I want to tell you that this is a fairy tale story with fictional characters and fairy god mothers. I want to tell you that all this has a happy, neatly packaged ending. But I cannot. That would be an outright lie. That is the one thing that I will not do anymore.

I am writing this to prove to you that bad things happen to good people. Little people. Under four foot tall who will never be able to fully tell you how deep their pain runs. Or how their blood runs with fear, anger and the secrets that they will forever hold in their tiny hearts, that too soon take on too many burdens.

This is my story. I am telling it from my heart and I am speaking my secrets in the hope that this may touch you in a way that no other story has. This is the plea of a child who has won. Angry, scared, alone and most of all, a child. Without self-love, without self-appreciation, without a voice.

Someone needs to speak for them. I am almost an adult even though I was never really a child. Now is the time. before my child eyes are forever lost. It took me seven years to find them and slowly I can sense them becoming blind. Before my newfound childhood is lost, I am going to put it in your hearts. There, it will stir your soul and awaken your mind. And if all goes according to plan, it will inspire to reach out to a child who is waiting on you right now. Waiting for those four words that I heard that day when I was barely sixteen. "It's not your fault."

That was all I needed to hear, "It's not your fault. All of a sudden, this ten ton weight was lifted off my shoulders and I was free. Free to be the person that I was afraid to become. Free of the secret that ate me up for those horrible 10 years of my life. I didn't know what to do knowing that someone loved me even if they KNEW. They KNEW. I wasn't alone anymore and I was finally able to be myself. Myself for no one else. I was loved. That was all I needed.

I grew up in a middle class town in middle New York where every family had 2.5 kids and three cars in the driveway. My mother was a nursery school teacher and my father a salesman. I was never in need. I was never in want. I had everything that any child could ever want out of life. I had a dog, family vacations, barbecues and even my own room. There was nothing me and my older brother could have asked for that my parents would not have provided. I guess that is why it all started. We were always advanced for our age, me and my older brother of eighteen months.

My brother was a good kid. Sure, he sometimes spilled his milk or hit me, but it was never anything that any other normal sibling relationship does not see. He was athletic, intelligent and most of all, he protected me. He and my parents were my world. I looked to each of them for different things. To my mother for warmth and comforting, my father for security and encouragement, and to my brother for knowledge and protection. This was the little world that I was born into and I was happy. Until one day, my world came crashing down.

The crash hit before I even had time to blink. My kindergarten mind was filled with wonderment and curiosity. There was nothing in the world I feared and there was nothing that I could not do. I was perfect. I was immortal. I was loved. When my world tumbled to my feet, I was too confused to react, too scared to inquire and too ashamed to tell. This my secret. I'm no longer afraid of the monster who really was under my bed, and I know I finally do know all the answers. But most of all I'm no longer ashamed to tell my story. I will scream it from the top of the Grand Canyon and still hold my head high. Because at last I understand that I am perfect, I am immortal and most of all, I truly am loved.

Chapter 2: The Events

I do not remember the day or the time of year, but I remember that black chair. It was leather with a huge pull up foot rest. My tiny six year-old body swam in it's gigantic embrace. It was in the cellar of my family's tan raised ranch with the plaid couch. I was plopped in the chair while my brother sat on the couch. We were watching a movie that scared the shit right of me, but I had to watch to prove to my brother that I was not afraid of anything. So, as Jason stalked his victims, I sat on the chair and occasionally glanced behind me for the dreaded villain. Little did I know, he was right in front of me.

"Hey, what are they doing?" I ask as I watch the people on the screen squirming up and down on top of each other. They look like they are going to burst soon.

"They're havin' sex dah." I look over at him because he said, "the word." Kids aren't supposed to say that because it's dirty and is only for grown-ups. "Maybe I'll show you sometime." My heart is somewhere in my throat. I quickly change my glance to see the TV again. I don't think I like what they're doing. I'm really scared. I know that he didn't mean it though because that would be very bad. I let it slide, but I won't forget those words. Not until I'm a hundred and have no teeth.

That was the first time I ever thought about sex. I really did not even know what the term meant. I knew that what he had said was more a threat then anything else. But I was scared. It was the beginning of the rest of my life. The rest of the six years that I would spend inside myself. I never thought about that day again as I recall. I did not see the harm in what he had said. The word meant about as much to me as astronomical physics. I had heard of it, but was not quite sure what the whole thing entailed. I learned though, and I learned fast.

I do not remember the first time IT happened. I know though that I was scared by whatever whirlwind had destroyed my perfect little world. I still have nightmares about his cold touch and childish voice. My memory is jumbled with flashes and sensory cues. The first time I do recall is that day in his bed.

I'm lying on his red plaid bed sheet. He is behind me and talking about sex. His breath warms my neck and I'm nervous but also comforted. I'm so curious about this whole sex deal. What is all this taboo about? He tells me to pull down my pants and I lay on my back. Instant terror grips my insides.

"No. I don't wanna do that." He keeps turning me over and I barely struggle. I know that he would never hurt me. I love my brother.

"Just relax and do what I say. Now, take down your pants." I don't, but his breath smells of morning breath and I think my parents will wake up any minute and walk in. I struggle to keep up my verbal battle that would soon become a ritual. I lose. My pants are in a ball by my feet. His hands go up my shirt. They're cold. I begin to whimper in hopes of him stopping but he puts one hand over my mouth while the other goes down my pants. I don't feel any pain. I just feel that piercing coldness. He is watching my eyes. It seems that they are laughing at me. I don't understand what is going on.

That is the first time I can remember of the abuse. I know that it was in the beginning because later, the games got more advanced. I won some battles, not many though. I did not really understand what was happening to me. He said that it was my fault and if I told mom or dad we would go to jail because doing this is against the rules. To me, this seemed logical enough. He knew everything and he protected me. Now, I just did what he said and kept my mouth shut. I didn't really know any better. I wasn't hurt, just confused. That was how it was until about second grade.

