Survivor....why I am who I am... Part 2

Part 2

By the time I was 11 years old, I was pretty self-sufficient. Evidence suggests, in my Hello Kitty diary, that I was writing in even then. Sharing my thoughts with my older self, knowing that one day I would look back and read what was written. My 5^th grade handwriting indented the pages when I was angry and danced playfully on the pages when I had some peace. I revisit that place on occasion. The nights when I would wake up and look into the night sky and pray. When I would get out my diary and write. I guess nothing much has changed since then.

This was the year, when my life would change. We moved into a new house and I started public school after years of Christian School. This was the year that I was defiled, almost raped and innocence stolen. This was the year I learned to not just survive, but fight, push back and live. It is amazing how it happens. How we, the victim are convinced that we brought this on ourselves, that we are the ones who invited it.

I started public school 2 months later. I had always gone to Christian School and had been sheltered from the wickedness public school thrives in. I was sexually assaulted by the boys in my class. I matured early on in life, so my breasts protruded more than most girls my age. Young boys grabbed and prodded at my protrusions and I learned how to fight. With words and fists I began to fight back. I sang a Christian song on stage for the talent, and punched with a Mike Tyson blow on the playground.

I made friends, who lived near my house and we took the same bus to school. One day, when we started walking home from school, a white van with blocked out windows drove up next to my friend and I as we walked on the sidewalk. The man, brown hair, hazel eyes, cleanly shaven started talking to us about what, I don’t remember. It felt wrong and forced and so I began to puff up my being to look bigger than I was. I started to be rude and disrespectful to let the man know we were not game. It enraged him. I could see his eyes turn from hazel to black and his sweet alluring tone turned violent.

He pulled out a gun, pointed it at me. “Run!” I told my friend. We started running the opposite direction of the way his van was faced. Thankfully it was the direction of home. We didn’t want him to know where we lived so we ran down a court and hid in the bushes. We could see the van as he slowly drove past the block trying to locate us. He kept driving and then turned the corner onto another street. We jumped out of the bushes and started running again. My friend ran to her house and I ran to mine. I hopped over bushes, ran through the roses and tore up my clothes and flesh and into my backyard. I grabbed the hidden key and then hid behind some bushes in the corner. I wasn’t sure if he saw me go into my backyard or not. I caught the van out of the corner of my eye as I pushed open the gate to my backyard. I sat there quietly for what seemed forever.

I waited. I heard my doorbell ring. I waited. I heard people talking. I waited. Finally, when I heard no more sounds, I peeked through the crack in the fence to see if the coast was clear. I noticed my window was not locked, so I pried it open and climbed into my house that way, instead of going to the front to unlock the door. I called my mom and told her what happened. She called the police.

The next day, at school, the police came and asked us to give a description to a sketch artist. We did. We never really talked about it again. To this day, I don’t even know if my friend has ever really talked about it. It all just got brushed under the rug. I didn’t remember the incident until a few years ago and it infuriated me.

By the time I got to 7^th grade, I had almost lost my innocence and had an encounter with a kidnapper. I went to middle school, but only found more sexual assaults. Young boys would grab my breast and laugh, others would grab me between my legs. It was degrading and devaluing. I felt powerless and the anger rose inside of me. At the same time, I was still raising my siblings, still making breakfast in the morning for them, still helping with homework in the evening, doing chores and making dinner. I still had to do my own homework, I played sports and ran for student office.

I began to realize that people in authority were not there to help me. Rather, they took the path of least resistance. This is about the time I started taking things into my own hands. At first I was pretty violent. I had zero tolerance for bullies. A boy grabbed my chest, I punched him in the face. The next one taunted me, grabbed my chest, and I punched him so hard, I broke his nose. The Vice Principal called me in, the parents of the boy told him they were going to press charges for assault. I told my mom what happened and she told the principal, “My daughter acted in self-defense.” When the parents realized what had really happened, they dropped their case.

At this point I realized I had a power. I did not have to stand back and allow bullies to abuse me. I could fight back. I could advocate for others. And I did. I began a life long journey of standing up to bullies, young and old. Fighting on behalf of those who have no voice. I learned how to beat the bullies at their own game. I used their own tactics against them, freeing many people from their oppression.

Starting line....