A Survivor's Story- Anonymous (Female)

This story was sent into me by a reader. To send your story, contact me at stargee@me.com    I grew up with an autistic brother. Well, I guess you can’t really say I grew up with an autistic brother so-to-say since it took the doctors so damn long to diagnose him properly. Just to list a few of the things he was once diagnosed as: ADD, ODD, ADHD, high functioning aspergers, and a few more that I can’t remember the exact name for. It wasn’t till about 5 years ago when they finally realized he was autistic. Anyways, my brother is two years younger than me and from the time he was 2 my mother knew there was something wrong with him. He learned how to talk and did for awhile, but then all of a sudden he refused to talk and it went on that way for years. That was the first sign my parents had that something was wrong with my brother and since then it was a continuing search for an answer.    Because he had been diagnosed wrong for so many years, he had always taken medication that caused the opposite effect of whatever they were searching for. He went through a dozen elementary schools alone, just looking for a teacher that could handle his outbursts and his social (or lack-there-of) skills. Because my parents were so busy always focusing on what he was going to need and worrying about his disability I always felt cast into the shadows. I remember being a really young child and getting in arguments with my mother about how she loved my brother more than she ever loved me. Funny thing is I still have those arguments with her. Having a sibling with mental disabilities puts a lot of stress on the family. My brother has the kind of autism where he goes completely out of control and gets extremely violent. Currently I have a huge hole in my door from where he tried (and succeeded) to break it down with a pot about 3 years ago when he decided that I looked at him funny. Then there was the time when we were about to go on vacation and my mom was extremely nauseous (she gets panic attacks before trips) and something she said pissed off my brother and he threw a remote at her and cracked her head open. There have been many nights of fighting, hospital visits, and police phone calls going on here at my house and my parents still don’t understand how to control him properly.    With my parents always having to keep an eye on my brother, they were mostly there for me to be the authority figure that always told me “no”. In reality, I know they were there for me in my upbringing, but when I try and remember my childhood, the only times I remember them are when they were giving attention to my brother, scolding me, or telling me I couldn’t do something. It’s still that way today.    The kind of parents that I have can be classified as “over-overly protective”. As in I wasn’t allowed to go out with friends until my senior year in high school (even then my curfew was 8pm). I’m now 18 and am expected to be at home by 11pm every day. They installed a tracker on my phone so they know where I’m at at all times, and if I don’t respond to a text within 30 minutes I can kiss my plans for the next two weeks goodbye.    I guess that can be blamed on how they were raised. My father grew up smoking pot and just recently quit about 5 years ago when he got a great job that (thankfully) does random drug testing, but when I was a baby he was addicted to meth. My mother did a good job hiding that from me since I didn’t know about the meth thing until recently. As for my mom, it’s not that she did anything wrong when raising me, she just tried to over-compensate. My mom was molested by her father when she was a child and her mother did nothing about it because both her parents were alcoholics. She only recently began to re-establish a relationship with her mom. But because of what she had to deal with when she grew up, she feels like being overprotective to the point of being psychotic is the right thing to do. She still has some emotional issues when it comes to it though because when I do get into arguments with her she always throws the fact that she was abused and had alcoholic parents in my face and that I “should be lucky I have a mom who gives a shit about me”, although I wouldn’t say kicking me out into the streets without a car or a phone at 10 at night means she gives a shit about me. But I digress.    I work full time and go to school full time, so I have a lot on my plate. I pay for my own food, clothes, gas, and most other necessities. I go days without seeing or talking to my parents due to my busy schedule, and, really, the only time my parents are involved in my life are when they tell me “no”, which to me is the biggest “fuck you” anyone can give. They don’t know anything that goes on in my life, yet they still feel the necessity to tell me “no, you can’t go out”, “no, are you stupid? You can’t go to college there”, or, my favorite, “no, I’m not helping you out with shit, so do what I say”.    I’ve been trying to move out since I was 12. And it’s not just the “I hate you (for the rest of the day), I’m leaving (and coming back in 2 hours when I’m not mad anymore)!” type of move out. It’s the “I hate you, I always will, now I’m trying to move in with someone else” type of move out. I’ve thought over my options: if I could move in with a grandparent or an aunt, although it’s never worked out. And now that I’m a legal adult I’m trying harder than ever. However, my job has a shitty salary and living in California is impossible when you make $8.30 an hour. Right now I’m trying to get out of this hell-hole that I call “home”. But it’ll never be MY “home”. Home isn’t somewhere that you should dread going to everyday after work. A place where you sit in your car in the parking lot of your job as long as possible just so you don’t have to deal with seeing your parents’ faces. A place that you hate going to and having to deal with people you don’t like and that don’t give a shit about you and try to tell you what to do, or a disabled brother that gets angry and violent at any little thing that is said or done. One of my favorite quotes right now is actually a line from a song that goes, “Home is where your heart is but what a shame, cause everyone’s heart doesn’t beat the same.”    My heart isn’t here at my so-called “home”, and as long as I’m stuck here, I feel pretty much deserted. Like I don’t really belong anywhere. When I’m not here I’m happy and I’m myself. But here, I’m empty.

A Survivor's Story-Depression: Anonymous (Male)

This is a story sent into me. To send your story, email me at stargee@me.com

   What young child wouldn’t want to fit in? I just happened to be chubby and awkward. I found acceptance among a small group of boys. I didn’t think anything of the fact that the other kids generally avoided us, or that these boys weren’t really kind to me, or anyone else. Snake tongued teasing turned into pushing and shoving, and later, punches and kicks. I was at the bottom of the proverbial totem pole. I told myself it was better than having no friends, I just bowed my head and hid my tears. 


   Through middle school and my early high school years, I tried numerous times to break away, but always found rejection amongst my peers, or harassment from the other boys in the group at my attempt to leave. I felt useless, ugly, and unwanted. To no surprise, these people didn’t last long through high school, and by the virtue of high school drop outs, I was free from their clutches, but the damage was done. I was a poorly adjusted high school sophomore with absolutely no self confidence. 
When I was committed to the adolescent mental health ward at St. Mary’s Hospital in San Francisco after staring down a train and talking myself out of it at the last second, they diagnosed me with acute clinical depression. 


