The First Time I Had To Survive

 

Home was safe. 

I had a wonderful family. 

I never had to doubt that they’d be there for me, no matter what. 

We lived in a big pink house in a small town. It was actually haunted, but that was nothing compared to what I'd to go through the first time I'd to survive on my own..

I was eleven when I started chatting with people online. It felt innocent. My parents didn’t see the danger, and neither did I. 

It was easier to find people who shared my interests in chat rooms than in the tiny town where I was always the outsider. 

I was different. I got bullied a lot. I didn’t belong.

But I wasn’t a troubled kid tho. Just a quiet one with a head full of thoughts, trying to find a voice that didn’t sound like everyone else’s.

I don’t remember exactly how it started, just that I was around twelve. 

I began talking to a man in a chat room. He liked books, like I did. He listened. He saw me.

He was much much older than me and very beautiful. 

That made it feel special, like someone finally saw past the weirdness and wanted me.

It didn't take long before the conversations went from books to becoming something more intimate. 

About my virginity, and how he wanted to take it from me. 

I didn't understand what was going on but I liked the attention I got from him.

I just knew the attention made me feel important. Wanted.

Then others started messaging me too.

Older men. And those conversations turned darker. More graphic. 

When I told them I felt sad or broken, they didn’t comfort me.

Instead, they encouraged me to hurt myself. To do things while they listened over the phone. 

I didn’t know what was happening. I just knew that the more I gave, the more attention I received. 

And I was so desperate to feel seen.

It went on for months.
Until my parents found out.

I’d been using my dad’s computer. My brother helped him crack into my account. 

They read everything. Every message. Every word. 

And then they took action.
They cut off my access to the internet. 

But before they did, they sent messages to everyone I’d ever spoken to. 

A warning, explaining what I’d been writing in the chat logs 

and threatening legal action if anyone tried to contact me again.
Even people I’d never spoken to that way.
Now everyone knew. My family. My friends. My entire world.
And instead of protecting me, they punished me.
I wasn’t treated like a child who had been groomed. I was treated like the one who’d done something wrong.
I was humiliated. I spiraled. And my self-harm worsened. I spiraled deep into an habit to try to carve out the shame 

that felt out of my body, cut up wounds so the guilt I was feeling inside would pour out.

This wasn’t just one moment. It became a loop.
Every time I tried to speak up, or even just got caught in the aftermath, I was silenced.

Punished. Left alone with the weight of things I never asked for.
So I learned to stay quiet. To bury it deep where no one could reach it.

 I stopped asking for help, because no one ever seemed to show up when it mattered.
I don’t remember anyone ever asking how I felt after it happened. Not really. 

What I remember is the exposure. 

The disgust. The shame that sank so deep it became a part of me.

That feeling never left.

I kept living in guilt for being "touched" like they had touched me.

I hated myself for it. I felt dirty. Like I had ruined something inside of me forever.
I buried it all so deeply that for a while, I even forgot it happened, 

until someone in my family would bring it up again, out of nowhere.
-“Do you remember what they told you to do when you were 12?”
Yes, I remember.
Thanks for ripping open that wound again.
And then it would go quiet again. No follow-up. Just silence. 

Like it didn’t matter enough to talk about further.
I never forgot what it felt like to be blamed for what adults did to me.
I thought they cared. I thought they were my friends. But all they wanted was power. 

And all I learned from that attention was this:
I was worthless without it.

The meaning of this post feels a little messy to me. 

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe it doesn’t need to be perfect.
Maybe this is just part of the healing. A way to say what I never got to say out loud.

I don’t know if this post will help anyone. 

But I hope, in some small way, that saying it matters.
Because I’m done hiding.
I’m not the quiet one anymore.

Artwork:

noctilei85367 

https://lit.link/leilei85367