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The Story That Lead Me To Me

I’ve been reading people’s stories on The Band and decided it might help me to share mine. Most of the stories I’ve seen included violence, fortunately mine doesn’t.

I was raped at the age of 15.

I am now 16.

He was my boyfriend of two years. I still don’t remember everything from that night, but I feel that it is time to let go of what I do remember.

We were at his house and he decided to watch a horror movie on his laptop, so we were lying on his bed watching this movie. I rolled over and gave him a kiss, then I rolled back over on my side to continue watching the movie. He tugged on my sweatshirt and said, “I wasn’t done with you yet.”

I thought he was just teasing.

When I rolled to face him, he grabbed onto my waist. I knew then what he wanted. I told him that I wasn’t ready. I told him no.

I did, I said no…

(sorry this is really hard for me to share).

He put more pressure on me so I wouldn’t be able to get away, though I tried. I truly tried to get away.

I will never say that I gave up fighting him, because I didn’t. But, I clenched my eyes shut. I felt him start to pull my pants down so I started kicking. That didn’t stop him. Then…

Then it happened.

My virginity was taken from me.

I’ve had nightmares ever since.

I didn’t leave him after it happened. I felt like I was too weak to be on my own. I also kept having sex with him because I was so scared that if I didn’t, he would do it again…and he ruined the little bit of self-esteem I had.

So, since I felt so low about myself, I kept doing it because I felt like I deserved it.

Like I said before, I’m fortunate that my situation wasn’t violent.

I am sixteen years old, almost seventeen, and I am currently in a relationship with my seventeen year old Navy boyfriend. I came into this relationship scared to death to let myself love someone again.

But, my boyfriend taught me that what I went through was tragic and devastating, but I am beautiful and have my whole life ahead of me. He has turned my life around completely and made me realize that I have to learn to love myself before I could be happy and love someone else.

I still have nightmares whenever I sleep. I still go through periods when I blame myself. I still have severe depression, but everyday is a new day.

I guess, part of me is still seeking for help and advise on how to keep fighting after a rape. Being raped has made me who I am today.

Yes, I wish it hadn’t happen, but at the same time, I’m glad that it did because it has made me become the strong, beautiful young lady I am.

I Will Be A Better Mother

We waited for him.

We prayed, we hoped, I cried. Miscarriages.

We spent money that we didn’t have and I went for daily ultrasound, blood work, tests. Infertility. Devastated and alone.

I blamed myself because I could have been a better person and been a better wife and a better friend.

We tried three months of infertility treatment which included shots, pills, and having people know your private parts better than you do.

Epic failure.


A miracle! They call it “Spontaneous Pregnancy” – something that was not supposed to happen. Overwhelmed with joy and gratitude to God.


Dear Depression,

Well, isn’t that the most creative title you’ve ever set your eyes on?  It doesn’t matter, though; I’ve a great many things that need to be said, and damn it all, I’m going to say them regardless of how impressive my title is

In any case, hello again, Depression.  Have you missed me?

It’s been a while since you were a real force in my life.  A while since you were anything more than the reason I take a pill every day when I wake up.  You’re pretty damned harmless now, I have to say, but don’t get me wrong; I can still remember quite vividly what you did to me from the time I was thirteen until a few months ago, when I finally got help.

You’re a clever bastard, I have to say.  You almost got me, I guess as a sort of revenge for not being able to take my mother down when she was my age.  Disguising yourself as regular teenaged angst from thirteen to sixteen, and then going all-out and turning me into a nearly catatonic husk of a person from seventeen to twenty.  Pretty damned smart of you.  We both know that you nearly tricked me into killing myself on more than a few occasions, and that your suffocating influence is what lead me to giving up all of my friends, alienating my family and hiding away from the world for a good three years.  You’re damned good at what you do,  but you’re just not good enough.

You see, Depression, I won.

I beat you.  It’s over.  One pill, and you can’t put your hands around my throat any more.  One pill, and I emerge from my home with the biggest fucking smile you’ve ever seen.  My friends, who are seriously the best fucking friends a girl could ask for, were waiting for me when I came out from the shadow of my disorder.  My grandmother broke down and cried when she learned that I was able to kick your ass out of my life.  For the first time in ages, I’m happy.  I’m happy, I’m doing the things I love to do, I’m spending time with the people who make my life truly amazing, and I’m enjoying every moment of this life that you tried to steal from me.