Then, I began to catch on. I started to realize that this was not normal activity for two children of eight and ten. That was when the stakes got higher.

"Just put it in your mouth and suck." His dick is so close that I can smell him. I almost gag at the sight before me. His genitalia are directly in front of me. My head is spinning and I'm already against the wall. I close my eyes. When I open them, he is in my mouth, but it is my body only. I'm somewhere above him. I feel like I'm floating but that is not really a main concern. I can see him getting it deeper and closer to me. I just leave his penis there and then, I begin to cry. He laughs and pulls me down next to him. I'm back to my body and I like the way his arms feel against my shivering body. He is the only friend I have. The only one who knows. We must be in love because we are sharing something important. He smiles at me and reminds me not to tell. My face gets hot because I am ashamed for liking this. When he holds me, I feel so good inside. I can never tell anyone. They would think I was dirty and a bad girl. We would go to jail and so would mom. He puts his hands down my pants again but I don't really feel it anymore. It just doesn't feel like anything.

I felt alone. I had no one to confide in. I thought no one would believe me. So I went about life with a positive heir and hoped that no one would see the darkness that terrorized my soul. It ran deep, but I didn't even know what was happening. Just that I was afraid, alone and confused. I remember in third grade when my friend asked me what was wrong one day at school and I asked her if my brother scared her. She laughed and asked me why I would ask something like that. If only she knew.

Roll over I tell myself. Just do what he says and it'll all be over with. Where did I leave my spelling homework? What did I wear to school today? Who is Elvis again? Just think of somewhere better and soon I will be able to get dressed. The window is like a picture of what is just out of reach. Outside, cars are still going by. Life is still going on. Why is mine going in super slow motion right now? OK, just a few more seconds and I know it will be all over. Something hot is running down my leg. Oh God, please don't let me have wet my pants. No, he is breathing so heavy. I watch him get dressed in silence. There is nothing to say. The hot white liquid is dry. It feels like it is making my leg stretch it's skin. Like when I spilt soda on my leg with shorts on. Yeah, maybe it's just soda. Some how though, I don't think it is.

As I got older, I began to feel anger that was directed at no one. I had no outlet except for sports. I would simply go ballistic when that whistle sounded and the game was on. All the rage that was hidden behind my skin seeped through. I hated him. I hated my parents for allowing this to happen. I hated myself for never stopping it. I hated everyone and everything. On the outside I was an over energetic kid but on the inside I was a devastated child.

Please God, let me make this through this. Just one more time. My legs are open and we tossing so much I feel sicker then I usually do. I need to run away. I can't feel his piercing hands. My mind is going fuzzy. I think about my mom. Mom, why don't you love me? Why aren't you here right now watching me? Where is my Daddy? I think about the pain and it burns so bad. He grabs my cheeks and squeezes my lips together. I can feel my teeth being coated with blood. I will not cry. I promise this to myself. I will never cry for him. I will never look back. Just get away.

Oh, how I broke that promise.

Disney is only nine hours away and I can't wait to get there. My mom and dad are in the back of the blue station wagon chatting about something or other. I just woke up. Slowly, I feel myself fade back into that sweet slumber. "NO!" My mind screams with anger. Not now, everyone is too close. I feel the cold wet palm deep inside my pants searching my sixth grade essence. I want to yell. I want them to stop being so stupid and just look in the rear view mirror. My mind is whirling with thoughts. We will get caught. My parents will send me away. Oh god. What do I do?

As I lay there that day, I vowed never to be alone with him again. I vowed never to love my parents for not protecting me. And I vowed that I would be the only person I would depend on. I would never again allow this to happen. No matter how much he coerced me or how afraid of him I was, I would stop this myself. I knew that I could only trust myself. I was the only one who could stop this. That was the last time he ever touched me. One day, he just stopped and never looked back. I have never looked ahead.

Chapter 3: Dreams

I went through four more years of silence. Four more years of nightmares that would wake me in a cold sweat to sit alone in my room shaking with fear and anger. No one was there to tell me it was all right or coo me back to sleep. I was losing a battle. This battle waged within myself. It was a catch-22 all the way.

He looks out the window and doesn't see my parents. Again, they have left me alone with this monster. I protest until he gets so angry that he just rips off my underwear. I scream but have no voice. Again, I tell him I hear the garage door open. He rises, his hard penis erect from just being inside me and then he returns with a vengeance. I can almost hear my hymen ripping. Yet I am too young to even know what that is, so much as know it was ripped about 3 years ago. I am only eleven years-old, but I feel about a hundred. I turn over and pray for sleep. Anything for a release.

The dream comes and I don't even know I am dreaming. It is all so real. I am running from him, naked through the streets. I knock on my neighbor's door for help but she is not home. This is the scenario for all the houses. I keep running but I can not escape. My body is cold but my face is so warm. I think of just giving up. I am breathless and hopeless. Then I turn to face him and he takes me to the rock in the front of our house and rapes me. I watch from afar, outside my body as I am most of the time when I am not dreaming. Then I wake up.

As I sit here in the dark, I am too numb to cry. I will survive because I have to. I will be free one day. I will be able to let go of this pain and hurt. I sit here now at this computer and wonder why that day has never come. I'm still young.

As the years went by the abuse got a little more in depth and soon he was having intercourse with me. I did not really care at this point. I knew I could not survive if I let this get to me. I ignored the problem. I ignored the pain I felt at my brother's betrayal and at my parent's ignorance. When I was twelve, the abuse just stopped. I do not know why and I do not care enough to find out. All that matters is that it did and I was finally free of the abuse; yet I was no better off then before.

