He was a neighbour, easily five decades older than me. I was still in pigtails. Now that I actively try to recall it, I find that I’m not able to remember more than half of it – the memories black out when they start to get bad. All that’s left in my head is the forceful ‘kissing’ and groping and being held down while I kicked and screamed. Over and over and over again because there was no escape. Because I was a kid and stupid and felt responsible for getting myself out of that situation without asking for help. Because I felt like I should be able to ‘handle it’. Because I knew no one would believe me. For years afterwards, I wanted to die. Wanted to make myself as small as possible so no one would ever look at me again. I hated the soft curves that growing up got me because it felt like drawing attention to myself, like I was dirty and asking for it. I wanted to carve pieces off of my body down to the bone, be so thin and so skinny that there would be nothing ‘desirable’ left in my body. I landed myself in the hospital because of this.
To this day, I am not comfortable in my skin. Downright dysphoric. I know I can’t get any smaller or ‘less noticeable’ without seriously harming myself, and yet…