So the words for this post came into my head whilst crocheting, stood on one leg doing my balance exercises and streaming Lindsey Stirling’s new album. A bit of a strange combination I know but let’s begin.
The last post ended when I was 9 and had my head smashed against a drain pipe. I’d just learnt the benefits of tactics and put them into use on a playground of a now non-existent school. I’m a bit lost on where to go next. I’ve been through so much and survived much more. I don’t want these posts to become another whining rant on the emotional trauma of my life. SO I’ve decided to keep this limited to physical traumas, with a few exceptions.
4. Jog on, ribs.
During Secondary school I had a stupid moment where I wanted to fit in. My school was split into the light and dark. Those who liked pop music and watched MTV and those who didn’t. Both side had their ‘cool kids’ and I wanted to be friends with them. For the first time in my life I was insecure about myself. I wanted to be skinnier, better looking, and to have short hair. This was before my brain understood the notion of transgender and before I knew myself like I do today. On the advice of one of the ‘cool kids’ I improvised a corset out of belts and wore it almost everyday. Looking at the title of this segment you might guess where this is going. However it’s more violent. It rains heavily in my town and some infinitely smart person decided to paint a stair case with gloss paint. The rain poured down those stairs I had to use to get into the school hall, making them dangerous. I fell down the flight of wooden stairs and hit every wrung. Everyone laughed because a tom-boyish, slightly over weight person fell. That was everyone including the teachers. I however knew something was wrong. I could barely breath yet I was getting shouted at and forced to get to my seat. No one asked me if I was ok. Thankfully I was awkward changing in the same room as the girls and refused to look up from the floor when surrounded by naked women. So to get past this I changed in a separate cubicle (instead of the group changing room.) I got a few minutes to check for damage. Removing the belts felt like dragging glass shards out of my body. I was in agony. My whole rib cage was covered in bruises as dark as ink splotches. I knew something was broken, however I was being shouted at again and in a panic I did the belts back up and put my P.E equipment on. I tried to explain to the teacher but she had saw me fall and was taking none of it, assuming I was trying to make excuses to get out of P.E. After protesting as much as I could I was made to do double laps and that day our cross country training day. After lots of running, jumping and obstacles, I had drama which involved more running and jumping. I almost blacked out from pain about 30 minutes before the end of lesson. My tutor sent me to the first aider and I took the belts off on the way. I was given ice and that was all. No parents were called because it was near the end of the day. Turned out I had 2 broken ribs and took the rest of the week off school but my mum refused to send me to hospital or a doctor. Her reasoning, “you can’t put a plaster cast on ribs”. I’d also twinged my back and everytime I cough hard to this day, it aches in between the 2 ribs.
5. No one can hear you scream in space, but Earth isn’t much better.
This is one point that has stood out in my head since I started these posts and it’s also my least favourite memory. I’ve mentioned it before on this blog. When I was 15 I was raped. By a guy several years older than me, who at school was treated like he was ‘special’ because he had a stammer. However he wasn’t special in any meaning of the word. He never stammered around me. He was a psychopath and a rapist. I took pity on him because everyone on the bus home would always pick on him. He’d get beaten and I’d felt guilty for not stopping them from hurting him. So I got talking to him. I found out when his birthday was and gave him a cake. As far as olive branches go, I wish I’d smashed it into his face. He decided I was his friend and would hide behind me. He’d look up at me like a wounded animal (The sort of a way that a damaged sub would look up to his master.) and held me up like I was the bravest person in the world. I let him into my house as my friend, and we hung out after school. One day he said he liked me. I didn’t respond but he followed me home. I said that I liked him too, to make him shut up. He invited himself into my room and raped me. I couldn’t scream I couldn’t move, all I could do was cry like a baby. He left afterwards. I was in shock for weeks afterwards. When that faded, I was filled with a sadness that chilled my bones. It was a hot summer that year but I felt like I was freezing. I was so afraid of being pregnant that I cried every night to the god my parents believed in, begging not to be pregnant. Yet my period didn’t come for 2 months. I planned to kill myself and wrote a letter to my parents explaining what had happened. One day I wasn’t going to come home. I was just going to disappear. Yet the day before I had planned to disappear, that bastard invited himself into my house again. This time he raped me orally by forcing my head down on to… what’s important is that was the mistake that lead to his downfall. My partially deaf father couldn’t hear my screaming but he did hear me kicking the wall. He came barging in, yet instead of being my saviour he treated me like a whore. He threw the guy out of the house, yes, but he didn’t listen to me. He wouldn’t hear anything different than what he was thinking. I was dragged down stairs, shouted and screamed at, locked in my room, (And I don’t mean by a lock. My dad removed the bar from the handle mechanism so I couldn’t get out even if the place was on fire.) and left without food or water. Out of everything that happened, this hurts the most. My parents refused to believe their own child and treated me like they could just get rid of me. My teachers didn’t believe me. My counselor didn’t believe me. My friends, no one, believed me. I pushed everyone away. I became violent. I lashed out, started getting thrown out of classes, and started self harming and drinking large quantities of alcohol.
Thankfully I wasn’t pregnant or I would be dead right now.
Even to this day I hate people touching the back of my head. I still lash out at people, especially when they don’t believe me. I’ve never been able to have a bath since, instead I shower. I still spend to much time alone in my room. When ever I cry really bad in my room, I’ll curl up behind my door like I did that day when I got locked in. I’m still weird about putting somethings in my mouth. It’s definitely had a lasting effect on my life and I’ve never been able to talk to my parents, properly, since that day.
And that’s where I’m going to leave this post for today.