Now that the abuse had stopped, I wondered what I did wrong. I wondered if there was something wrong with me or if I had done something to make him stop. I wondered if it would ever happen again too. This last question was the one that gave me trouble. I would and sometimes still do stay up at night and listen to the floor boards creek above me as I wonder when he will strike next. I understand enough now to know that it will probably never occur again, but I may always wonder.

I began a pattern of staying up until I was certain he was asleep and even then I would stay awake and wait. Some nights I would lay awake until dawn and just let my mind wander off to a place that I cannot describe. It was almost like a trance but I was completely aware of where I was. I would try to tap my unconscious although I would not even learn that word until years later.

The dreams were one of the worst parts during my adolescence. I had the dreams when I was younger, but now they seemed so close; almost like the dream was chasing me and not him. They would wake me in a cold sweat at three in the morning when I had a big game the next day. The dreams would come regardless of the fearlessness I tried to attack them with. I began to understand that this was my way of dealing with the secret. I still was under the assumption that if I told, I would be placed into foster care and my family would be ripped apart, and our name smeared like runny ink on a glossy piece of poster board. I knew something had to be done, but I could not find the courage to take that step. I knew the resources still were not there.

The floor squeaks again. My stomach churns with anticipation. Is he there, waiting to strike again? My sixteen year-old mind is that of a seven year-old child. I cannot find sleep in this cursed night so maybe I will write something. This is what I have to say today… "I still think about this a lot you know? I wonder if he will ever come back and try to kill me. This secret is eating me up inside. I can't concentrate on anything. I don't want to trust anyone. Shit, I am so scared. The past comes back to haunt me with a vengeance. I am not afraid of death, but I am afraid of him knowing. What if he knew? I never told anyone, but I want to so bad. I need to tell someone so that maybe I can get on with my life. Who will help me? Sleep has still not come. I am alone here, and I am alone everywhere. I just need someone to love me and know. But I know that no one will. I hope he is proud of what he has done. He has killed me. I look fine on the outside, but on the inside I am being consumed by a monster I cannot control. I need a shorter leash, or maybe a dart to stun it. Will I ever control my fear. Fuck, I hate being afraid."

The fear was the driving force behind my life. It kept my mouth shut and my mind numb. I was so afraid of someone finding out. I was afraid to sleep over at my best friend's house because I was not sure if I talked in my sleep. On the same token, I was afraid to sleep in my house because of the danger he fronted. Eventually, the dreams came in spurts. Some weeks would go by without even one nightmare. Then, they would come almost every night until again, they would halt. Nothing could stop them, nothing could awaken me and most of all, nothing could reach me. I felt I was beyond reach. I thought that nothing could ever be done to save me. I was one of the untouchables. I was dirty and rotten, even in my dreams. That seemed so logical and to a point, it still does.

Chapter 4: Intervention

After a couple months, I went back and looked at my diary. That was when I wrote a letter to my coach and told her the whole story. I could not even find the guts to give it to her myself, so I left it on the windshield of her car. She read it I guess and the next day, she talked to me. I was too embarrassed to even remember what she said. I was so frightened that she would turn me in or think I was so horrible. She did not do that though. She was there for me even though I could not speak of what happened. The words did not come.

I could never talk about what I had been through. I still have trouble. The words sit in my mind and knock at my skull to come out, but they never do. It's like they are poorly pasted to my forehead and I can't unglue them although the are loose in some parts. I am so ashamed of what happened. Back then, I was even more ashamed. I thought that people could see through my facade that I had tried so hard to master. I would try to tell coach about it, but would just walk away in disgust of myself. I am not a shy person and to be so timid was humiliating for me. That was when it happened; the moment I decided to do something about my life.

I don't want to talk to her. I know she will make me, but I don't have to talk. I am going because I should, not because I want to. I have to respect her just that much. My stomach hurts so bad I think it might fall out or something. Her house is right in front of me know as I turn off the ignition of my car. Only a few steps till I get inside. God, help me get in there without killing myself first.

We went grocery shopping and the whole issue never came up. Maybe she knows I don't want to talk about it. Or maybe she just wants to warm me up before springing whatever she has in mind on me. OK, so now we're back at her house and I can tell she is thinking while I talk. Maybe if I can stay talking she won't say anything. Oh god, she is about to talk. I watch her mouth move and yet I can't believe what I am hearing. She is telling me I was abused. Shit, she said the word. I want to just crawl under the table and hide. She said it wasn't my fault. No one has ever said that to me. Whoa, maybe it isn't my fault. She still likes me. She wants to help me. Thank God for giving coach to me.

I was free. I had thousands of miles to go, but I was on my way. I had one person's go ahead to be myself without shame and guilt. I knew that I could talk to her even if I didn't want to right now. She understood. Maybe not the way I understand, but a little anyway. That was when everything changed. Little by little, I began to open up. Although the secret was always there, I was exposed. I knew where to run is the time ever came and I knew that eventually I would open up even more. It would just take some time and that was something I had a lot of. As the months went by, I began to close up again. The embarrassment of everything had finally hit me and again, I felt alone.

In desperation, I wrote a letter to a teen magazine to ask for advice. I sealed it in an envelop and hid it in a notebook on top of my radio. When my mom was cleaning my room, she found it. I was at basketball. I came home, and my world came crashing down for the second time.

Chapter 5: Going Home

Boy, I am so sweaty. I can't wait to get home and take a shower and just relax. Ah, the sweet smell of home. Where is everyone? Huh, well I guess I'll just go downstairs and shower and maybe then I will make some macaroni and cheese.

"Hey ma," I yell as I see my mother sitting on the floral couch in my room. The dust cloth is on the floor and she doesn't look up.