I don’t know who I’d be, or where I’d be if you hadn’t come into my life at such an early age.  Maybe I’d have graduated instead of getting my GED.  Maybe I’d be in love.  Maybe I’d live somewhere that I can only dream about right now.  Maybe I’d be dead.  It’s useless, really, to think of all the ways that I would be different were I not one of your victims.  You came into my life, just as you came into the lives of all the relatives I inherited you from, and you’re always going to be here, lurking in the shadows and waiting for a day I forget to take my medication.  You’ll be there when I have a child of my own and I worry that she’s going to be pulled into your toxic embrace.  You’ll be there every morning when I pop the top from my bottle of meds, that lingering reminder of what I used to be, and what I could be again if I allowed it.

But for now, my dear Depression, I can take comfort in one thing.

I won.

Getting Away…Permanently

Has anyone else experienced a feeling of extreme dissatisfaction with the society in which we live in?  I’m sure most, if not all of you, have. I get really sick of paying my taxes when they’re spent to fight countries. We buy guns and our kids get substandard food and education. People starve, have no home or prospects for finding a suitable job.

Our culture is draining; it puts the emphasis on all the wrong things; status, money, possessions. It’s no wonder that depression and anxiety are on the rise in the Western cultures.

I fantasize about getting a van, refitting it to be a little rolling house and just traveling. I’d take my acoustic instruments, books, and yes, my laptop. I’d seek odd jobs to get just enough money to buy simple food and fuel. I would chase the spring and summertime, leaving the cold and icy winters behind.

I’d get in contact with my higher self by shedding all these damn possessions, objects that thirty years ago we didn’t even know we needed. I’d go to Burning Man. I’d seek out music and art festivals.

The only thing that really keeps me from doing this is my kids. There is so much I still have to teach them. I hold no degrees but there isn’t much I haven’t thought about. I don’t think that they would understand that I have not been living the life I want.

I work because my children need clothes, money for their activities, food, school. I don’t work to attain higher status. In fact, I’d say that although my occupation involves being the leader of several men, my job is humble.

We make the products that make soils more fertile through natural means. It’s just above farming as far as humble goes. My employer is generous, giving production bonuses of a significant amount, above and beyond the wage we make.

When my wife left, my mortgage was nearly two thousand dollars in the red along with several other bills that hadn’t been paid. She’d hidden this from me and denied it when I asked about it.

My boss was the one who helped me.

I know in my heart that there aren’t many people who would have done this. Most employers would have said, tough titty, kitty. Of course, I paid the money back but it remains: I’d have been evicted and my house repossessed without his generosity.

Still, I feel that the life that I live is far from genuine.

I don’t know.

I just want to have some kind of change in my life, yet I just cannot seem to summon the strength to change anything. I want a companion, but that fucker low self-esteem, whom I call Benny, keeps the litany of insults going.

You’re a loser. How could anyone want a weak and pathetic animal like you around? Didn’t you learn anything from your marriage? You’re a useless unlovable creep.

It’s time for a huge change.

– See more at:

Murder is a Different Grief

I had a younger aunt that was like a sister to me.

My sophomore year in college, I took her on spring break with me. When I moved out of state, and I would come home to visit, I didn’t stay at my parents, I would stay at her house. We were that close.

Then it all was gone. I got a call from my mother at 1AM one morning and my world stopped.

My aunt had been brutally tortured, murdered.

She was gone.

Murder brings out intense emotional reactions.

The emotional pain and anguish of murder seem unbearable. I feel an overwhelming sense of loss and deep, deep sorrow. I constantly experience thoughts about the circumstances of her death.

I relieve what I think happened and I see her being tortured and killed. I imagine the pleas for her life she was making.

Grieving for a murder victim is unlike any other grief. The murder of a loved one results in the survivors grieving not only the death, but how the person died.

I have intrusive visualizations of the murder and I see her suffering. I have flashbacks of the moment when I was notified of her death. I have flashbacks of the last time I saw her alive.

I dream of her knocking at my door and, when I open it, I see her, and she tells me, “It was a mistake! It wasn’t me.

I never got to see her dead body, so I think part of me has denial about her gruesome death.

Her life was cut short through an act of sick cruelty. The disregard for human life adds overwhelming feelings of anger, distrust, injustice, and helplessness to the normal sense of loss and sorrow. Sometimes, I cry like I am never going to stop.

I don’t think a person can rebound from this.

I have suffered lots of childhood abuse, both childhood sexual abuse and childhood emotional abuse. I suffer from bipolar disorder and PTSD. My mother has narcissistic personality disorder.

I’ve got my hands full, but dealing with a murder is a baffling head game.

I don’t think I will ever come to terms with it.