I was partially raised by a rapist. The only reason I found out, the only reason my oldest sister decided to finally say something, was because she thought I was depressed because he was touching me too. Even now, I cannot say out loud, cannot admit that it’s entirely possible. I don’t know. I was only fourteen. Half a lifetime ago. I didn’t cry, when she finally said it. I wonder now if it’s because I was so shocked by the truth or if it’s because I had an inkling all along.
I stayed with my sister after finding out. I refused to return home if he was still there. Where would I be now if I hadn’t? I don’t remember now if I was happy then. With the truth, with my sister, with the maybe unexpected way my life had turned around. But I remember how she looked at me when she said I always seemed so sad.

I don’t remember now why I started. Was it my bestfriend who wasn’t really the best friend? Was it the boy who stole my first kiss in order to make that bestfriend jealous when I had just wanted to help him? Maybe it was just my brain chemistry (maybe it still is) but I was eighteen when I first started hurting myself. I had had many friends, or acquaintances I should say, with those straight lined scars. On their wrists, their ankles, covering ones thighs. I couldn’t do that though, didn’t actually want anyone to see. But my mother was a smoker and smokers always have an abundance of lighters. Who would notice one go missing? Nobody did. I remember, still, nearly ten years later, the feeling of the burning hot lighter touching my skin. My ribs, since nobody would ever see that spot. The same spot, over and over. It didn’t last long, it never really made me feel better. But I remember it vividly.

This is all to say that I think I’ve always been the way I am. Sad. Down. Depressed. There are breaks between my breakdowns but they always come. It must just be my brain, the way my body works. Or doesn’t work. How am I supposed to overcome that?

I’m still trying.