   Senior year in high school was a whirlwind of therapy, medications, and mental health facilities. To this day I look back on graduating as a major accomplishment for me. Since that time, I’ve spent a great deal reflecting on my life, and how it’s led to who I am today. Depression for me is like a fog, like having weights strapped to your legs. It prevents you from really enjoying life, from feeling joy and satisfaction in life. Having it kicked and beaten into you that you are ugly, worthless, and useless, isn’t something that you can shake off after a round in therapy. Depression is something that is something that affects you down to your very core, it is a virus that consumes it’s host. On my “bad” days, I feel as if I have no friends. I feel that I am ugly, and worthless, and sometimes I feel as if no one would miss me if I were gone. 


   Depression isn’t a simple malady as it’s made out to be on those cheesy antidepressant commercials. If you are truly depressed it is a merciless beast, a ball and chain wrapped around your neck.. High school was definitely the worst for me, those were my darkest days. I feel as if the worst is over, I am working professional photographer, I love my job, and have a great relationship with my parents whom I live with. I’m in the homestretch now, but I still have a long, day to day struggle ahead of me. I can see, for the first time in my life, a light at the end of the tunnel.

The Jealous Brat In Us Survivors

   Coming from abuse often makes you feel a lot like a child, especially if you were abused when you WERE a child. You feel vulnerable, unsure, and unsafe. I can't speak for everyone else, but I know that I've carried that into my adult life, hence the title "Feeling Young and Being Grown." When I get scared or I'm placed in a situation that makes me feel like I did when I was a kid, I turn into a child. I talk like one, I cry like one, I cuddle my stuffed animal, Peanut, and I curl up in a ball. 



   Last night, while I was writing my piece about sexual abuse and where I come from, I felt pretty good. It felt cathartic to get it out. When I finished, it was four in the morning- my boyfriend was fast asleep in bed next to me. The quiet made it real and I started to tear up. I nudged Ethan awake and he rolled out of bed to do what he always does in these situations: he went down and made me a mug of warm milk with sugar, came back and handed me Peanut, and put on a family guy and snuggled me to sleep. He's good to me that way. 


   It wasn't just remembering my own experiences that made me cry. It was hearing all of yours. To know that so many people suffer and feel, in many ways, exactly the same way I do can be overwhelming. It's a good-overwhelming, but I was honestly so shocked. Then it hit.....the insecurities....The jealous brat in me. 

   I don't know how many of you get this way, but I've talked it over with several of my sparkly-survivor friends and the feeling seems mutual: we don't like to hear when someone has gone through something we perceive as worse than what we've been through. It hurts! We think: "My pain can't possibly be valid now. What I went through was nothing. No one will believe my pain is pain, now that they've heard this person's story. Where does this leave me?" I'm going to call this part of us "the jealous brat."


   Sometimes we get stuck identifying ourselves by our abuse and it's all we feel like we have. We feel like there couldn't possibly be something inside of us, besides our pain and our past, that's worth knowing about....that's interesting. 


    Sometimes, I find myself trying to "one up" people when it comes to the abuse. I know. Totally terrible of me, right?! But we all do it. It's really just our insecurities telling us our lives and our own experiences must not matter. 


   I had someone tell me today that they wanted to share their story about their childhood, but after reading my story- they felt their experience paled in comparison. I'm sorry, but bullshit! Pain is pain and if you felt it, I care. We all care. I think we all can agree the "I was only raped once" or "it was by a woman so it doesn't count" or the "I think it may have all been in my head" cards cannot be used....it's just not cool with me anymore. I don't want to hear another person tell me one person's past was more or less painful than another's. It's time to stop being a jealous brat and recognize everyone's feelings are valid. Including yours. 

Tricks to Consistency

   I'm an inconsistent person. I make a lot of grand plans, I have great ideas about how to better myself and better my world, and I'll spend ages in "the planning phase." If I could get hired somewhere and make the big bucks telling people what THEY should do to get shit done, I'd be set. The problem is, I want to be consistent. I want to be consistent for myself, for my future career, for my health, for my boyfriend and our relationship, and for the friends and family I have and want to keep.

   I'm currently a big believer in telling people openly- this is what I suck at. Once it's out in the open, there's no hiding from the fact that you know you have something you need to be working on, and the people who care in your life will hold you accountable.

   My boyfriend's a huge help to me when it comes to keeping me honest about myself. I wouldn't have it any other way (well, on days where I'm feeling weepy and not wanting to get out of bed...I sometimes feel like I'd prefer he NOT tell me to get out of bed, go for a run, and do something that makes me happy.) He knows how I feel about myself, he knows my weaknesses and my strengths, and he helps keep me focussed. Because I need that at this stage in my life. It's okay to recognize when you know you need someone to help keep you on track when it comes to certain things.

   Let's also note that it's not exactly fun to be around someone who is inconsistent. One minute you're happy about some cute thing your partner did for you that made you really feel like one in a million, the next you're mad about how your boyfriend left his wet towels on the floor and your screaming at him about how he never considers your feelings and you think it may just be over. I've actually kind of been there. I was raised in a home with a lot of inconsistency. Alcohol abuse, constant lying, crazy waves of emotions....we saw it all. In a way, I taught myself that the way that you show someone love is by being crazy. I struggled a lot with my previous relationship- there 100% one minute, out the door the next. Mad, angry, feeling alone and misheard....it was awful! Sometimes, I couldn't even guess what was coming next from the box of Rollercoaster-Tara-Time. All it says about me, though, is that I never really felt secure or sure of myself. I didn't have a clear plan for how I was going to approach a problem I had with someone because I didn't really know if I deserved to be upset.

   Now that I have a stable home, a loving, steady, and rational boyfriend who understands where I came from, and space from my past- I recognize that I can be irrational and inconsistent and I need to work on it to make a happier me.

Here are some things that I'm inconsistent with: 


I go on diets and workout routines often, and rarely do I get past one solid week of commitment to my plan

I talk myself "down" from the ledge that is feeling unloved and potentially soon to be abandoned. I present the rational side of whatever may have happened and realize that I may just be overreacting to something my boyfriend, his mom, or my boss said and I feel better and calm. Then I revisit the issue and totally flip out. Ethan often still has to answer the, "Do you like being around me?" question. Of course, he says yes but it frustrates him to know that sometimes I still don't know the answers to very basic questions about our fundamentals.

I'm chronically late to things I set three and four alarms four. It's always something, and I always have a great excuse I pulled out of my ass.

I go back and forth between wanting to contact my parents, or at least my dad, hoping that he will want to spend time with me and cherish me as his wonderful, strong child. You'll hear me say "I know he comes from a dysfunctional place and I cannot change him" but it hasn't yet stopped me from treating him like he has the potential to be the greatest dad in the world. I'm wasting my time.

