Ok, some of you may remember between February and June of this year I was posting lots of poetry and stuff from my creative writing class. Well at one point we had to write an autobiography. I decided that instead of doing the fluff stuff everyone else was doing (family trips, pets, etc.) I was going to do things that were actually like life changing. In there I including my rape and sexual abuse.

My teacher assured us many times throughout the entire semester that none of this work would leave the classroom (not literally but in the sense that he wouldn't show it to anyone else). So I felt free to write about what I wanted. Holy shit was I ever led astray. I found out in one of the huge fights my mother and I over the summer that he had shown her nearly all my poetry and my entire autobiography.

For those you haven't read my poetry, go and do, but it isn't for the feint of heart. Some of it is very gruesome and descriptive. I'm not going to lie, I was in a VERY dark place. Like suicidal levels of dark. But I wasn't crying out for help. Being creative is my way of dealing with things. I dance, I draw, I write. It's how I vent. I'm not the best person when it comes to talking face to face. Infact I hate talking to people because I never seem to be able to get my meaning across because I lose the words I'm looking for. But with a creative medium I'm able to search for what I"m looking for till I find it.

So she saw all these poems. About how I felt unneeded/hated at my house, under appreciated, like I was Cinderella. All these things. My mother basically in this fight threw that at me and caught me off guard. My trust in a TEACHER was shattered. I used to love this teacher. I thought him one of the most awesome teachers in the English department at my high school. He was one of the oldest and was like the grandpa of the school. Most students were extrememly comfortable going and talking to him about problems more so than any of the CYC's or social workers we have in the guidance department.

Couple weeks ago my mom and I were talking. We're on pretty good terms now. I wouldn't say back to where we were but pretty close now. She told me again that she'd seen a lot of the work I'd done in my creative writing class, and that she wanted to know what some of them were about, if it was just me being creative (since it was a creative writing class....) or if I was actually writing something as a cry for help. Since it wasn't actually a cry for help I told her that it was because it was because it was a creative writing class. Not a total lie, it was a venting place for me and it helped.

At some point she ended up onthe topic of my autobiography. She told me that my memories weren't correct and she wants to talk to me about what I remember and what was the truth. I'm sorry, were you there when it all went down mom?! NO I didn't f****** think so! Besides what does it matter to you mom. Yes, he sexually assaulted/molested me. BUt you have no idea what else happened. I never told you what else happened. Why would it matter to you if I thought of it as a rape anyway mom. It's still taken over my life basically. Whether it was technically rape or not doesn't matter, I feel I was mentally/emotionally raped, and that my childhood was also raped. That's not even including the actual fact that I was raped. At 9 years old, I didn't know what it was called, and I saw how upset you were when you found out he was "touching" your baby girl. IT would have crushed me more than it already had to have told you the full extent of what happened. So I never told you. I'm sorry I never did, but at this point I don't think I ever will tell you exactly what happened because you have your nice little reality and don't seem to want to accept I might have my own reality.