"Lisa…honey…what is this?" The letter I wrote extends from her left hand and all my brain keeps telling me is run. No I think. This is not happening.

"What the fuck? Ma that was my stuff. Mine. I hate you." As the words tumble out of my mouth my hands grab the plate that was on my desk. Before I can think I throw it against the wall and run up stairs. I can hear my mother calling me back down. The disbelief in her voice is so pungent.

My father stops me at the end of the kitchen leading to the door. "Don't you ever talk to her like that again! You little ungrateful, spoiled bitch." I duck under his arm while it swings at my face. My father has never hit me and I will not begin that tonight.

The tears come as soon as my hands shake my keys into the ignition. Just get to work and call Coach from there. The longest two hours of my life were unfolding before my eyes. I feel so powerless. I need her now. My brain is bleeding into my eyes and I can't see strait.

Finally, I am at the store. I find two quarters and dial her number. Coach, I plead to myself, please be home. The ringing numbs my ear until I hear the answering machine pick up. I have no one left. Again, I am alone. And then I called the woman who saved my life. I call my soccer coach and through a fit of heaving sobs, I blurt something out and she gives me directions to her house.

On the way to her sweet, perfect home, I cannot even cry. I have no tears left. I try to make a story up so that Coach will not find out. I know I need to buy time until Maguire gets home. Then I can live there. I cannot go home. As the house got closer, so did all the anger that I had been hiding. Little did I know, I had already found the savior who I wouldn't let save me.

As I look back now, I can remember thinking about just crashing my car into a tree, or even over a cliff. I was not prepared to deal with the repercussions of my parents knowing what I had done. I was terrified at what they might say. I knew in my heart that I needed to face this, but nothing could make me take that step.

Coach took one look at me and knew that something was up. She knew me better then most mothers know their own kids. She sits down next to me and I want to just cry in her arms. I won't do it. I don't need her to help me. When she keeps asking me what is wrong, I feel my face getting hotter and hotter. Before I know what I am doing, I tell her everything. About what was in the letter, about how I can handle this alone, about how I am going to do this by myself. She just looks at me and holds me and tells me everything is going to be ok.

I never forgot how safe I felt at the instant. I forgot all about going home. I forgot about how strong I was. I forgot about how much I just wanted to be alone. And I let myself remember. "I'll go in with you if you want me to." I look at my coach when she says that and I know she means it. I look back out the window and try to concentrate on how much I just want her to take me home with her.

"No coach, I have to do this by myself. It's my problem, not yours. Mine." As I say the words I know I should say, I wish I can take them back

Why do I have to live like this? Please I say to myself, just let me die. My mom opens the door as she sees the car pull up. Worry is stamped across her face and I simply figure that I am in trouble. She doesn't hug me or say anything as I walk in. I can feel the tension all around me mount. My father is on the couch and he tells me to sit down. I remember a lot of questions that I was not prepared to answer. Some were painful and some were enraging. They asked me if it was true. They asked me if I loved them. They asked me if there was intercourse. I will always remember the look on my father's face. I wouldn't be surprised is he cried himself to sleep the same way I did that night. My mom though, she was cold, distant. She told me it was normal and that even she did stuff like this. I could not make her understand; nor did I want to. I made myself be alone. I will never know why.

My hat is pulled over my eyes so they can't see my tears. I will beat this. I will. I don't need them. They keep asking me questions that I can't even begin to answer. I'M NOT READY FOR THIS. I CAN'T DO THIS. PLEASE. I have no where to run and everything to hide. I know that I will never be able to look my father in the eye again. I feel betrayed by her words. It's normal. Everyone does it. It's normal. Do you need help? We'll get it for you sweetie. All of a sudden I am the one who needs help. I am the one who needs to see a shrink. Fuck that I say to myself. I can only depend on me. Me. That is who I trust. No one will ever get close to me. No one will ever know who I really am. I need help.

The next few days were a whirl wind of emotions and realities I could not deal with. I drank a lot those days in the solitude of my room. I wrote about my fears and I wrote through a water fall of tears. I can not describe what I was feeling. I was confused and although I thought I needed to be alone, I knew that I needed someone to hold my hand. And for the first time in my life, I wanted someone to. I wanted someone to understand what I was and what I wanted to become. I wanted someone to make me feel like I could open up to them in ways that I never could before. Three times did I find that person, and then I lost them. But he came first.

Chapter 6: That Boy

I lost him to a fear that he could not control. Somewhere deep inside myself, I blame me for letting him go. I needed him and he was there. Maybe he needed me more then I could have imagined. Maybe he wasn't ready to let go the way that I was. Or maybe I just could never unbury that sunken treasure he had hidden so long ago when his own phantoms came.

"Do you trust me?" His brown eyes remain fixed on the screen as my mind races. Oh shit, what do I say? I need him. I have to trust this. I can feel it coming up through my belly and into my throat. I have to speak. Please don't leave me.

"Yeah, I trust you."

"Then tell me what it is that you hide so well."

I have no rebuttal to this. I don't know how he saw it. Maybe I let him. I let him. I wanted him to. "I was abused when I was little for six years." The words just come and I can't stop. My head is spinning and all I want is for him to hold me. When his arms reach out for me and do that exact thing, I want to cry. I try to whisper thank you but nothing comes. I have gone mute. His arms coil around me, squeezing out a little more poison than was there before. I have never trusted anyone like this. It feels good. I feel like dancing and yelling at the top of my lungs. Instead, I just let him hold me a little longer. Now I am free to love another man. I am 17 and afraid of love. I have found it. I have found my soul. In a few short months, the same boy who held me so tight, would disappear. I have never let him go, and his lesson is always there. I can be a woman with needs, with wants, and without regrets. He taught me in one embrace that I am lovable and I am healing in my own way. Every little step took me closer to the truth. I have not reached that calm yet, but he took me on my way. He changed me in ways that he could never imagine. I may forget making the prom court senior year, and living with a roommate who didn't shower, but I will never forget that one day in my cellar when I let go of my brothers heart.