I often buy myself potted plants just because I know I'll have to remember to water them. I figure this will help me out with being less inconsistent.....all my plants have died. I have a succulent on it's way to the grave as we speak.

Here are some habits I'm trying to adopt: 


I have a very detailed, color coded, very filled planner. It doesn't really allow me to forget my responsibilities and it helps me feel more sane and in control of my day, every day. If I get super lazy one day and don't finish everything on my checklist, I move it to the next day and get to feel like I'm starting fresh. I have purple post it notes on every monthly section, telling my my monthly $ earnings goal and where I should be at by the end of the month, savings wise. I have blue post it notes on every monthly section that tell me my top three overall goals for the month and when they need to be accomplished. I even schedule friend-hang out time responsibly. I know, I'm a nerd. But it works for me.

I have a big push-pin board hung up on my wall with all the possible workouts I ever would do. )When I actually plan and get committed) I set all the workouts I need to do the following day on the left side of the board, and with each workout I check off (100 squats, 10 bear crawls, a 15 minute run...) I move it to the right side of the board. I also add all the foods I need to make sure I'm eating, as well as all the glasses of water I should be drinking. The act of moving the stupid little cards over and seeing that I'm powering my way through a list of things that are helping me be healthier and slimmer makes me totally lame-excited. It's fantastic and I recommend it!

I plan ahead of time when I need to do things like clean my room, do my eyebrows, whiten my teeth- because they're important parts of my schedule that make me feel better about myself and my surroundings. I try to make as many things a routine as possible. That way, I won't get frazzled when I realize I have one more to-do to add to my list.

I make Sunday my weekly "regroup" day. I re-assess my financial situation, check my bank accounts and calculate how many additional hours I need to work, if any at all, and plan how much I need to set aside next week. I clean my room when I wake up. I do my laundry. I plan my week and contact my friends I want to make sure I get to see during the upcoming week. I have some me-time and read a girl magazine online or paint my nails. I treat every week like a new opportunity to do better. It helps me keep from getting depressed about the things I fucked up the week before and it helps keep me from repeating my mistakes.

I set an alarm anyway. Even though I'm chronically late, I'm less late than I used to be. I used to be 20-30 minutes late. Now I'm usually 5-10 minutes late. Hopefully, if I keep making being on time a priority, I'll learn to be 5-10 minutes early.

Sex+Sexual Abuse: A Survivor's Story-Anonymous (Female)

This was a story sent into me. To send your story, email me at stargee@me.com


To most people I come across cool, calm, and collected; I’m a top student, a hard worker, and a responsible young adult who seems to have everything together. I’m finally getting to a place in my life where I can say that much of that is true, but I’ve fought so hard to get where I am that success is hard for me to accept.

         There are several generations of sexual and physical abuse on my mom’s family tree, and several generations of manipulative emotional abuse on my dad’s side. Surprisingly enough, I consider both of my parents wonderfully amazing; they fought hard to overcome far more strife than most people ever know and somehow became successful human beings.

When my stepmother came into my life, the little relationship I had forged with my father transformed into a battlefield, a veritable stomping ground for manipulation and mind games. I grew up in a household where dissonance was the status quo, and though neither my father nor stepmother ever laid a hand on me, the emotional stress, turmoil, and absence of nurturing only grew worse over the years. By the time I reached middle and high school I was devoid of any self-esteem or confidence, worn down since the age of seven by the constant fear of never being good enough for either of them. I spent a sizeable amount of time in suicidal depression, cutting and starving myself because the agony I was feeling, completely alone.

         I relished the summers I spent with my biological mother, forever and always the most warm and nurturing figure in my life. My best memories were with her, small things that many other kids took for granted were momentous milestones for me; staying up late to watch tv with her, ice cream together on the couch, going shopping for articles of clothing she almost managed to convince me I looked cute in. Things were wonderful for short spans of time, until she left my siblings and I alone with our stepdad. I can say, without a doubt, that the man I knew as Rob was and still is a vile human being: a spiteful drunk, full of malice and resentment, who loved to relax by taking it out on the children while mom was at work. Much of my time around Rob has been repressed or faded away, but there are specific instances in every traumatic relationship that stay with you. One that has always stuck with me was the time when he slammed angrily into a wall, knocking a large picture frame down on my little sister’s head; I reached out to her to pull the glass pieces out of her hair as she cried and he responded by pinning me down and screaming in my face before he took a swing at me. I was 7, she was 4. I spent months each year sporting Robert bruises, and years internalizing the damage he did. To this day, when any male raises his voice or moves angrily I become a puddle of tears and quivering nerves, reacting the way I did when Robert rampaged around our small home. He destroyed my trust in the male gender, just as my stepmother crushed any chance I had at developing positive relationships with anyone female.

         I was lucky enough to avoid sexual abuse until my later years; I’ve come to believe that dealing with all three kinds of abuse while growing up might have destroyed me. When I eventually was able to bond with a guy, I fell in love at 16. When I say love, I don’t mean the kind of high school crush that most people assume kids experience; I feel in true, head-over-heels, “we’re soul mates” kind of love and it was utterly overwhelming. He and I spent nearly two years together, growing up and learning from each other. He taught me what it was like to have a true friend, to feel real affection, and to confide in a partner. At some point he changed. He started wanting me less and began dreaming about another girl, who happened to be my only real female friend. This girl was like a sister to me, she too came from an abusive family and shared many of my feelings and issues, we had bonded since the first time we met and nurtured a five year friendship. He spoke to me about his feelings, described his desire for her, and used guilt to manipulate me into group sex. He tiptoed around the conversation but blatantly inferred the fact that, if I didn’t agree to it, he wouldn’t love me anymore. He made me feel as though, despite my being extremely uncomfortable and ‘not okay’ with the proposition, I would be a shitty girlfriend and an even worse human being if I didn’t ‘at least let him try’. I loved him, he had been my partner and my rock and I wanted him in my life, so I agreed. When I gave my forced acceptance, I honestly prayed that she would know me well enough to see that I was not ok and reject him, but she didn’t. So it happened, a lot happened between the three of us that I'll never get out of my head. I ran to the bathroom afterward and sobbed for half an hour. He loved it, so it happened again. I was destroyed in a way that I am still unable to fully describe. The two people I trusted with my past and bonded with inflicted more damage on me than anyone else has ever done. He left me for her, and I spent the last six months of high school seeing them together every day, in every class.

