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Yes, #MeToo

A Story No Girl Should Tell

By something wildePublished 6 years ago 6 min read
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Will I give out names in this story? No. Nor will I allude to any places or milestones that could be traced back to its characters. That’s not why I’m choosing to write this. I’m not a victim, I’m not a survivor. I’m just a writer, and this is just another one of my stories.

I was thirteen. And thirteen was a terrible time to have a mind like I did. My thoughts wandered aimlessly, I got attached to people all too easily. I was a girl, in love with being loved, and the people I knew then, were the worst to know in my state of mind.

I gave everything to everyone. My all was invested in others, a habit that took until the age of eighteen to break. I was constantly finding ways to please other people, just so they’d say that they loved me. I did what I was told, and I smiled like I didn’t see the burning embers beneath my feet, like I couldn’t feel the ground tumbling out from beneath me.

I refused all drinks, all drugs, all substances that messed with my state of mind. And while I watched the people around me do the exact opposite, I still strived to convince myself that I was one of them, that I belonged.

I’ve always been fond of shadows, and back then was no different. I still love the idea of slipping away unnoticed, disappearing without being seen. I was a wallflower in a world my conscience knew I didn’t belong in. And yet my desperation to be included clouded my judgement.

I followed my best friend like she owned me. I allowed her to define my entirety. I was who she said I could be. And that was the happiest version of me.

She was “cool.” She knew the cutest boys with the worst rap sheets who were willing to give their heavily divided attention to the two of us. Most of them, were the sons of her mother’s many, many boyfriends.

I pretended to be confident. I acted as if a thirteen-year-old actually knew how to capture people's attention. I went house to house with her, sitting on couches thick with the smell of smoke or the laps of boys five or six years older than me. I played the part, until I became the role.

They told me I was pretty, and that I was “so much more fun to talk to than the girls their age.” I was makeup free, stress free, and drama free. And apparently, that was everything they ever wanted.

One day, when I had managed to slip away from my other friends, I saw her up the street of a long, concrete hill. She waved at me and smiled, calling me to her with open arms. She led me into her mother’s boyfriend’s house, where she swapped my muddy sneakers for chunky black flip flops and my bright pink shirt for a gray camisole with the thinnest straps she could find.

She left my face makeup free, the way they liked it, and painted my lips with cheap lip gloss. We left and continued to walk up the steep, concrete hill. I can still hear the cicadas in the trees and see the pink sky fading into a deep, sunset red. We walked and walked until we reached the top of the hill. There was an old brick house, with a bright green door covered with a signature glass screen.

She swung the screen open and pushed through the door like she owned the place. I remember the way my heart squeezed in jealousy, wishing I could have the confidence and beauty that she did.

She marched in and kissed one of the boys on the lips, and proceeded to settle herself into the couch while they smoked. I took my usual position, sitting on the couch far enough not to be noticed, but close enough to feel like I belonged.

They emptied their usual bottles and filled their regular ashtrays. And usually, this was around the time that we would leave. But something shifted in the air, and somehow, four of us ended up upstairs.

My friend was fine with everything, she gave the boy she was with what he wanted without him even having to ask once. I, on the other hand, did the best I could to slip into the darkest shadows of the room, but this time I wasn’t hidden well enough.

I remember questions, persuasions, confusion, fear, panic, and defeat. I kicked, I scratched, I rolled and twisted, I tried my hardest to scream. All the while my friend, she laughed, and she called me all kinds of names.

By some grace of a God I know so well, I plunged the heel of my foot into all of the right places, and he fell away from me in his drunken, angry manner. I ran and locked myself in a bathroom downstairs. All the while, I could hear them laughing, calling me things I still can’t seem to forget.

I remember looking in the mirror, my cami was torn, my braids were sticky with lipgloss, and there was the smallest cut beneath my inner elbow. I said nothing, just stared at the girl with whom I shared a heartbeat, but one I no longer recognized. I walked out of that house, back to her mother’s boyfriends’. I changed my clothes, wiped my face clean, and went back to join my other friends. And I didn’t speak of that night until I was seventeen.

That girl, the one I knew when I was younger. I went back to her years later and asked her how she felt that night. Why she never came after me, and why she chose to act like nothing happened when we returned to our normal lives. She told me how she felt in the simplest words, “Nothing actually happened to you.”

My first instinct was to get angry with her. But I quickly decided that she did have a point. I had to accept that in the darkest sense, I was lucky. But something about that night still brings me the slightest pain. Her explanation was enough for me, but I don’t think that it is enough for all of the girls in this world that have experienced something similar.

If you were attacked by anyone, young or old, rich or poor, male or female, something did happen to you. If you were abused in any way shape or form, or neglected all the same, something did happen to you.

And I know that becoming a part of the statistic, and being public about your private pain is terrifying, but there is something, someplace out here in a wild world, for you to be safe.

Speak freely about your darkness. Don’t let your prison be your safe haven. So when people ask you, “You too?”, you won’t be afraid to answer, “Yes, me too.”

feminism
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About the Creator

something wilde

wilde is the child ♡

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