He is now a man, and I, a woman. We keep in touch throughout sporadic intervals in our lives. He himself has matured into the man I knew he always could be and the man I always saw beneath the man he tried to portray. Every once in awhile, I find myself feeling like I need him. I need him just to hold me tonight, just to tell me I am going to be ok, just to listen one last time. He saved my life too, although he does not know it and maybe he never will. I am afraid to tell him. I have done some very stupid things that I deeply regret. He was my first love and more then that, he was the first person to give me an outlet to my anger. He comes and goes through my life but it seems that when I need him the most, he is there. Maturing with him is like walking on a beach at sunrise. The seagulls are egging us onto feed them, but we walk, hand in hand with our footprints staying behind. He has left footprints on my soul and nothing can ever make them disappear. The high tide will come everyday for us, but even when I walk that beach alone, I can still wiggle my small toes in his enormous footprint. They are always there.

Chapter 7: The Shrink

As time went by, so did my time with "The Shrink." Most of my friends knew I was seeing a therapist but most had the sense not to ask. I have never been so relieved in my whole life. I hated every minute I spent in that tiny cubicle of an office. I wonder what kind of thoughts she had of me. I did my six week program and ran like hell that last day. I never looked back.

She wants me to tell her about the abuse. Yeah right. Like she even cares. What the hell does she know. She sits there in her red velvet chair and acts like she knows how I feel. She pretends to sympathize with my problems. No, she can't even comprehend this guilt, fathom this loneliness, appreciate what I have done. I kept my family together for ten long years. That is more then she has ever done. Who is she to tell me to confront him. Doesn't she know fear? Has she never been so terrified that she could not speak? If she knew, she would know what it is like to find Satan here on Earth. Fuck her. I am fine. I can do it all by myself. If I confronted him, he would slit my throat so fast I wouldn't have time to be fear again. I have to just let it go. Talking only brings it back. I am fine. I saw therapy as just another chance for people to make me do something I did not want to do. I saw it as a defeat instead as a part of the healing process. I despised this woman who would tell me to talk while she scribbled down God only knows what on her perfect little paper. My mother was no better. I would come home from these agonizing visits and she would ask me if I was ok. I do not know what I expected from her because I did understand that she could never understand the depths of me. But I needed her to. I have no explanation for why I could not tell her how thick the pain was in my blood. I cannot tell you why I could never speak to her about these events. I just expected her to console. And in a way, I know it was my fault for letting her keep her distance. I had to pick and chose my battles, this is one I had no strength to fight. I just wanted to speak and have someone understand. I just wanted someone to hurt like I did. I could not face another shrink and in my heart, I knew I was going downhill. Around this time, I began to get mixed up in a lot of drugs and a lot of not so nice people. I smoked pot like a fiend and let go of most of my old friends. The way I figured, I could just be someone else. I could live outside this confusion that mustered it's way into my heart and soul every time I breathed. I got mixed up in the wrong crowd and then, I straitened out. For no reason, I just decided that I needed to be perfect to make everyone happy. And that is what I did. I am not condoning therapy. It may help thousands of people each day, but I was not one of them. I found out who I was though. I am stubborn and self-reliant. These may be good traits in some instances, but in a case where you are drowning in your own past, they are not such good attributes. I believe that people need to seek therapy on their own time and in their own best interest. No one could make me talk. I have come to the point now where talking is the best thing I have ever felt in my life. I know I should seek professional help, but I am still just not ready for that.

I find that talking to a "shrink" is a very impersonal and almost rude way of dealing with issues. I would much rather sit down and talk to one of my listeners. They seem to understand me better because the situation is always comfortable and on my turf. Still, I know I am burdening them. I know that they worry about me for obvious reasons. One of them even knows how I almost did it. How I almost just killed him. She worries because she knows I am angry and she has had a first hand view of my temper. I do not want to place this responsibility on someone I love. I do not want someone to feel that they need to walk on eggshells when they are around me. Sure, I am different then most people. But am I any different then a kid from a single parent home, or the home of an alcoholic? I just want them to understand. Whether it is fair to them or not, I have yet to decide. But I have no other alternatives. I cannot live alone anymore. Something would happen; something bad would happen. I am too smart to allow that to happen, and too dumb to understand the reason.

Chapter 8: What The Hell Is Happening To Me

People think I am weak because I wear my emotions on my sleeve. I am not afraid to feel because I remember what it feels like not to. I remember the hollowness that dwelled within me for those 10 years. I can remember the anger that surged within with no outlet. Have you ever tried to pretend you are fine when you are anything but fine? Weakness is not holding your bearings. Weakness is letting something get the best of you. I am strong. For keeping my family together. For keeping myself together. For keeping myself from dying. No one could understand what it feels like to consciously will away all the pain, all the hurt, all the disloyalty of losing someone. Because I have had a death within myself. I have lost my child, and I can never get her back. I can never visit her grave, I can never pay a ransom, I can never fight for custody. She is gone. Where did she go? Someone stole her and buried her so deep that even the earth has forgotten her.

Now, as I sit here into my first of my college years I know that I can only save myself. And now I know that I really can make a difference to myself. Because no matter what Coach it is or what boy it is, I am the master of my own destiny. I hold the key to forgiveness. Forgiveness of myself, to him and to everyone, especially my parents who let this go on. I have only one person to wrestle with now and it myself. I control the outcome of these events and with God as my witness, I shall overcome.