         For a while I lost my will to live; I didn’t want to die but I saw no reason to not die either. People told me to ‘suck it up’ because they figured it was just high school drama. I was too ashamed to share what had happened in the bedroom between the three of us, so no one I tried to talk to took the situation seriously. I stopped eating because I stopped being hungry, I quit wanting to move or breathe. I no longer cared about looking or doing my best, every interest I ever had became irrelevant, and I spent most of every day choking back silent tears. I reached out to both my friend and my boyfriend, asking them to give me time to heal, for a few weeks of mercy before they became a serious couple, but nothing I said would dissuade them. All I could think was “What are you supposed to do when everyone in your life has hurt or abandoned you, despite how hard you try to make them happy? Why is no sacrifice ever enough? Why am I unlovable, so obviously repulsive and something to be stomped on by those around me?” I was sent to therapy and to group sessions that took a while to affect me: I missed most of the last half of my senior year because I spent it sitting on soft chairs in sterile rooms in a numb daze, with few people taking my pain or suffering seriously.

         It took me another six months to come to terms with what happened, to finally breathe again and share my feelings with my therapist and then my parents. It took some more time for me to stop having nightmares about it, to stop cringing when I was touched, and to stop feeling ashamed. I wrote letters to both of them, but was unable to confront either one about how betrayed and broken I felt. A few wonderful people came in to my life and helped me survive school, helped me want to live and to care again, and one even went on to become the closest friend I’ve ever had. I worked hard on my own issues, as well as dragging myself back up on my feet. I improved myself in the process, becoming a more confident and more complete person than I had ever been before. My trauma forced me to fix things with my father, and although our family dynamic is still turbulent, I know that he does love me.

         Eventually, the guy I had loved and given everything came back. His apology gave me a chance to do what I needed: I screamed at him, berated him, and cried all the tears he caused me to save up. I made him read the letters I wrote, the words I had written tore into him and made him beg for forgiveness; he cried even harder than I did. I had reached a point in my healing and acceptance where I was willing to allow him to try to earn my trust back. I loved the person he had been, and hoped that his realization of what he did to me would be enough to bring him back. I made sure he knew that I was a better, stronger person than I had been and that I would never again tolerate being treated poorly. He and I are still close, still balancing out that trust. We’ve talked through many things, and gotten help dealing with them. I never found closure with my best friend, never saw her again after high school, and may never be able to share with her how I really feel. Although that makes me sad, I’ve come to understand that even if I never see or hear from her again, I’ll still heal.

         So, I’m a survivor. I survived being beaten, manipulated, emotionally destroyed, and used physically. Somehow, despite everything, I turned out ok. What would I say to people who are also survivors? Don’t ever forget that you are wonderful, beautiful, and loveable. Most importantly, you are NOT ALONE. You can overcome anything, even when the hurt and void that abuse creates inside you feel insurmountable. It’s a good feeling to find closure and confront the people who hurt you, but know that you don’t need to have closure to feel whole again. Also, just because it wasn’t rape doesn’t mean you weren’t abused. Any violation of your comfort, morals, or emotions is abusive and every one of us needs to be aware of the difference between how we’re being treated and how we deserve to be treated.

Sex+Sexual Abuse: The Author's Survival Story (Tara, age 19, Female)

Hey Readers!

   My name's Tara and I'm the blogger who created "Feeling Young and Being Grown." I'm so proud of everyone who has written in with their stories and emailed me for advice. I know it can be really tough and intimidating to "come out" about what you've been through and sometimes, it can even be really really scary. I'm here to tell you, it's scary for me too. Right now, I have visions of my mom and dad secretly reading my blog and, once I post this, coming after me with a really nasty, jarring email.

   That's okay.

   What's important is embracing who I am and what I know I've been through and sharing it so that all of you know it's going to be okay and the time for being embarrassed, ashamed, and feeling guilty is over. What's more freeing than telling the world your most painful, embarrassing, life changing experiences?

    I don't have anything to hide.

   When I was nearly five years old, my family moved from Washington to California. I have a brother who is 14 years older than me and a sister who is 9 years older than me. My dad had landed some great new job in California and we built a big fancy house with a great view in a gated community. When we came out to California, something fell through with the new job and my dad decided with my mom to go back to Washington and get a job there while we lived in CA as a family. He commuted and came back for the weekends. Some of my favorite memories come from before we moved and right after we moved. We stayed in a small apartment while our house was being built. We had close to no furniture, my mom hung my stupid crayon drawings on the wall as art, and my mom would make me dolls out of popsicle sticks and magazine baby-picture cut outs. Good Will was our favorite place to go and I got one of my favorite dolls there. His name was Bun-Bun and he was a bunny with tiny eyes, long ears, and really long arms and legs. I remember being really happy.

   When we finally moved in, things seemed okay. I was sad that my brother wasn't really around. He went straight to college when we moved. My sister was in middle school. I started kindergarten. I started noticing things were weird when my mom seemed sadder and sadder and smelled funny all the time. She always seemed puffy faced with red cheeks and her voice was different a lot. She started being really sneaky and I'd come downstairs or walk into a room and she'd quick tuck something away, or I'd hear gulping noises and the closing of cabinets. My mom smoked at the time and I don't know if my dad really knew. I figured he wouldn't like it. I didn't know what she was doing when I'd hear those gulping noises or I'd see her being sneaky. But I knew something was wrong.

   My sister and my mom fought a lot and there was always a lot of crying and yelling and one time my sister broke a door handle off a door. My mom always said my sister was insane and that she should be committed to an "insane asylum." Lots of times, my sister would call my dad, who was in Washington, and she'd sound panicked and hot-faced and she would be crying and I could hear my dad. Sometimes he sounded angry and said "liar" a lot. Sometimes he sounded heartbroken and sad and he would fly out the next day, earlier than planned. Those times, he would yell at my mom. The other times, he would yell at my sister and pull her hair and say she was "grounded." Then more crying.

   One day, I was home and my mom wasn't. My dad was. A big fire truck and some police cars parked in front of our house and talked to my dad. My mom stumbled in. My dad was angry with the police and I'm not sure why. When the police left, my mom turned to me, looked at me while I was sitting on the steps, and said, "I wish I never had you. You all ruined my life. You were a mistake." I remember wishing I was dreaming.

