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Growing up, I was free spirited, lighthearted, impossible to hold down. 

 

But over time, my innocence was chipped away. 

 

Time after time again i was used i was touched i was abused i was broken down

 

I felt dirty filthy damaged goods unwanted

 

I was ten when it happened the first time

 

My best friend wanted to play make believe, but instead of flying like fairies across a field of sunflowers, we put our hands on each other and gave each other baths. I said no. multiple times. But it kept happening. If i didn’t comply, she would tell her mom. I would be exposed for the gross child i was. So i did as i was told. I massaged i laid still i kept going back afraid to stop lest she tell someone and i disappoint the people around me.

 

I lived on, as one does, suppressing any memory of those events completely.

 

Four years later, i was a freshman in high school when one of my brother’s best friends, a senior, took interest in me. I trusted him with everything and he told me i was safe with him. He treated me special. even though i had heard stories of his pervy advances on my classmates, i thought i was different. He would never do that to me, i told myself. One summer day when he was headed off to college, we went to the local Starbucks to have a long conversation “as friends”. He had a girlfriend at the time so i felt safe. On the car ride home, he put his hand on my thigh. And kept it there. He grabbed my hand and held it while i sat there frozen and silent. I remember wanting to say no but not knowing how. When he dropped me off, my parents weren’t home. We walked to my front door and i invited him inside while i grabbed my graduation gift for him. Right before he left, he pulled me in and attacked me with his tongue. I stood there frozen, knowing i didn’t want this but not seeing another option. 

 

For three days i couldn’t eat. I blamed myself. I should have known better. I should have protected myself. I should have been better at pushing him away, not letting him in. i was terrified to be touched again, to be used by an 18 year old, being robbed of what should be exciting for a young woman- her first kiss. 

 

I lived on, as one does, suppressing any memory of those events completely.

 

Another three years passed and I was off to college. The world seemed fresh, full of opportunities. I drank, made friends, joined a sorority, and lived a normal college life. In my second semester, I got a boyfriend. He fell in love quickly and became enamored with me, as he should. He gave me everything i wanted whenever i asked. But everything comes with a price, doesnt it? Although he lived to please me, he constantly questioned my commitment to abstinence. Every night, he asked me to say yes to him. And every night, I firmly gave my no.

 

It took just one evening for my no to become irrelevant. An evening where i drank a liter of wine, where i stumbled, with his help, to the bathroom for a blunt, where he was sober. Even inebriated, i stuck to my no. After continuous prodding that evening, i sighed and said fine. Do what you want with my body, just stop asking me for more. And just like that, my virginity was stolen. 

 

This is my story. Sex was distorted for me at a young age. My first kiss was an act of sexual assault, not an expression of love. My virginity was taken by manipulation, not by choice. And I feel like I never really got a fair shot.

 

While this is part of my story, this is not where it ends. 

 

I thought I could erase these events, and I tried my very best. I found myself using anything I could to relieve the gripping terror that made its home in my body. I hoped that drinking more, smoking more, trying new drugs would create a haze to shroud the disturbing images that paralyzed me. I pined for new bodies that would push all cognition of my first astronomical units from my consciousness. I ached for rest of any kind, any way. 

 

On my journey to healing, one that is still going, i was misunderstood a lot. I was told to not let my trauma affect me so much. People told me i was being dramatic because i swung my arm when someone touched me from behind. The expectation was that i would return to business as usual, despite the nights I couldn’t close my eyes for fear of vivid dreams of my body being used no matter how hard i tried to push the monsters off. I lost relationships. A lot. I hurt people around me. No matter how hard i tried to be a normal girl, i could not escape the PTSD barnacled to my soul. 

 

So i became friends with her, the trauma. instead of choking her out, i listened to her. I sought to understand her better so that she couldn’t control me the same way. I desired to make peace with her so that I could live the fulfilling life I knew i deserved. I read book after book after book, hoping for a glimpse of her perspective. The more I learned, the more I hurt for her. She didn’t want to hurt me, she wanted to protect me from the very thing that I thought had stolen my soul. Her goal was not to ruin my life, her objective was to keep me safe. I reconciled with her, learning how to let her do her job without overriding mine. I invited her into my life, to the spaces in which she belonged. The more i studied her, the more i grew and the weaker her grip was. She and I learned to live side by side. I see her and acknowledge her; she no longer feels the need to shriek for my attention like a child desperately longing for her mother’s soothing comfort.

 

In the past four years, I have experienced so much laughter, so much joy. The innocent glee that characterized young KT has returned with an even brighter glow; it is an unquenchable flame. The reason I can tell my story is that now I can see the beauty in it. 

 

Against all odds, I fought for a life that I felt was worth living. I took the night terrors in stride and chose to breathe the next day. I survived unrelenting flashbacks and wrestled for peace. I had moments, seasons, days, and weeks where all I could feel was terror. And yet, I stand here with my head lifted high because I know I am a warrior.

 

I have beat the statistics. And so have you. All of us, here in this room, have chosen to keep getting up despite the unspeakable injustice that we have endured. We have been stolen from, yet we choose to give ourselves more than what could ever be taken. We have strengthened ourselves, become resilient, able to adapt and survive anything. Our voices are the strongest even though they are not always heard. But that is why we still speak up- we will never be silenced.

 

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