Some of my friends think that I am amazing. I don not know the reason they believe this and feel that they can share it with me. I do not feel amazing at all. I feel scared and betrayed. What is so amazing about me? I did what any other kid in my position would have had to do. They would have stepped up to the plate and taken their knocks. They would have kept their family together and hopefully, they would win. Maybe they would win faster then I am. Maybe they would win stronger and not as tired as I am from the war. Maybe they would know what to do with their knowledge. I am not amazing. I am all too normal, if not all too feeble. I have come to the crossroads where I have to decide if I am going to let this run my life. Right now, it is running my life at top speed. I need to slow down.

Nothing is amazing about being abused. Nothing is glamorous or compelling. I would not wish one day of my life on my worst enemy. I never forget and have never forgiven. I would be amazing if I could do that. They could call me amazing and brave if I forgave him. That will be the hardest thing to do. I will be amazing when I can forgive my parents for being so innocent and never seeing that I was not. I will be amazing when I can look my friends in the eye and tell them that I love myself. Then, I will admit to myself, not how amazing I am, but how amazing God is to give me the courage to wage this war. For he is shepherd and the keeper of all men.

Chapter 9: That Girl

My freshman year of college is coming to a close in a week. At the end of that week, I will lose one of my three listeners. One I chose to let go of because I could not see her outstretched hands. The other let go me. It was that simple. The third is letting go of me again also except that she is doing it for herself. You see, at college I met this girl. She is the kind of person you just want to divulge your soul to. She listens and tries to make me think about how I feel deep down. Deep down is a place that I don't really want to talk about. Deep down is a place where demons lurk, and I am petrified of what I might find there. She has never thought less of me for my new secrets told, but she does criticize me and make me look at the truth.

You see, sometimes, I don't want to look at the truth. I want to believe what I portray. I happy, energetic kid who does decently in school and calls home everyday. But that isn't really me. I am not really that happy and she understands that. She knows that my energy is fueled by confusion and hatred. I never had to tell her, she just knew. And now, she is leaving. She will be hours away from my words and worlds away from my sphere of influence. I don't blame her, but I resent her. I need her. I will definitely miss her, but what she has taught me is worth all the pain of losing her. She taught me what it feels like to talk and be understood to the point where no one who hasn't been called a "survivor" can go. She has become my rock and in all maturity, I know she always will be. I guess when I think about it, I don't resent her. I still don't understand how to leave myself open for love and know that pain will follow. I don't understand give and take yet. I am afraid to let myself be open to the punch and sting of rejection. This is just another lesson she has taught me. I am getting better at good-byes. She is my listener, my worrier and my best friend. Without her, I know that I would not still be writing this book. She encourages me to do what I need to do to get through this. I don't know why I live in the past. I don't know why I cannot let go of my past struggle and set it free. She has taught me that it all happens for a reason. What that reason is, I don't know yet. Her own struggles have been deep and her own past is haunted. I admire her for her strength because it seems that it is limitless. How can she shoulder my burdens and carry hers along too? In life, we always need that one person who makes us feel that we are the world. She is that person…she is my world.

Chapter 9: Going Home Revisited

I can sit here and tell you that time heals. I can sit here and tell you maturity is a wondrous thing. But that would be another lie. I have grown so much in the past year and yet, I am still afraid. I am still searching for some kind of life boat; scanning the horizon for anything that will bring me to shore. Time does do wondrous things. It teaches you that the human spirit is miraculous and that it can endure. Time lets you set your goals strait and then allows you to achieve them. I am going home. It is a place I don't want to be. I can't resort back to the me I was in high school. I was scared and pissed off at the world. I can't become that drunken fool who would try to find solutions to her problems in the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Being home brings back a lot of memories. Most of all though, it reminds me that I still have responsibilities, that I still have to keep my family together. My brother has turned into a real loser. He failed out of school, is rapidly becoming an alcoholic, not to mention the fact that he just got out of drug rehab three years ago. I worry about him. Don't ask me why but sometimes I wonder what happened to him to make him like this.

My brother is the only brother I have. I feel like I need to forgive him. In most ways I have, but I have hardly let go of much. He is so messed up right now that I don't know what to do with him. He drinks every night and is a janitor now. My brother's IQ is somewhere in the genius range so for him to get a 0.000 gpa is not too spectacular needless to say. What happened to him? Why is he like this? He has put my parents through so much. They have told me that they could not handle me being like him. My mother told me that night when she "found out" that she could not deal with this. She said that Ryan had enough problems and he needed their special attention. My father said that I could take care of myself and Ryan was different. He needed the extra parenting that was taken from me and given to him. It's my own fault. I should have been more open with them and maybe then they would…. No, my parents could not physically handle the truth that is my life. They have no idea. I bet 100 to 1 that they have not thought about this little problem of mine since my junior year of high school, I am almost twenty now. I think about it everyday. I wake up and breath it. I shower with it. I eat with it. I dream with it. No, I'm not bitter.

Here I am home again for the summer. What it was going to feel like kept me up all night before I left to get here. Now I know exactly what it feels like. I feel like the same old me. Like a child trapped inside this jungle gym and all the other kids are going in for recess but no one is even looking for me and I can't get out. I feel like a stranger in my own home. Because I have changed so much. I am willing to fight now. I am willing to lay this family's past out and destroy what I kept together for so long. I want them to know yet I know I will never be able to tell them. I want to run from this house screaming obscenities and never come back. I did not know it would feel like this and I did not know how alone home would be. Again, I feel scared and alone and frustrated that I have to be the "good one." I have to step up to the plate and take one for the team. I don't know how much I have left in me. I know I can fight my own struggle and eventually win if the battle is inside myself. But all these obstacles, parents, no one to understand, no one to wake up in the middle of the night, him, they are all getting in the way of my dreams. My dreams of freedom and release. But what should I do? Should I leave and not be able to support myself and devastate my parents? Should I stay and give up three more months until I can feel the freedom of college again? I can't win and I can't lose. I am stuck in a muck of lies and cover-ups and truths no one will admit to. And maybe I won't admit it to myself either. Maybe I am too afraid of what the truth is. But at least I know it. The truth is that I have to get away, maybe forever, maybe for a time, but I cannot live here like this. One day, I will either leave on bad ground or kill him. Both are horrible options but one must be decided. I still feel like a child.