   Lots of times, I'd wait for my mom at the bus stop, one block away from my house. In the rain, in the heat waves, on nice days...I'd wait for maybe 20 minutes, but what felt like hours, and realize she had forgotten me. I remember thinking, "Maybe today she's dead" and often times, that made me really happy. I'd get home, hear loud music blaring, shaking my house and I could catch a glimpse of my mom, often half naked (and very overweight) dancing, well, more stumbling than dancing, and sing-screaming to Joe Cocker music. I'd ring the doorbell, but not too many times. I didn't want to make her mad. Sometimes, she'd even see me. But she'd make this sort of angry-happy face and go back to dancing and drinking out of a big colored plastic cup from the Dollar Store (we went and picked them together). Sometimes the neighbor across the street would see me and take me into their home. She fed me Gold Fish in a tiny, beautiful little bowl and let me pet her pet cats. She did homework with me and told me nice things. Sometimes she had her son help me with my homework, which I liked because I had a crush on him.

   I stopped going to my neighbor's house when my mom and dad said it was embarrassing and unacceptable. I would just wait on the front porch instead until my sister got home or my mom remembered I was outside. One day, my mom gave me a beautiful white bear with a golden nose and golden wings and a halo- I had seen it on the cover of a JC Penny catalogue and mentioned how wonderful she was. My mom wrote a story about "Angel Bear" (who was really me in the story) and Angel Bear's mom and how she was sorry and loved Angel Bear. I loved it. My mom told me it was to make up for forgetting me.

   In first grade, I woke up one morning to scream-crying. I went to my sister's room, where the sounds were coming from. My mom was yelling at my sister for always waking up too late and being lazy. She stormed downstairs, then upstairs, then poured ice on my sister's face. Next thing I know, my sister is on the floor being pinned by my very large mom. My sister is very tiny. I remember my mom's gold necklace with the beige stone in the middle that dangled. My mom was trying to strangle my sister, and was doing a good job. My sister tried pulling my mom's golden necklace and it left red marks all over. My mom looked really angry and red puffy faced and really gross. She was jiggly and had some sort of clothing on where all of her was out and I remember feeling really icky. My sister made choking noises for a while and cried a lot and sometimes screamed to me and asked me for help. I didn't know how to help. I remember my mom saying "Only one of us is leaving this room alive, and it's not going to be you" to my sister. I remember feeling really scared that I was going to lose my sister. My sister asked me to call 911 and I looked to my mom. She said if I dialed, she would kill me too. So I didn't. I remember feeling like a killer. I crawled over to my mom and sister and tried to pull my sister out from under. My mom smacked my hand and her bracelets (bangles) hit me and made the sound that made me know when my mom was close. I got a little cut and I remember thinking I would tell someone about the little cut and someone would comfort me. My mom was biting my sisters face and neck, which was weird. I think I hid for a while and eventually the police came and took my mom to jail. My sister's friend and her friend's mom came and I remember her mom telling me to bring my favorite blanket with me. I thought that was smart. We stayed at the friend's house that night. I slept on the floor next to the bed my sister and her friend were sleeping on. I listened to my sister cry. My dad was in Japan and came home. He said he had gifts but that we couldn't have them until my mom was home. he took us to McDonalds, which I loved, and my sister wore a baggy black sweatshirt. She had bite marks and bruises all over her face and neck. The next day at school, my first grade teacher, Ms. Hogan, called me to the principal's office. A "therapist" asked me if my mom ever hit me. I said only that one time and that she barely ever hit my sister. She only did when she was really mad and it was never hard and that my sister tried to make my mom mad. When I got home, my sister and mom asked what I said to the therapist and I told them that I said my mom was always really nice and that I loved her.

   My mom loved TV and liked to record everything on tape. Sometimes, when she would drink, she'd get really confused and really upset if she didn't have the right tapes and the right channels on time so it was my job to help. I knew how to set a TV recorder by the age of 6. When my mom would get mad, I'd get so mad at myself. One time, my mom said I lost the TV Guide. I swear I didn't but my mom was so upset, I just wanted her to be happy and snuggly again so I ran upstairs, happy to be away for a minute, and searched under her and my dad's bed to find the current TV Guide. There were so many and I was crying so I couldn't tell which was which. She was yelling and getting impatient and I said to myself out loud, "You're so stupid. How could you be so stupid and selfish? You can't even find the TV Guide. You don't deserve to be treated nicely right now. You're a terrible daughter and she SHOULD hate you. You're lucky to have her." Over and over again. When I would find it, I'd feel better about myself and apologize to my mom for being so stupid. I liked the end of the day because I would get to take her upstairs, tuck her in and bring her her pajamas and put her bra away, and say "I love you" and she normally seemed okay with me helping her. Sometimes glad! And when she would wake up, she wouldn't be puffy faced and as angry. Sometimes, she'd be really nice. Sometimes, though, she'd still wake up mad.

   One time, my sister wasn't home because she said she couldn't handle it. So it was just me and my mom. My mom was sitting on the marble in the front hall by the bathroom and she puked green-chunky-cigarette-smelling-puke all over herself. (People who have been drinking puke cigarette smelling puke) My mom was all alone so it was up to me to give her a bath and put her in jammies. I walked her to the bathroom and ran the bath water, scrubbed her off, told her I loved her and it was going to be okay, she mumbled something over and over like she always did, like "I hate myself" or "I HATE your father" or "I wish I were dead." I walked her upstairs and tucked her in after PJ time. I made her scrambled eggs and toast, her favorite when she was sick, wrote her a get well letter, and brought her "special drink" ( a big tumbler filled halfway with ice and water, and halfway with diet rootbeer)

   My dad was away a lot and my mom was lonely so I guess I was lonely too. My mom would have me sleep in her bed and I didn't really like it but I thought it made her happy. Rules were: In bed by 8, lights out by 8:30. I always had to read before lights out. I didn't like lights out either, though. I hated being in that bed. It was gross. When my dad was home, I would sleep on the trundle-bed to the side of the room with quilts that were cold and didn't cover my feet and smelled funny. I worried there were spiders there. When the lights would go off, I'd keep my eyes open and feel cold and I'd wait. Then the sounds happened. I didn't have a word for it, sex, but I did not like it. My mom made these weird panting noises that got faster and faster and I remember thinking she sounded really gross. My dad made weird noises too and he had a hairy butt and weird scars that I didn't know where they came from and his butt was always in the air. Sometimes my mom was on top and I'd wonder if my dad was getting hurt because she was so big and he was so small. It always lasted for about ten minutes and then there was snoring. I could finally fall asleep when there was snoring.

