl I had been guilty of sexual perversions that are not even talked about in polite society. It was not until nearly eight years had gone by that I realized, for the first time, that it wasn't my fault.

I realized then that I was a survivor, a survivor of sexual abuse. And I was angry. I still am, though the anger confines itself to moments like these when I feel I must say something. It is not constant. But for years I was abused, and then for more years I was taught that that abuse was sin that I was guilty for. As of this moment more than half the years of my life I spent believing those lies, lies many of those who ought to be closest to me still believe. But I have survived. Though I still feel the pain of those years, and still carry scars, emotional, physical, and mental...I still survive.