Chapter 10: Parenting

Someone once asked me if I resented my parents for not kicking him out. They said they didn't understand how I could have such a great relationship with my parents. I have no answer for that question. I do resent them, to a point, but I also understand more and more everyday that not only could they not have known then, they could not handle it now. I wish I could make them understand what happened, because maybe then they will stop telling me to "be a little nicer to your brother, huh? He is going through a really tough time and needs your special attention cause we can't get through to him but we know you could." I don't want them to see what happened because I think my father would die and my mother would lose her nativity. Its one of her best qualities. I guess it's more a matter of sacrifice on my part, but it is worth keeping my parents out of this pain. They could not handle it. I don't even know if I can.

But oh God I am trying. I am trying so hard to do everything right for myself. I am going to class and doing my work. I am holding a job and doing theater. I am keeping my nose clean and staying out of trouble. I just want to make things easier on them. He has made their life so hard. He has made them age so quickly. My father told me I was his only source of pride; that without me he would have nothing. How can you deny the man something like that? Maybe his life depends on it. I don't want to find that out by trial and error. I need to become a strong person but I don't really know how exactly one becomes that way. I have to find out though. I have worked so hard, I won't give up this fucking war yet.

If I resented my parents I would have to admit that they were wrong. I would have to believe that they knew what was going on but did not do anything about it. I think that my parents were totally clueless about what was happening to me. Most parents are. Whether it is their son and their daughter, their husband, uncle, father, teacher or pastor, most parents do not suspect anything is wrong. So how then can a child resent their parents like so many abused children do? I know the answer.

First, you must understand that a child looks up to their parents and demands so much from them. They need limits, rules, protection, guidance and most of all love. If parents fail to meet these elementary demands, a child is naturally going to resent their parents for failing to provide what they needed. As an adult, this child may come to grips with the fact that parents are not perfect and are not fictional characters who ride in on a white horse and save the day. They will come to understand the trials of being an adult and all the burdens, stresses and worries that come with not only parenthood, but adulthood in general. If a child is denied too much of their needs though, the resentment will run so thick and deep that they may never come to grip with forgiveness.

Secondly, you must be aware of how the parents handle the situation once it comes to their attention. If they deny the truth, the child will be extremely resentful; they will be angry, hurt and betrayed. This is by far the worst thing a parent could do to a child who is already alone in their own terror filled world. The second worst thing parents can do is put the child to blame. By telling the child to hide what happened and keep it a secret even longer is the ultimate humiliation for a child. This is what my parents did. Whether intentionally or not, they told me to not tell anyone but my shrink. They interrogated me like I was accused of a capital crime. I could not handle this.

How did I feel? I felt dirtier then ever before. I felt like what he had said was true. I was the one to blame and nothing about me was from God. I believed his words about me going to prison and it being all my fault and even though I knew it was not true, my parents did their best to confirm what he said. Even though they did it with the family's name at heart, they only blackened mine a little more. There was never a doubt in my mind that I was evil, from the depths of Hell. They only confirmed this belief. I have over come that though. To all the survivors, this is how I did it.

Although I was confused and full of rage, I still had the rationality to think the events of my life through. I understood that we were both their children. Whether I liked the idea or not, they were not going to turn their backs on either of us. I, after many long conversations with God on this one, came to an understanding that they had no idea how to handle this situation. I never tried to explain to them how retched I felt and I never allowed them to see the hole vacated by the death of my child. They were not ready to see it and I was wrong to hate them. They did not know about the abuse until that one fateful day. They had no training on how to handle such an incident and definitely did not know how I was feeling. You can blame them. It is possible to store up so much hate, that you simply die inside. But it is a conscious choice to do that. I made the choice to stand inside their shoes for one day. That day. I began to realize that they were shocked and confused. They were not interrogating me, they were simply looking for answers. I had none to give and that was not good enough for them. I could have blamed them for not hating him. I could have separated myself because they did not believe me, but I did not. I did not because I knew they could never understand and that is when you have to trust God. He is the real father and he is the one who will shepherd you. Trust me on this one. There is a greater being then us. And he is the one who will set our limits, give us protection and most of all, love us unconditionally.

Chapter 11: Good God

I believe in God. You do not have to. If you choose not to believe in him, I understand why. I have had my bouts and doubts too. Why do I believe in a God who could put me through this? How can I say that I love a God who made someone to come and hurt her so bad she would have to fight to stay alive everyday of her life? I have faith. That is the only thing I know. I believe in fate and destiny and the theory that everything happens for a reason. As Stephen King said in his book Desperation, "God is cruel." God has put me on this earth to do something to make this world a better place. I have had choices and those choices have led me to a different destiny had I not made those choices. Either way, God has a game plan. It is such a twisted and elaborate game plan that no human could conceive it until we are sitting at his right hand. We make a choice and that choice brings us to another one and then onto another choice until at last, our time is up. Hopefully, when that day comes, we can say, "God, have I done your will?" And the meaning of life is in the answer to that question. What price we can put on our life will be the result of what we did to achieve, not greatness, but mediocrity. It is when we but faith in God that we put faith in ourselves. After all, "God helps those who help themselves.