   My mom and dad fought a lot and sometimes they said some really weird mean things. My dad and mom would talk about divorce a lot and one time my dad told me my mom tried to bite his penis off and that she was a terrible person. That she wasn't who he married and he was lied to. Sometimes my mom would tell me how my dad would force her to have sex even when she didn't want to, and that he really liked blow jobs and shoving it down her throat. She said he would call her a fat pig after sometimes, and that she was filthy.

   One time, my mom and dad were fighting and my dad slept in my bed while I slept in theirs with my mom. My mom had been drinking so I didn't want to be with her. I went into my room and saw my mom drawing on my dad's back with a glue stick that had purple glue and she was laughing at him. His back hair stuck together. I was really confused and felt really sad and alone for some reason.

   Lots of times, my mom liked to go to sleep naked and she'd ask me to take off my clothes too since it was comfier. She'd touch my butt a lot and other things and feel inside me and sometimes she'd stroke my hair. Sometimes she'd be rough and tell me how ugly I was. How she hated me for ruining her life. Sometimes she'd fall asleep naked with me and wrap her legs around me. I hated it. She was so jiggly and hot and smelly and she didn't feel like my mom.

   Sometimes she'd make me take baths with her and told me to feel her "pussy." She'd tell me about how I broke it because she ripped it giving birth to me. She said that I ruined her body and stole it. Sometimes she'd touch me too. I hate baths, even now. They're gross.

  Sometimes, after she was finished with her bath, she'd push my head under water and keep it there. Only for a few seconds, but it was scary because of the times she told me I wasn't supposed to exist.

   My mom really liked shows like Sex and the City and Queer as Folk and Six Feet Under. And some other things I didn't know the names too. Most of the time, the people were naked and making those noises I hated and a lot of the times, the people didn't look like they were happy. I didn't like to watch those shows but my mom said she didn't want to watch my stupid cartoons and that I needed to toughen up. Sometimes she'd ask me if I was a lesbian and whether or not I "diddled" myself. I didn't know what that meant but I figured it out. I knew a lot about sex. I even knew what a dildo was and I was only 7 by then.

   One time my third grade teacher asked me if my mom had a problem with alcohol, because we did a lesson about drug abuse and it asked who we could go to if we needed help and I listed everyone but my mom, and I told her some of the truth. My sister was really mad at me and said our mom could get taken away if I did that. I didn't want that. Not really.

   A lot of times my mom would say she wanted to die and my dad would tell her he agreed. She would jump off the stairs, pass out. Sometimes she would take a lot of pills and tell me good bye. Then her body would get rubbery and she would mumble a lot and my dad and I would have to move her and sometimes call 911 when her mouth got frothy. Sometimes she'd say I made her want to kill herself.

   Once or twice my mom held a pillow over my head for a while.

   Sometimes my mom would take me for a drive and go really fast after drinking and say today was the day we were going to die and that I was finally going to get punished.

   One time when we were on vacation in Europe, my mom disappeared and I found her smoking by herself in a bar. My dad was really mad. One time when we were on vacation in Europe, my parents were having sex and I had to go to the bathroom. I got up and turned on the light and my dad's but was in the air and he stayed there, really still. My mom made my dad take a shower while she talked to me. All I could say was "you sleep here, I sleep there" meaning.....I don't want to see or hear it. She got really mad and said I was trying to break up my parents and said I was manipulative. The next day, over breakfast, she made blueberries into a euphemism for sex and she fed blueberries to my dad all slow and talked about how badly she wanted to do it and my dad giggled and smiled a lot. It was their anniversary. I was "lucky to be there." She told all of our waiters how I wasn't happy that they were in a happy marriage and I wanted to break them up. She told my best friend and my best friend's mom when we got home. She mentioned me being a lesbian again. I was in the second grade.

   One time, in the fourth grade, I brought home a diorama on Zuni Indians that I was really proud of and my mom threw it down the stairs, stepped on it, and spit on it. My dad made my mom apologize when he got home and told her to fix it with me. She never did. I threw it out a year and a half ago.

   One time my mom "french kissed" me in our kitchen after I told her I had learned the phrase "french kiss" from the Brady Bunch. She told me that show was inappropriate for me and that it was stupid.

   Lots of times my mom said I was having an affair with my dad and that I was his second wife. (My sister was the first, and she was the third)

  One time, in middle school, my mom told my dad I was pregnant so that he would realize I was actually being manipulative and avoiding school work and trying to hurt my mom and lie about a supposed drinking problem that "scared" me. It worked. Several times.

   Lots of times, my mom broke into my room, slapped me, and tore my room apart. I always hid my computer if I could.

   One time, she threw my painting down the stairs and said I had no talent and was trying to show everyone how "special" I was, but that really, I was just great at being manipulative and that anyone could do what I did. She said that I never grew or changed. That I was a failure.

  When she found out I was suicidal in middle school, and then in high school- she said that I was actually having unhealthy affairs with my teachers and I had fooled everyone and that one day, I'd end up alone and unloved.

   One time, she said I belonged in an electric chair.

   Lots of times, my mom would tell me my sister was the pretty one. She weighed 111 lbs and had really nice boobs and a pretty face. I was pudgy, never sucked it in, had no boobs, and had a fat face. I weighed 120 lbs in middle school. After a while, I just stopped eating food. I passed out a lot. Sometimes my mom said she liked me better that way. She said she and I had more in common than my sister and her.

   Sometimes my mom would tell me how whatever boyfriend I had at the time would leave me and could never possibly want me. I was too ugly, too fat, too selfish, too manipulative, too absorbed in myself, and too damaged and emotional for anyone to want.

   Before my 18th birthday, my mom told me how she wished I was dead, and if she wouldn't get in trouble, she'd kill me herself. I un-invited her to my birthday and my dad was angry with me. It was just me, my dad, Ethan, and a loooot of silence.

   One time, I told my dad I wanted to be adopted, in middle school, and he said that he would always choose my mom over me. I cut myself and asked my best friend's family, who had already adopted three children, to adopt me. They said yes. Than later said no. I got in big trouble and my friends and computer was taken away. My sister called me "the crazy one" for a year and wouldn't speak to me. My family still refers to that time in my life as "being brainwashed."

   One time, I told my dad and mom that my mom had sexually abused me and that I wanted to know her past and that I knew history repeated itself when it came to rape and I didn't want to be a repeater. My mom denied it. My dad wouldn't believe me at first. Then he came to my room, saw me crying, and asked if he should divorce my mom. He didn't. He later decided he didn't believe me. He doesn't believe me now.