Chapter 12: Hurting Yourself

That's right. Any survivor has done something to hurt themselves. I myself, chose many routes. Why would someone intentionally hurt themselves? Why would someone want to hurt even more then they already are? I have to psychological background besides general psyche 101, but I do know my own psyche well enough to answer that question for myself. I was always over weight; built like my father. Yet, that isn't it. I began to eat myself to the point of absolute stuffedness to fill a void that was left inside me. I ate and ate until I could not possibly eat anymore. I did this throughout my life. I still do. It makes me feel whole almost. It simply makes me feel like the dirty, ugly disgusting, repulsive mess that I believe I am.

Eating or not eating, purging or stuffing, they are just escape mechanisms. Eating reminded me that I am human. Food was good enough for awhile, until I discovered self mutilation. I have never read any books about self mutilation but I am very confident that I could write one. I began by playing soccer. I would intentionally get into collisions or be out of control in the goal just to get hurt. I do not mean to say that all soccer goalies have some sort of inner pain, because that is definitely not how it is. It was simply the easiest way to hurt myself that I knew. I didn't do it for the attention or for the thrill, I did it for the pain.

When I was 13, I discovered that my scratching my skin when it was wet, I could make quite a burn mark. When I was 15, I found that by taking a letter opener to my upper thigh, I could make a gash that was as deep as a knife. When I was 17 I found out that by repeatedly punching myself in the face, my eye would swell and bruise so that my face would be unrecognizable. Again in this year, I found out that my placing a marker top in a candle flame for about 30 seconds, I could melt the top onto my skin. When I was 19, I found out that a broken off metal pen part from the cap can make quite an indent on my hand that looked like a split pumpkin on November

1st. I cannot tell you that I enjoyed the pain. I felt it and it hurt like a bitch every time. But I did enjoy the realization that I can hurt on the outside more than on the inside. I liked to know that pain could be only skin deep. I only mutilated parts of my body that were visible to other people. That way, people must know that I was hurting. I was crying out for help. I wanted someone to see my hand and say, "Oh my God! What happened?" And of course I would tell them that it was a mistake or I slipped or some other outright lie. Then though, I would just be glad they noticed. I kept thinking that maybe they knew why I did it and just did not want to come forward. Every concussion was a cry for help. Every burn was a plea for forgiveness. Every slash was a demand to be noticed.

Self-mutilation is not a conscious choice. I never gouged myself and thought, "Okay, now I'm going to slice open my hand so that someone will see how much I hurt." It was more of, "I am so scared…I am so alone…I can't make it alone here tonight in the dark…(slash)." That was more of the way my mind would work at that time. When I woke up in the morning, I would feel so guilty, so stupid. This was the effect I wanted though. This was exactly how I wanted to feel. Like I said, I felt dirty and worthless and there is no better way to prove your inner ugliness then by making yourself ugly on the outside.

Another form of self-mutilation, although some would beg to differ, would be drug and alcohol abuse. Although I did much more of the later, I feel I am an expert in both if pot can be included as the whole category of drugs. Every day, for spurts of weeks or months, I would be under the influence of something. I did not care if I was at work, school or home, I needed that buzz. It is self mutilation as far as I am concerned. It is a mutilation of the mind. I needed to feel nothing; I needed the numbness. Everything looks better through the haze was my motto. I guess I knew that I was not solving anything, but at the time I just wanted a quick fix. I hear that this is very common of abuse survivors. I just wanted it to end, and for the time it worked. Although nothing went away. I would wake up and still need it because the pain was not gone. I wish I could tell you that the self-mutilation has stopped. On all accounts, I am guilty as charged. What drives me to this? It is either the pain or the shame of guilt. I am not sure which one it is every time, but it is always one or the other. I know I should stop and I know this all sounds absolutely insane to those of you who have not been through it, but it is a step. It is a voice, an overwhelming urge, to put it all behind me and make the pain and the guilt go deeper so that it can never be found. It is my way of saying, "Someone look at me stumble through the door and help me. Someone look at me and see the gash on my hand and help me. Someone look at me and see my eye swelled from my own fist. HELP ME!

Chapter 13: The Second Coming

It is said that God helps those who help themselves. I have come to believe in this theory. For it is in this, that I have failed(miserably I might add). I had decided, through many visits and consolations to my inner voice, that I was going to go see another therapist. I knew that I needed help and I knew that I was old enough to do it on my own. I called RAINN and even set up an appointment with "Jenny." I told everyone who supported me that this is what I had to do. I knew I could do it. At least, I thought I knew I could. Then reality gave me a swift kick in the ass and I realized that I was not as grown-up as I would like to think I was. The panic set in and I let in over take me. I could not fathom the idea of going into a total strangers office and telling her what happened tome. I could not bear the humiliation or the pain of starting this all over again. I was scared. I began to have second thoughts about a week before the appointment but I did not truly panic until two days before. OK, you can get through this. You have come so far. You have tried alone for so long. You know you are losing. You need to do this for yourself because no one is going to do it for you. But I can't do it. What if she thinks I am insane? What if she tells my parents? What if she makes me go to some psyco asylum where they feed me fruit cocktail and wrap my arms really tight and don't allow me to wear a belt or have bed sheets?

Would you please stop!!! This is ridiculous. You are 19 years old. And yes, you do have issues but no one is going to make you go away somewhere. But what it? I am so scared and I know everyone said they would go with me but I have to do this by myself. I have to go all alone and I am nervous and alone. No matter who is there, it is me talking and me with the memories and me with the pain. Yes, and that is why you have to do it. You have to make the choice to get better. Sure, but it only gets worse first. I didn't think it could get any worse then this. Well, it can so you need to make it worse before it can get better. Do you want to die? No. Then babe, step up to the plate. What if I'm not strong enough though? I don't think I can do it.

I made the call to cancel the appointment. I have not rescheduled yet. I do not think I have the courage to do it again. Just making the call took everything I had.