I was sexually abused/molested/raped by my mother and my mother and father believe I am a liar. 

Aspects of a Mom

    Yesterday was Mother's Day, and I have some bitter-sweet feelings. My mom and I aren't on speaking terms and I have to say, I'm glad. I'll admit, I checked her Facebook to see if she was missing her children, doing something special with my brother or sister maybe, but I didn't see any signs of celebration. For a moment, I felt sad and incredibly guilty. I even thought about driving out to see her and wish her a Happy Mother's Day, but I quickly decided against it.


   I think Mother's Day is a fantastic idea. Great mom's should be celebrated. I think they should be spoiled, and snuggled, and showered with love every day, especially on Mother's Day. But let's face it, not all mom's deserve a "celebration." My mom's favorite phrases are, "kill me now" and "nobody loves me" and she often liked to tell me how she miscarried two children and one of them should have been me. She also was wildly inconsistent, was an angry drunk, molested me, and to this day, makes me feel less than deserving of anything when I'm around her. It's no secret that I find next to nothing about my mom "mother like" and ever since I was small, I always wished for someone different to come along and snatch me up.


   I ended up spending the day honestly feeling pretty sad. It felt like a day meant to remind me of all the things my mom wasn't and all the things I wish I had gotten from her emotionally. Although I recognize I deserve better than what she could give me, it still sucks knowing I have to avoid my own mom to protect myself. 


   Over the past year and a half, I have lost my entire family. (No, they didn't die.) But, because of my actions-my decision to move away unexpectedly and leave my parent's toxic house, I am now labeled "the dysfunctional, unhappy, misguided, dishonest one."My dad often says to me, "We're not interested in seeing you until the 'old-Tara' is back." Or sometimes he tells me how Ethan's family (the family that's taken me in and showed me what it means to be a family) has brainwashed me.


   I don't want the "old-Tara" back. She was a scared, low-self-esteem, suicidal girl. I like me now. So why don't my parents? Why doesn't my family like independent, happy me? 


   Well, I don't have the answers to those things and I'm really not brave enough to tell them this is who I am and they should love me for it. But, what I have decided is that my biological mom doesn't deserve the title "mom" anymore. I'm taking it from her. All she is, is my past. And I'm glad to leave her behind.


Aspects of a Mom


   Since I left my parents' home, I've realized there are A LOT of great moms out there! Moms who have enough love in their hearts to share with children who may not be related to them biologically, but who are just as related to them emotionally as their own children. A lot of the women I hang out with today and go to for advice possess aspects of a mom that I've always wished for and needed. 


Here are a few shout outs to my much loved mamas who shape me today: 


Elizabeth: You've given me a stable home, consistency, a home for my crazy kitty cat, and all the love I could ever ask for. You're beyond wise, incredibly patient, and you put up with my lack of dish-washing (just like a real mom!) You accept my flaws, cherish my strengths, and guide me every day. You've helped me heal over the past year and a half and you've taught me what it means to be part of a fierce family. I love you and you'll always be a big part of my life.

Laura: You got me out of a bad place and into a wonderful one. You pushed me through tough times, held my hand when I needed it, and never failed to tell me what makes me great, even when I felt like I was anything but. You make me grilled cheese, invite me into your super cozy adorable home, make me nests (literal and otherwise) and accept my flaws. You saved me in so many ways and I am so grateful to you. Sometimes, I wish I had that time machine so you could snatch me up and we could do life together, Mathilda style. Sometimes, I'm sad you aren't my mama. I'm lucky to have you and your wonderfully big heart in my life.

Pam: We've had our struggles and you're not always my biggest fan, and though you probably will never read this, you've taught me that it's okay to pamper myself and put myself first sometimes. You've taught me how to have girly fun and be a Starbucks-snob. You've taught me how to feel fabulous and empowered. When it comes to learning how to empower yourself after years of constantly putting yourself and your needs in the back seat, you know what you're doing. I'm proud of what you've done for yourself and I'm happy to have had you around.

Marta: You were around as often, if not more as my mom when I was a kid. I think you always knew something was wrong in my household and you took me in and practically raised me. A lot of my really great childhood memories come from times at your house and being around you. You were my snuggly mom when I didn't have one. You were my shoulder to cry on. You were often my rock and stability when I had no one to turn to and nowhere to go. I love your eternal hopefulness, your incredible work ethic, your creativeness, your compassion, your acceptance, your snuggliness, your love of animals, and how you always watch home improvement shows. I remember, when I was little, sometimes I would just sit with you and watch with you. I remember it was always so relaxing and comforting to me, no matter how simple it was to me. You took me for ice cream with your children, brought me on family vacations, and treated me like one of your own. I still feel safe and at ease when I'm around you. You're an inspiration.

Anjuli: We don't talk now and I'm pretty sure you think I'm a failure or at least selfish but when I needed you, you were there. You were my role model when I was young and you taught me what compassion was. You were the glue to our family and you protected me with a fierceness I've never seen in anyone else. You taught me right from wrong. You were my mom when I was little and I was always so proud to have you around. The way you've grown and made your life, just, so positive makes me feel so hopeful and happy for people who come from trying backgrounds. I love the way you love your kitty, how committed you are, how passionate you are, how professional you are, your goofy smile, your silly dances, your sense of humor, how we have similar birth marks, and how much everyone loves you. You're the most beautiful person I know and you are my sister. I love you and I miss you.

Sex+Sexual Abuse: A Survivor's Story- Anonymous (Male)

This was a story sent into me. To send your story, email me at stargee@me.com

   I am a survivor of drugs and rape. My sister got into drugs first after my parents split up during their divorce, ( I happened to find poems from the man that my mother was having a affair with and showed them to my father ) which then began 8 years of hell... 


   Anyways with the drug problems and the divorce going on at the same time, I noticed that life was going to become different forever. First, I started off with pot and cigarettes, following in my sister's footsteps. It became a non-stop thing of do this to mask the pain of life and my family breaking apart. It was a downward spiral of slowly caring less and less about school, getting in fights every week, having sex after being raped at a party for being too plastered and not knowing why my pants were at my ankles and a used condom was on my dick. 


   I stopped caring about the little things in life. Not looking both ways when I crossed the street, deteoriating friendships, failing grades.... Eventually because of financial hardships and my sister running away from home ( I'd think of her everynight and wonder if she was dead or alive, this created inter-personal turmoil in my life for years ) There was one day while at my mother's house, with my cat and I all alone, I found nothing in the fridge but two pieces of cheese, one of which I shared with my cat. I slowly was starving away and my mother was gone from 5 AM to 1 AM everyday and did not care if there was food around. 


   I began to drug deal to get by.. First it started off with pot then ectasy then cocaine then LSD then shrooms. Eventually the whole drug dealing thing got me in trouble with gangs- selling in their territory and all. I had to leave or get killed... so I fled the state. While out of state I realized that drugs are not a way to mask  pain. If you want to live past troubling times, exercise until you feel safe with yourself and you can have confidence with your body and the feeling of safety in the ability to defend yourself. If the thoughts of suicide pass your head, believe that doing that will create a viscious cycle for the people around you. It will create more pain and more anguish than you escaping it. 


   I had thoughts of suicide before and was even very close to it until I found something worth living for. My father..


    Now in terms of healing and finding yourself again after so much grieving and suffering, you need to learn to love yourself, be confident, even cocky, dont give a fuck about anything. Learn to love again, do something as a hobby like art or poetry. These things have saved me from suffering and my past. Pouring my emotions out on paper is more theraputic than any therapist or friendship I've had. Also smoking cigarettes has helped. ( I feel a sense that they will never leave me, as others have in the past ). 


   Remember, time heals all wounds. As for relationships, realize that you must find someone who you can sit down and talk to and have that chemistry of love AND attraction. Your life will change from the everyday mundane tasks to truly BEING happy, because they are the reason why you go on week to week. Yet, this is puppy love. You absolutely need to realize that they need space and don't be a stalker! Let them be their own person, and you be yourself. Being a survivor means nothing, you are still the same as everyone else yet you have a history now. You know you can survive anything that comes your way, just remember that it takes time to heal and be free of your wounds on your heart. Be free. Go live life. Love.


As my dad once said, "Do not ask for a lighter load, but ask for broader shoulders."

Sex+Sexual Abuse: A Survivor's Story- Anonymous (Female)

This was a story sent into me. To send your story, email me at stargee@me.com

   Fortunately enough, I have always had a very close relationship with my mother. She has always been someone I can tell anything to.

   I remember coming home from school one day, and asking my mom what a "virgin" was because some kid on the playground asked me if I was one (and thinking it was some sort of name-calling) I said no. Next thing I knew, the whole class was laughing at me and I had no clue why. So she had the sex talk with me and I was somewhat aware of what it was after the said discussion.

   Several weeks later, a family friend was babysitting me and decided to abuse me. Fortunately, that talk I had several weeks earlier, came in handy. I knew SOMETHING was wrong, but didn't exactly know what to do. I hid in the family friend's bedroom and got on the phone when he asked me to take off my clothes. I called my mom and she told me to put him on the phone. I remember walking to him and he talked to my mom. He told her exactly what he was doing and how he felt that there was nothing wrong with watching pornography and masturbating in front of a 10 year old.

   He eventually finished up what he was doing...with himself, and took me home. When he took me home, I remember my mom crying and freaking out. She called the police and they actually arrested him later on that day. I remember spending lots of time talking to police officers, school psychologists, etc. It turned out that he had been sexually abused as a child, and had actually molested his own children as well. He spent 6 months in jail and I'm not sure what happened to him after that.

   The key to healing for me was being able to talk about it right after it happened. I count myself lucky that I was immediately able to open up about what had happened because I knew it was wrong somehow at that age. I spent lots of time in therapy, I think my mom was scared I was going to have a lot of problems for the rest of my life because of it. Art therapy always helped me through it. I had this awesome therapist for a year who asked me to draw everything, every thought, emotion, dream, etc. It really got everything out.

   When I entered high school and I started liking guys, I didn't know how I would deal with sex or relationships in general. My first "boyfriend" asked me out and I freaked out about the thought of even kissing, so I ended things two days later. I realized, then, that it was time to go back to therapy to deal with this situation that I thought I had taken care of in the past.

   Eventually I worked through the anxiety of relationships and the thought of any kind of sexual situation. I just knew that I was going to have to wait a long time until I was "ready." So I waited...and waited...and finally met someone I was comfortable with in late high school. He was willing to wait and deal with my anxiety, insecurities, emotions, everything, for 2 1/2 years, until I was ready for anything sexual. It was great, and even though that relationship never worked out past early college, it still meant a lot that someone was willing to wait for me that long. I think once I got through the first relationship, the anxiety of relationship stuff actually didn't scare me anymore and since then I've been pretty much fine. I've always been open about the molestation as well, in all my relationships, and most guys have taken it pretty well. I haven't had any of them running in the other direction (for that reason anyway), so it gave me a lot more confidence.

   All in all my key to healing was communication. Lots of communication about the situation, and lots of therapy...and just waiting for time to pass.

Sex+Sexual Abuse: Sister of a Survivor-Anonymous (Female)

This was a story sent into me. To send your story, email me at stargee@me.com

I want to tell you my sister's story about being sexually abused.

She's only 13 and I love her with all my heart. She just recently told me about being sexually abused by my step mother's ex boyfriend/drug dealer. This happened from the time she was 5-8 on a daily basis. My step mother was an addict, not sure what she used, but she has been clean for 5 years now.

It broke my heart when my little sister told me that this happened to her, it still does to this day when I think about it. We were talkin about me and my sex life one night because I am trying to teach her the right things to do when she is faced with the peer pressures of having sex and she broke down in my arms crying and told me how every night when my step mom was passed out he would make her do horrible things and she did them because he threatened to hurt her and my mom.

So she did whatever he told her do because she loves her mom, even though she was not a good mother at the time. I try to get her to talk to me about everything because she had held so much in for so long because she didnt have anyone that cared about her around her due to moms drug problem. She is still scared to this day to tell our mom because she has nightmares about the guy and how he threatened her he was gonna kill our mom if she told anyone. The night she told me it took so much for her to even say it but I knew even before she opened her mouth that it had happened because I could see the guilt, shame and embarrassment in her eyes. I told her it wasn't her fault but she still feels to blame for this even to this day.

She is still tryin to heal from this but the memories haunt her every time she shuts her eyes which has caused her to have insomnia. I try to help her as much as possible but I'm not sure what I can do. I want to tell our mom but I know that's not my place to do so. I just feel guilty for it too even though when it happened we weren't a family and we didnt know about each other.